It beginning to smell alot like Christmas

In the tropics, Christmas Spirit (as I have grown up to know it as: the frost, the snow, the chilling wind, and that tingling feeling in your hands when you come in from the cold, et al) is kind of non existent in the tropics. It is kind of wierd walking around and hearing jingle bells and sleigh ride when I am thinking about walking around the city at night in just my t shirt. Santa sure has rosy cheecks here, but they are rosy becuase he suffers from heat stroke having that beard and wool suit in the hiegth of summer. And there are not chesnuts roasting, rather my skin scorching in the tropic sun. We are passing into summer, so it is getting hotter and dryer. At least there is a breeze to blow away some of the humidity. And the kids all out of school for summer vacation. Add that to the already crazy adult "muchedumbre" running around the un-airconditioned malls, the persipration rate has gone up quite a bit here in Panama. Its beginning to smell alot like Christmas. Ahh, Christmas Musk.

It doesnt look like Christmas, the decorations just seem a little out of place. But walk past any grocery store and there is another smelll of Christmas...Pine Trees. And since they are cheap, I was tempted to buy on to get my apartment to smell nice and Christmas-y.

They say that smell is your stongest sense, and it actually makes up 90% of your sense of taste, and that smells are the easiest memories we make: a smell with stick with us for years. I even tried in college to smell my cologne while I was studying, hoping that I would somehow magically recall all the information I crammed into my brian by simply smelling my cologne during the test.
The smell of trees make me feel like it actually is Christmas when my sweat glands are doubting it. The "Christmas Air" Floor disenfectant makes me almost feel that I am little kid again waiting anxiously at the base of the tree to open presents and eat cherry mash and brownies. And the smell of fresh plastic from all the bags just sitting around holding treasures and gifts make me remember bundling up in my sweaters and wrapping presents.

Its beginning to smell like Christmas. Thank God I have a functioning nose...I would go holiday-less without it.

Evangelical Bull

So, there seems to be a theme emerging here: Chris hears bad sermon, Chris angst-fully rages on blog.

Maybe I am oversensitive to whole word "service" since it was abused and grained into my brain in Seward (Explanation for non Concordians in three, two, one: On Concordia's mission to "serve the church and world", all the students are forced to take pointless, curriculum-less class that give people like Julie Johnson a job, and force them to beleive that "servant leadership" is the only proper way to serve, and that, at Concordia, the only way to serve the church and world is serving the church. Maybe not blatently stated, but the fact that those in the education program are looked down upon for choosing the public school certification).

Anyways, I heard a sermon that made the cliam that it is a Christian's "obligation" to serve the poor. I dont know why this seemed so offensive to me. I mean, I was a missionary, I did serve in the church, and mostly to people of lower classes. My youthful ideas were to live in voluntary poverty, serve and help people less fortunate than me. Have I given up my ideals? Why did this little statement offend me so much?

I guess it just was the word "obligation" that got me. I am tired of Evangelicals forcing their interpretation of what a good Christian should be or should do down my throat. And the fact that "service" is so abused. Does the baker not serve all his clients that need to eat? Does the janitor not serve the people in the building who dont clean up after themselves? No, the only way to serve is to give money to the church's minsitry programs and only then are you being a good Christian.

I am sick of being obligated to do something, when everything that I already do is not valued as God possibly working through me. I think God is bigger than our "obligations" and our intrepretations and our hypocritical money-mongering.

Thanks Action Day in Pictures

So yesterday was THANKS ACTION DAY in Panama! We pulled off a pretty good feast with everything that was thrown our way. Here are some things that I am sure Martha Stewart never had to deal with:

1. Thanks Action Day being moved and changed around. Thats right. We usually celebrate Thanks Action Day on Nov 28 here in Panama, since it is independence day and everyone has the day off. (Dont worry...our Panamanian friends didnt mind giving up Independence day For our "gringo" celebration, becuase it is one of three independence days that are celebrated within the month of November.) This year, since the 28th was a Wednesday, however, the government wanted to change INDEPENDENCE DAY, so that it was on the weekend. How can you just change a national holiday? And even more so, how can you change a national holiday when I am planning Thanks Action Day? We changed plans accordingly, only to find out that the goverment decided to recind on the whole holiday-changing plan. Change of Plans, again! AGHH!

2. The non-working oven scare. So, as the festivities were held at my house, this was major test time for my rather cheap kitchen equipment. As I was in charge of the desserts, I decided as always to make my famous pumpkin cheesecake. But, alas, my springform pan was no where to be found. I bought a new one. As I cooked the cheesecake, my stove just starts smoking (and we are talking death black smoke). After a big scare that my oven was going to blow or not work (which would be horrible, since he trukey was going to be cooked at my house, see below), I found out that my spring form pan was leaking butter, thus the big fire. Then my big fear was that my house would be all nasty and smoke smelling. But it worked out once I figured out how to get my springform pan to stop leaking! Tin foil to the rescue.

2. The oven/turkey fire. So Becky was in charge of the turkey, as she has been the last two years. She let that big ass bird marinate for like three whole days in wine and butter (heaven!). But, since there was a parade in front of her and Noriel's apartment, and the would be trapped all day there, we decided that the bird could be cooked at my house, where the festivities were to be held. The bird is cooking and everything is great. We check the temp, and it looks done. Yeah! We pull the bird out and start picking at it, great and everything. But we decide we want it to go back in and get a little more golden crispy. I stoop down with the whole 50 pound pand and put it back in the oven. Not realizing that the oven shelf had been pulled out, I throw my back into it and the pans falls into the back of the stove, pouring a large cuantity of alcholic bird juice into the flames of my gas stove. My co hosts were there, blinding by the smoke and paralyzed with the lack of hot-mits, while I contemplating sacrificing the hair on my arms to pull our turkey from the fiery abyss. We saved it...most of the marinade still in tact, and no burnt turkey. Once again, my fears of my apartment smelling like an ashtry surface.

4. No Gas. After all the shananigans of almost catching my kitchen (and body) on fire, we settle down and get back into the cooking business. Then, the stove just stops. Thats right. We ran out of gas. So for the rest of the thanksgiving meal, it was Thanks Action Day by microwave. Becky even made Microwave gravy.

5. This is a good one: Toto asked Stephanie to marry him at thanksgiving! It was so nice! She said yes, of course, and we all joined in celebrating their engagement! Congrats Stephanie and Toto!

And, of course there was plenty of food. But, pictures can sum up the holiday better than my ostentatious words. Take a look at the photo album Becky made clikcing on the link below or check out the link "Panama 2007" under "Photo Archive" at the left had side of this page to see some great Thanks Action Day Pictures.

Later!

http://secure.smilebox.com/ecom/openTheBox?sendevent=4d5459304f5451784d6e77784f444d7a4d6a457a0d0a&sb=1

Thanks Action Day Checklist

Thats right, Thanks Action Day will be celebrated here in Panama in t minus 2 days. We are definately excited. The feast (or fête I have so frenchly been calling it) will be at my apartment, which is kind of stressful, but I am not in charge of the bird (thank you, Becky) but still, the June Cleaver urge to make my first thanks action day feast worthy of Martha Stewart's praise and maybe even be comparable to mom's feast is so much stronger when its one of the few claims to gringo culture I and some expectant Americans (and Panamanians) will experience this year.

In honor of our belated Thanks Action Day Celebration, here is a vertiable checklist of what we need for our wonderful feast and their status as of publication of this entry:

1. Turkey ala Becky (Check)
2. Candied Yams (Check)
3. Mashed Pototates (Check)
4. Cranberries (Check)
5. Bread (Check)
6. Wine (Check)
7. Alcohol-Free Cider (Becky's pregnant! YEAH) (Check)
8. Pumpkin Cheescake (Check)
9. Pumpkin Pie (Check)
10. Rum Apple Crisp (Check)
11. Peach/Cranberry Pie (Check)
12. Stuffing (from a box) (Check)
13. Harvest Decorations (Check)
14. Thanks Action Day Music.... (no Check)

WTF???? No music. Come on: without, there would be no musical ambiance, and without musical ambience, it wouldn't be Thanks Action Day. And since there are seven people at my party and you can't make an asthectically pleasing symetrical table setting arangement with an odd number of people, music must be good enough to make up for lack of visual symmetery (okay, a little exagerrated, I admit. ) But there is a serious lack of Thanks Action music on the Market. What's a insecure-about-co-hosting-his-first-Thanks Action man supposed to do?

Well, with my great musical tastes (a little on the eclectic side, I admit), I decided to make my own Thanks Action Day mix. So with out furthur adeau, here is Volume One of "The AMERECANA CD COLLECTION": Thanks Action Day. Its all smooth, kind of jazzy, with some big band twists and bluegrassy twang, but all around it has a highly American just-want-to-sit-around-the-fireplace kind of feel to it. Enjoy!

1. Peanuts Thanksgiving Theme by Vince Guaraldi
2. At Ease by Amos Lee
3. Songbird by Eva Cassidy
4. Going Be Some Changes Made by Bruce Hornsberry
5. Take Five by Dave Brubeck
6. The Best is Yet to Come by Frank Sinatra
7. Moondance by Van Morrison
8. Down to the River by Alison Krause
9. Autumn Leaves by Eva Cassidy
10. All at Sea by Jaime Cullum
11. When You Come Back Down by Nickel Creek
12. Those Sweet Words by Norah Jones
13. Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
14. Where I Come From by Rye Hallow
15. Autumn Leaves by Miles Davis
16. Out of the Woods by Nickle Creek

Thanks Action Day

So literally, translated, yesterday was Day of Thanks Action. (In an executive decision made by the adminstrators of this blog, Thanksgiving with hitherforth be called Thanks Action Day.) All my students asked me if I was eating chicken, and I had to correct them and say "actually, its turkey" and whimsical talk of cold crisp days seen through chilled windows while the family sits down to cider and yams was lost on their tropical holidayers mind-set as much as talking about pilgrams and religious freedom was perplexing for them.

And did you know that the first Thanks Action Day celebration in the Americas was actually done by the Spanish Explorer Vazquez de Coronado in the early 1500s? Although it was not a feast, but rather a communion service, it is one of the first recorded public gathering in America centered on the act of giving thanks.

And while we arent celebrating Thanks Action Day quite yet (that is in the works for next Wednesday and yes I, the diabetic, am in charge of all the desserts), its still easy to be thankful for my family, friends and all the things that I have to be thankful for. And I am also thankful for the ability to be thankful in a thanks-action-day sort of way and be planning to go to the beach this weekend.

Yet, among all the benefits of living in the tropics and that my tan that is becoming more grecian every minute, it is still hard not to feel a pang of loneliness and a little homesickness this time of year. And even though we have our own little celebration, there just a part of me that wishes I could be states-side for Thanks Action Day. I hope that your Thanks Action Day was full of family, friends and tangible reminders of what Thanks Action Day is is all about (and as my Dad and I agreed yesterday, football and bloated-ness are included on that list.)

A Sterile Existence

So, a little over a year ago, when I was looking for an apartment, I found this old building with a free apartment. Besides the fact that it was on a bus route (meaning load, old, out-of-shape school buses plowing past at all hours), I really liked it. I think I liked it becuase it had a lot of character, some charm: bookshelves built into the walls, arches with ionic columns for the doors, an old, decrepit looking metalic chandalier, a little windowed-in porch with french doors whose windows have paint marks on and a few cracks that give the doors the appearance of just being frosted by condensation. Charming. And not so much charming in the sense of Frank Lloyd Wright chraming with stained glass intricacies, but more just kind of charming broken-window-yet-not-dangerous charming. I have always wanted to have a historic, charming abode, so you can imagine my dissapointment when I found out that the apartment was rented to someone else.

But it got me thinking about charm. And not like fairly tale, overly exagerant charm, but that slightly-worn-down-yet-still-strong kind of charm. I think that is why I like old houses. They have proven themselves, they have stood the storm, as it were. New houses just seem so sterile. In old houses you don't know what history that comes along with the dust in the corner, nor do you know the books that have sat on those shelves, the work put into polishing the floors, or some indoor wild kid's play that resulted in the chipped paint. It leaves more room for imagination (we would always look for treasure in my grandmothers house, something that we never did in the new houses of our neighbors that had been constructed under our incospicuious eyes) and adventure and simple possibility.

Living in Panama has a certain charm to it. ALthough I might complain, today while I was on the bus, I couldnt help to smile and feel the charm of cramming onto an old bus, smiling and saluding all those who crossed my path (a typical Latin thing...saying hello to everyone.) I couldn't help but feel the charm of my small apartment with all my nick-nacks and the charm of the simple life I lead. I couldnt help but applaud the charm of a family walking down the street, a father chasing his daughter and laughing at the top of their lungs even thous her school uniform was getting completly sweaty and not harldy as well pressed as mother would have liked. The charm of seeing the homeless man talk to the newspaper vendor. The "chichero" riding his bike down the middle of the street, selling his juices to walkers and drivers standing in line to make their purchases.

Its that kind of worn down, not quite perfect charm that has got me hooked. Its not the best, what they have, but they make it work, and they smile about it. Its not new and shiny, but it works in their reality. Some would call is quiant. I call it charming. Maybe this is one reason I dont want to go back to the United States. There are few "charming" things. We push our homeless people into shelters vying for their health, but really we just don't want to see them in our streets. We cant be too excited, that would be a call for Rittalin. Too sad, Prozac. We have to have the shinest, the newest iPhone, the most expensive car, the coolest clothes, the highest credit card debt. There is no adventure: the buses are luxiorious, the sidewalks repaved every year, the cracks covered with asphalt, the traffic lights calibrated every month, a whole sterile existence of predictability, extravagentness and consumerism. Every sign of life is pushed away, covered up, played down into some mediocre daily grind, where having feelings outside of familial and brotherly love are discouraged.

I find Panama charming...sometimes unefficient, sometimes brute, sometimes uneducated, and other times impatient. But thats where its charm comes from. It is not perfect. Its rough around the edges. But at least it has proof that there is some sort of living. Life is not covered up with our polishes, fixed with our medicinal creams and tightened up with our botox. We lose the charm that shows that they have survived the storm, that it is not perfect.

We dont have to be perfect. We need to preserve for the charm that our culture is losing.

A little anger here...

So, this is a little angry bitch session. Be forewarned.

What every happened to genuine Christians? Where have they gone, where were they lost? I know that there are many bible scholars out there that know alot more about this than I do, and I cant say that the bible claims to talk about genuine-ness, but it seems like it would go along with the Christian message: love, honor, integrity, etc.

So why are Christians most often the fakest people around? (Answer to this question in t minues three minutes.)

Heres what set all this off: I received an email from someone I have not heard from in almost a year. This person was a good friend of mine, but when I moved to Panama, communication from their part of the relationship just kind of dropped off. Not to say I didnt try. I wrote for the good whole first year that I was in Panama and got tired of receiving short, disspondent answers, if I got any replies at all. So, me and my "loyalty-ridden" self, just decided that it wasnt worth it. If there is one thing I can't handle its when people aren't loyal to themselves, their friends, their beleifs...etc. So, we havent talked in a while.

I receive this email and think, wow..maybe something new. No. It was an email about warning people about a movie that is coming out (The Golden Compass) that is about "killing God" and even worse, was written by an atheist. OMG! Too much to handle. My faith cant take the fact that in this world there might be movies going against Christianity, and that in fact, atheists might be successful and have creative imaginations. Heaven forbid. Oh dear God in Heaven: How can you exist if there are successful muslims and even atheists. (If you cant tell, this is just dripping with sarcasm)

Thats not really why I got mad. I got mad becuase after not talking to me for almost two years about anything personal or anything that is going on our lives, you email me when something infringes upon your conservative beleifs and you are so insecure about what you believe that then you have the nerve to email me, fooling yourself into thinking that you are strong in your faith because you have stood up for a cuase.

How is this genuine at all? Is this friend really worried about me falling into the temptation of watching a movie that might go against the beleifs we have been taught? I doubt it. Why would they personally worry about something petty like what movies I watch when they haven't seemed to care about the major developments I have gone through since they decided that our friendship wasnt worth the trouble of writing a coherent email. And would they really have felt it necessary to warn me if they had been in touch and learned that, during the radio-silence of our relationship for the past year, I have become and adult and know how to think on my own? Hardly.

But like I said, its not genuine, becuase they are not really worried about the movie's affect on me. They are worried about how something like this is defiant of all the kitsch they have come to build their life upon. How this is "spit in the eye of smiling brotherhood". How their kitsch dictates to them that Christianity is about being happy and standing up together against the evil of the world, and how any crap or shit that happens in daily life must mean some sort of lack of faith or trust. This kitsch that Evangelical America has proclaimed as absloute truth in this current movement of zealotry is by no means true. By no means genuine.

What happened to genuine Christians? I know very few. Few who are not fully consumed with living thier kitsch-filled existance that they cant step out of their bubble and see the "gaggle of people who are hurting" as one friend puts it (a single divorcee who might just actually the greatest theologian of our times ;) ). In fact it is those people I know as Christians who dont seem to wear it on their sleeves that seem to be the most "genuine". But they are not genuine, because the dont fit the mold American Evangelical Kitsch has liad out for them to fall into.

When did a warning become more of a Christian message than a simple, "hello how are you, tell me what happened today". When did our theology and our beleifs become more important than the people around us who need us, hate us, love us, treat as as kings and enemies, and sometimes depend on us?

What happened to genuine Christians?

Some fears

Or maybe just one fear...

So, yesterday was a monumental moment. At 4:35 in the afternoon, I finished my grad entrance essay. I was ecstatic. Besides being elated with the fact that I wrote about 20 pages in Spanish, researched for about three months (in all my spare time!) and tied it all together with a pretty good conclusion, I was just happy to have overcome this fear.

See, it took me so long becuase the document just sat on my computer for about a month at page 9. I couldnt bring myself to write about the last two authors, and so my paper about Spanish-American lit at the turn of the 20th century just sat there, a Spanish-literature-less Spanish-American Literature paper.

I thought I was afraid of not being able to write as educated-ly about Spanish authors as I could about Central American authors. But no, that was just the tip of the iceberg. While personal experience gives me an advantage in the "American" realm of Span-Amer lit, its not like becuase it comes from the other side of the Atlantic I cant handle it.

I was really afraid of finishing the paper (not so much just finishing, because like I said, EXCITED), but finishing and then having to submit it. I can imagine some bald professor tearing through the "intellectual scruff" of my essay, laughing menaically at the intellectual peasants whose papers he has to lower himself to reading, and who are clearly inferior to his emminent wisdom. The fear of some professors' laser eyes shredding the toils of my intellectual labor to pieces still makes it hard to just put the essay in the mail and be done with it. Its not just some paper, but the paper on which your entire intellectual ability is judged.

But as my friend says, (yes, I am quoting you again) "most professors have nice smiles and children," so I guess maybe super-power-laser-beam-destroyer eyes are nullified. Or at least I hope so. And I know that this will be the first of many papers that bring to the surface my deep intellectual insecurities! Viva academia.

More Dichotomy

So, I walk home from the office every night. Our offices are located in the middle of the city, and I love on the outskirts of the city, about as far as you can go but still be considered the city. I live by the ocean (dont get too jealous, sewage is pumped into the ocean so its sometime more of a problem than a pleasure). It takes about 45 minutes to walk home, which is plenty of time just to me and myself and the noise of buses plowing by, and cars honking away.


One of the things that always seems to occur to me is the whole dichotomy of life. We are never really taught about dichotomy (except in AP Bio when we had to memorize dichotomous keys), but we learn about it from day one. Everyone understands the whole stop/go, fast/slow, caniverous/herbevoire, confierous/deciduous, white/black, modernista/generacion de 98, developed/third world complex and can identify many dichotomous feelings without being taught about them. Our state of movement is not perpetaul, dichotomy tells us that it is rather moments of stop and go. However, there are those moments when dichotomy seems to suspend in some sick give-and-take of polar oppisites: that wierd feeling when we are traveling (flying especially) and it feels like we are moving, yet our emotions tell us that we are never go arrive are when the ends of your life's dichotmous key seem to be taking place.

Exhibit A: Wanting to go back to the States, yet not wanting to leave Panama. Wanting to have a family yet not wanting to give up the promise that a bachelor's life contains. Not feeling like an American yet not exactly Panamanian. I have come to accept that I wont always feel like I am in end of my dichotomous key, but in that eternal limbo: I would say this is really accepting the veracity of dichotomy, that I would be living in both ends, in limbo, instead of just choosing one branch of my dichotomous key (as if living life were as easy as identifying a species). I mean, whats the point of dichotomy if I chose monotony (even if the simplicity of monotony can in itself be comforting).

It was in talking with a friend yesterday that I made the statement that, in reference to the whole liberal/conservative debate, "dichotomy here is reaffirmed only for didactical purposes, not necesarily becuase it is true." That made me think about dichotomy in general: is it something we use to categorize our life and our experience, or it is something actually true? Is it simply the construct we use to figure out our somewhat paradoxic existence (what better way to solve a paradox than polarizing both ends of the spectrum?), or is it just simply the way the world works?


Like I said before: Dichotomy is life. Just wondering if simply life in itself dichotomous or do we make it that way? And the chicken/egg debate continues...

Road Trip in Pictures

Happy November! November in Panama is "Mes de la Patria" (Month of the "Mother Country" as it were), becuase all the National Holidays fall in November. That means plenty of time to do nothing and an excuse to do nothing even when you are supposed to be doing something (aka, blogging at work.) So here is a wrap up of our weekend on the road, celebrating Memorial Day (November 2), Independence Day (November 3), Flag Day (November 4) and Independence Celebration in Colon Day (November 5). Also this weekend we have, thats right, Independence Day Celebration in Los Santos (November 10) and then we have Independence from Columbia Day (November 28). Panama does have two independence days (one from Spain and one from Columbia) but they celebrate the first one like 7 times (hence all the free days.) Unfortunately, this year, all the holidays land on a Saturday, so we dont really get any extra days off. But anyways, heres a picture story of my weekend.

Me enjoying the parade...and all the food that came with it. I am pointing to "meat on a stick", bbq sausage! YUM!

On Saturday afternoon, we went to Boquete, a small mountain town that is one of my favorite places in Panama. This is the view from the city's lookout point.

The lookout was complete with a shrine to Mary and all. I dont want to know if I offended anyone with this picture.

One of the places most visited in Boquete is the public gardens, that are replete with statues, tacky figurines and overgrown vegetation. Katie decided to milk one of the cows. We were kind of thirsty.

I couldn't resist. You know how those metal figurines just turn me on.

Golf lessons.

Diego, Noriel's nephew was all decked out in his montuno (traditional Panamanian outfit) and his sombrero pintado for the parade. ¡El Chiricanito!

This is me and my pipa. Its like a coconut but bigger and with water instead of milk. And it is so refreshing that it is about the only thing that will take your mind of the heat and humidty of David, Chiriquí.

A day to be what you are not

So, while all my American compatriots are dressing up their kids, and going house to house feeding the cavities and ADD energy of their children, I too, am celebrating on of the traditions of Halloween here in Panama, even though it is not a "sponsered" event: the catholic church of Panama made a statement banning it early this morning.

We put on costumes and as Garrison Keeler pointed out today is the only day you can dress as the opposite sex, a convicted murderer, a non existent species and get away with it. Basically, it is the only day of the year when we are taught, from our early childhood, that we can be someone or something that we are not. And what kind of aspirations come out in kids' costumes; and I am talking about good costumes, none of this "I want to be Buzz Lightyear or some other over-commercilized Disney character", but rather the old time costumes that never die out. I wanted to be a doctor one year, and a military man the next. Maybe becuase that was what I wanted to be in my life at that point in time, or maybe simply becuase it was the exact opposite of who I really was. I couldnt stand the sight of blood, so getting to wear a surgeons mask was the manifestation of pure speculation. I have never held a gun and dont think I could bring myself to kill someone, but the idea of hiding those "insufficinces" behind some camouflauge suit and face paint was the uncovering of beautiful possibility. I mean, honestly, who says, "I want to be me for Halloween", when the very point is to be something that others wouldnt recognize us as.

I carry on that tradition today. No, I didnt cut armholes in my sheets and draw a ghost's face on them, rather, today a hole was cut in the proverbial sheet of my cultural identity. Today, as I was walking around the office, the Panamanian that I have hidden under the sheet of my American ghost, started to stick his arms out. I was told three times today that I sounded particularly Panamanian, and while it might have only been a couple phrases, so I wont get too big-headed about it, today seems like an ironic day to hear so many compliments. While I have come to grisps with the fact that I will never be "Panamanian" (one of my big, unrealistic goals when I first came here), today was the day to see that I too, can be something that I will never be.

And while some might say that that is a rather fatalistic thought, just resigning myself to the fact that I will never completly be the thing I am trying to be, today it makes me happy. If I may never be exactly what I want to be, or fit in exactly like I thought I would, at least my costume is convincable enough to sometimes fool even Panamanians.

Happy Halloween!

Falling in love again...

So, we learned that culture shock is like a roller coaster. Theres a vertible "honeymoon" period, where everything is new and great and excting. Then, invariably, there comes the "down" period, where all the little things really start to drive you nuts. Then another "honeymoon period" and another downfall. Thats about it. And this continues.

I am definatly on the up bound. We have a friend from the States here, so I get to see all the sites that once captured my attention and my heart. I am falling in love with those same sights, and the small things that make me mad or drive me nuts seem like little blips on the radar. The palm trees, the fact that I live a block and a half from the ocean, the history that I live among, and the weather that lets me go to the pool every weekend are all things that are making me feel that the honeymoon has not ended.

And we are entering November...mes de la patria...when Panama celebrates all the holidays that we have not had for the past six months, making for one long working stretch with no free days. The city comes alive with red white and blue, and Panamanians all over hang flags out their windows! Its a great time to be in love with the place I live in! And this weekend is the first of three three days weekends so that means...ROADTRIP!!!!

life is good!

What might have been...

So, Panama is a small country. And things get around. Despite best efforts, people recognize you as the gringo that always carries his black messenger bag, and always is dressed super nice, and you can never seem to avoid running into someone you know at the store, or on the street, or in some obscure restaurant. I was at a restuarant the other day and ran into an old employee. Let me tell you, wierd to see someone whose boss I used to be. He informed me that at my former employer, the head boss just left or is in the process of leaving. That made me think.

If I would have stayed there, I would have been the next on the step ladder to take her position.

I cant say that that realization doesnt come with a sting of regret. I mean, we are talking about Berlitz, a pretty well known international company. And I could have been a fairly important person in that organization (at least in Panama). I could of had quite a bit of power. There is plenty of room for growth in that company, I think that just the current adminstration didnt really let anyone see those chances.

Then I think of all the reasons I left that job: the endless hours, working without ever really getting ahead, not feeling very supported by those I needed support from, and how I thought about this position that is now open as a dead end stop on the ladder. How it would take me almost completely out of the class.

I did a good job at that job, and no just cant help and wonder what might have been: I can think of two alternatives. One is frustrating and brings to mind pictures of apocolyptic downfall, and the other is having found a place where I might have done what I was supposed to be doing.

Oh well, life goes on.

Supermarket Games Explained

So no, this is not some new extreme sport, just my daily life. There is one thing that has always bugged me. As I think any person who has lived abroad will tell you, it is not the big things that drive you nuts (different language, different religious beleifs), no you resign yourself to these things even before you leave your home country. Its the small things that bug you, (the way people just stare at you, the way they talk, and even the way they carry themselves) that make you wonder if human decency and consideration is part of this new culture, or at least human deceny and consideration the way you have learned it to be. It is one of these little things I want to write about, as I learned a new cultural congruency that helps me not get so worked up about this.



So heres the little thing: Panamanians have this bad habit of just stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, leaving their cart positioned perfectly in the aisle that you cant get past them. Everytime this little pet peeve occured, I just always wrote it off as culture flaws and self-centered-ness.

But here I come to find out that its not just that. It is this insasatiable need to "pasear". This verb doesnt really exist common English use, becuase the action really isnt all that common in Anglo-Saxon cultures: the act of taking a stroll, of promenading. Of leavivng your house and going out to the street to see what you can see.

I was talking to a friend who says that A large part of latin culture is "pasear": going for a walk, not to excercise, but to see who you can see. He told me that when he was in the United States, he felt this void, this emptyness becuase nobody was "paseando", whats more, there was no place to go strolling. He said, strolling in the suburbs was like hiking for him: seeing nature, but not really seeing people. He siad, he jumped at the chance to just walk around when his other latin friends were going out. He didnt realize how important it was in their culture until he wasnt able to do it.

I think this idea, coupled with latin's innate ability to make relationships and their perpetual personal interactions, and supermarket jams and sidewalk stoppers dont seem so bad. Its not some offense to me that they dont let me through, they are just talking with a neighbor, or observing the person who they see everyday selling fruit at the stand on the other side of the street. They are just fulfilling their need to "pasear".

Two years here and still learning.

A little wierd and more kitsch

Confession: I haven't been to church in a while. We decided to go to a "bible" church this last weekend to get back into the whole swing of it. The service was in English, which was great, and the church was ful of expats who live in Panama, yet the whole experience was just a little wierd (and not becuase it wasnt lutheran enough, or if they didnt have a liturgy, or we didnt follow the lectionary series A, B, or C, or any other ridiculous LCMS thing) but more just becuase it was like a step into American Evangelicalism: like stepping into a little bubble, safe from the tucans and the rampant catholisicm that run amuck outside those church walls; like what we were doing (singing in English and raising hands and praying to the Lord Almighty) just ran in contrary of everything that seems normal (silently whispering the rosary, and fumbling through the liturgy) in this culture.

Yet it is not the wierdness of the situation that I want to write about. Its about the world outside that bubble that the sermon was about and what I want to write about. We had the priveldge to hear a sermon on Romans 16: not really a privledge. Like I said earlier, its not "faith" that I have a problem with, its "kitsch" (remember that kitsch is a philosophy that excludes, let us say, all the crap that we experience in reality), and this sermon was kitsch-y. First, we were told that we must greet each other with Christian love, and that there is no reason that people should not welcome others to church. (Side note: when the pastor said this, I felt all eyes hone in on the back of my head, being a visitor to the church. I just found myself wanting to slip down the pew and out the aisle, avoiding any "welcome" that was being formulated for after the service.) Here in lays Kitsch Number 1: Being a Christian means being happy and kissing in brotherly love all who pass through those doors. The truth behind this kitsch is: Even if you arent happy, dont want to greet people, that doesn't matter: be false, and that gives a good impression of Christian love.

He also said, that realtionships are important to the Gospel. Agreed. He went on to claim that you can tell if relationships are important to you if you spend time with people. Not quite as stong, but agreed. Finally, you are a good Christian when you are around other people, when you help other people. The lapse in logic is just a little to much for me. Being around people makes you a "good Christian" as much as being in a pharmacy makes you a pharmacist. This kitsch: Help those around you, even if you dont know why or dont feel like it, and of course, with a smile, becuase within the Christian community, it all works out for the best. Oh Smile and Joy! The truth behind this kitsch: Be insincere in your actions, just so others keep their high image of you and your Chrisitanity.

The pastor then went on to say, that we are encouraged not to let an evil into the community, staying away from those who are divisive, and for those who might teach "wrong doctrines". Not a bad teaching, but here was the kitsch number 3: Not letting in wrong teachings means that you are not supposed to look at billboards with girls in bikinis on them, and other "pornographic" things. Not letting the outside world "betray" our pure lives. And that, and I qoute: "Curiosity is not acceptable." The truth behind this kitsch: Thinking is not acceptable, and reconciling the world we live in to the subcultured world of Christianity we are encouraged to live in is impossible: they are mutaully exclusive.

This was the kitsch where I lost it. As a friend of mine says "Faith does not exclude thought", but in our world they are placed at too ends of the spectrum. How do we reconcile them? If, coming from the pulpit we are told to "go with the flow" and just "do as you are told", "avoid evil, and evil according to the gospel of Peter So and So, or John Whats his face is such and such thing and thought", but the intellectual side of me says "Where is the logic in that?", "Make a wise decision about this", "thinking it through is the only way to make a sound decision", how do we reconcile that? How do we answer the question "you think abortion is okay?" and "you mean, you think evoulotion might be a possibility?" without compromising what we believe into some cafeteria theology that looks like we just picked and chose? Can a serious Christian be a truly independently thinking Christian? How do we answer these questions?

I think the answer lies in Kitsch, and deconstructing it. That a Christian can be a part of the world, can even think about the world, and still be a Christian. That a Christian can be politcally active and not just with Focus on the Family. That a Christian can read works of literature, admire works of art, and learn phiosophy without bringing wrath upon themselves. That a Christian can still be a human and not be a part of the Christian sub-culture, dedicating themselves to the evanglelical zealotism and fundamentalism that runs rampant in mainstream beleif. That a Christian can still have a life that doesn't revolve around the intrepretation of the word "it", or when someone is "best suited" to be baptized, and can make their own decisions with out being pushed out if the community of beleivers. That a Christian can just show up on Sunday and not have anything else to do with the church for the rest of the week. That a Christian doesnt have to live up to the kitsch that we place upon all beleivers and still be considered a Christian.

Its not faith I have a problem with, its kitsch.

Happy Columbus Day, Dia de la Hispanidad, Dia de la Raza and any other name you want...

Is Columbus Day even celebrated anymore in the United States? Well today is the hispanic equivalent. Today, the hispanic world celebrates the arrival of Columbus to the Americas. The arrival of Columbus marked the beginning of an era of "gold" in Spain. The unification of two kingdoms (Castilla and Aragon), the expulsion of the jews and islams from the peninsula (under the banner of Christianity, later leading to the inquisition) and the arrival of Columbus all make 1492 an epic year for Spain. For many Spanish, today is a day of pride and a day of rememberance for those who have given their lives in the name of their country. For many in America, today is a day of anger, a day of rememberance of all the lives lost at the hands of another nation.

And even Iberoamerica did not escape from the whole "Was Columbus really the discoverer of America?" debate. Some call it "Dia de la Raza" (Day of the "Race"), citing that the word hispanidad doesnt include any of the other culture groups (both within Spain and throughout the world) that speak Spanish but are not Spanish. That being part of the hispanic race shouldnt be limited to just hispanidad (a classic Spanish word not really used any more with connotations of being strictly Spanish). Even leaders from ethnic-politcal groups in Spain refuse to attend festivities, understanding them as "not their national festival." And when I ask my coworkers what they think "Dia de La Raza" means to them, they say "A celebration of Columbus' arrival." Now whether they say it with a resentful or proud tone is where the difference lies.

So here we see reconciled two adages: Bueaty is in the eye of the beholder and a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Kitsch

In his book, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera writes about the notion of "kitsch". And while it might conjure up images of all the little crappy souvenirs or commenplace art that many a pack-rat collects, Kundera says that the original word has lost its meaning. Kitsch, he claims, is the sentiment that "excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existance."

He goes on to say that there are many versions of kitsch: American, French, Catholic, Protestant, Modernist, Traditional. We could put any word here really, any group that shares a set of ideals that defines what is acceptable and unacceptable. Kitsch is the cover-up of anything "heavy" or negative. The whole "Smile and be chipper even if you feel like shit" happiness queens, who dot their "i"s with hearts, are the epitome of kitsch. Since his book is set in and around the time of Prauge Spring and the ensuing communistic onslaught, Kundera talks about an interesting kind of kitsch: totalitarian kitsch.

The minute I read the word I happened to think about Concordia (a sad assosciation: Facism=Concordia). Totalitarian kitsch is that which infringes on kitsch itself. These infringements must be "banished". Individuality, doubt, irony, anything that can be considered "spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood."

Concordia Kitsch is composed of the following:

1. A need to express your faith.
2. A need to relate everything in your experience to your faith.
3. A need to have your choices justified before a "holy" community.
4. A need to be a servant-leader, aka to feel good about yourself helping others.
5. A need to feel protected from the "world" , aka belonging to a mutally sheltering community.

While these tenants in themselves are not bad things, it is when Concordia Kitsch becomes totalitarian Concordia kitsch when things go awfully wrong. A person who expresses doubts about the bible becomes a traitor. A person who decides to watch foreign films, or worse those that are controversial, becomes a hinderance to the whole community. And a person who thinks on their own, they spit in the eyes of smiling brotherhood of ignorance. Anything that would take away from the fake smile and cheery "hello" emited from every one who passes by is just simply denied. This cheery attitude is one thing that binds all Concordians, a comforting sentiment, until kitsch becomes the definition of the group. When kitsch begins to replace the real feelings and the real thoughts.

Kitsch is by no means real.

And as Sabine in the novel wants to yell "Its not communism I have a problem with, its kitsch!" I second her sentiments. Its not faith I have a problem with, its kitsch!

Do I live in Macondo? Or Riohacha?

I see Gabriel Garcia Marquez characters everywhere. I chose to believe that it means that I have adapted so well, and know all the Panamanian qwirks so well that I can superimpose literary characters on the people whose paths I cross in my everyday life. Well, not really. Its just that Gabriel Garcia Marquez is such a great writer and knows, above all, how to tell a story so that it comes to life, and me with my overactive imagination, well, I just run with it. (And upon editing this I realized that it might seem quite erratic for those who have not read Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Consider yourself warned. If this serves as anything other than a pretentious blog entry, well, maybe its homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez will spark some literary interest. And since I just literally translated each title, I also left each one in their original Spanish so that if such inspiration abounds, you will know what to look for.)

The other night I saw Jeremiah de Saint-Amour, (Love in the Time of Colera, Amor los tiempos de cólera) walking down my street, his white hair glowing in the moon. An older man, he was walking, with chess board under his arm I might add, shuffling along slowly with the finality that looked like he had just decided that tonight he would play his last chess game and ask his lover to pour him some cyanide. While he slowly plowed forward to his own destiny or to the destiny of ardent, self imposed death that was Jeromie Saint Amour’s, I thought if I stood and watched, would he turn into someone’s house, a happy guest, or if he would just continue walking through the novel of this world, until someone turned the page and he disappeared into literary non-being?

When I was traveling back to the United States, upon entering in Houston, standing in line to show that I actually am an American citizen, I saw Sra. Rachel (A Day after Saturday, Un día después del sábado), being pushed in a wheel chair, confused by the English speaking customs agent. Struck by the look of utter confusion (mixed with a sting of indignation and bitterness) I was compelled to help. Only was it after I explained what the agent was trying to do, did I realize that she was puzzled why this stranger with whom she could not communicate wanted to come into to her personal life, just like Sra. Rachel was perplexed, and slightly enraged at why there were so many dead birds in her house, and why they were killing themselves trying to get in through the screens of her windows.

My coworker, who just left for her maternity leave (here in Panama your maternity leave starts a month before you give birth), is Ana (In this town there are no theifs, En este pueblo no hay ladrones), and I can see her, laying in her bed, arms at her side, exhausted yet unable to sleep, her head propped level with the height of her stomach, waiting up at night for her husband to come back with the billiard ball he stole. Her eyes held open by her own anxiousness, the whites exposed and as spotted as the ravished cue ball is spotted with indentations of pulverized chalk, she walks into the office everyday, the weight of her conscious—burgeoning under her husband’s mistakes—apparent in the defeatist manner in which she walks; not really walking, but merely pushing one foot in front of the other. She mutters what she wants her employees to do, just as told her husband to stop smoking or to just return the raptured ball, defeated, knowing her pleas were useless.

The cashier at the grocery store close to my house is the Lady that arrived at six (The Lady that arrived at six, La mujer que llegaba a las seis), so schizophrenic in her “Do you have a frequent shopper card?” that one day it is a flirtatious, the next it's direct interrogation, and then even pure desperation some days, just as if she was flirting, brainwashing and even scaring her customers into collaborating in her alibi: her constant twitch and shiver every time her cash register scans new merchandise is the twitch of a women checking the clock and the passing traffic outside the bar making sure there was no way the man dead in her apartment could have been identified as having been killed by her.

Perhaps I live in Riohacha or Macando, who knows. Like in Blue Dog Eyes, maybe it will be a truth that will always call from me in my dreams, and I will not know what world I live until I find some who knows how to answer my question with the phrase “Blue Dog Eyes”. Until I read that phrase written on the walls of the city, and thereby confirm that this is a world formed by magical realism, I will walk around the city screaming “Blue Dog Eyes”, I will keep superimposing my favorite images from Marquez’ books on those who I see in my daily life living out the culture he wrote about. Maybe my conclusions are wrong, and maybe some sorted destiny awaits the identities I place on others, maybe this mixing of identies is dangerous (for who knows if the idenity I chose to place on someone is actually who they are, and if so, the reverse must be true, that others place identities on me that I am not. To them, I might be a Jimmy Carter, or a Johnny Appleseed, but then who really knows if the identities we identiufy ourselves with are really our identities.) But I will continue in my life like Santiago Nasar (Chronicle of an announced death, Crónica de una muerte anunciada), nobody advising me of the danger that is in front of me, everyone wondering if I know what is going to happen and should warn me, or if they should just let the enevitable come to pass.

New Job

In my new job, I have alot of functions (although none of them are really clear, and I lack direction in all my functions). My clearest and most straight forward job is English teacher, which has its job description in the job title. I really enjoy this part of my job, and have found that no matter how much I have to drag myself out of bed in the morning to get in a taxi or cram onto a bus, I always feel content after teaching. It doesnt even matter if my students dont seem to grasp the concept (although my level of contentness can vary depending on this factor), deseminating information is what I feel that I have, to put it tritely, been put on this earth to do.

Unfortunately, that is not what the majority of my job is, and I am starting to suffer from it. My days are spent translating, which in itself is fun, like one giant 82 page puzzle, but to what does it contribute? I always thought that my occupation would be some good versus evil battle, and that every day I could feel good about contributing to the greater good. Thats, I think, why I went to Concordia. Thats why I decided to volunteer as an English teacher. That I was helping the forces of good spread knowledge, love, kindness and all those other overly romantic tenants to a dark and broken world. Translating financial statements and searching, fruitlessly I might add, for the meaning of words like "fideicomisos" and "gravemanes" hardly feels like contributing the forces of good in this world. (I mean if looking up absurd financial words can be assigned any esoterical value, well someone already contributed that value when they made a Spanish-English Accounting Dictionary.)

Maybe this romantic notion (becuase I really am a lost romantic at heart) of taking up arms and fight for the overall good, is maybe why I like teaching so much. Becuase when I am teaching, to see my student's face illumnate when they finally understand that it is stood and not standed, is like seeing an old enemy fall, to be victorious over the darkness of ignorance. To see my students be victorious and know I was the one that prepared them for that, well it gives me hope that I am contributing, even if it is just the finer points of English Grammar.

So all this has lead me to beleive that being an educator is what I am supposed to be doing.

Bus Revelations...Part Deux

I was once again on the bus, and having just read a book about American Politics, I was inclined to thinking about my own country. I had just come from immigration (which like taxis, is another blog entry in itself.) so I was not particularly in a good mood, and even more inclined to being very critical about the culture I am starting to call my own.

I was deep in thought about how Panamanians are different from Americans, and though, how I love being here, I cant stand the qwuirks and the tweaks they possess that always make me stand out as the tourist. And since I have been realizing, in a slow and painful way, that my goals of fulling adapting to be a "Panamanian" are just romantic fantasies, these qwuirks were even more poingnant, and not so much that at this particular moment I felt out of place (although walking onto a bus is much like walking down a catwalk), but becuase our differences were very forward in my mind.

I sat on the bus, and when someone (a women, to be exact: women here, going along with their "princess complex", have this tendency of just attacking the aisles of busses head on. They dont politely turn to one side and try to make the best of pushing through a crowd of seven hundred commuters. No, not so much.) pushed by me and hit my head with her purse. Not surprised, I found myself pensive on this push, and even more the lack of an "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me". Sometime, in certain situations, normal rules of courtesy, morals and sometimes existence, just seem to suspend. There are no lines, except for the ever incessant pushing to the counter to get some one to help you. People seem to forget how to count too, since my ticket says number 55 and yours is 93 and you are trying to push in front of me. Then when it is your turn, you actually dont exist if you dont call the worker "mami" or "mi amor" or something equally flattering. I have found playing the "stupid gringo" card is really the only to get ahead, turning into the metaphorically equivalent of a jaw-smacking, gum-chewing, hair-twisiting sorority queen ("Like, um, I dont understand, mi amor. (bubble popping here) Like, um. wh-hhat?") And Panamanians, who are usually very preoccupied about "education" (not education education, becuase there is a serious lack of books here, but here education refers to your "politeness") seem to not care even about this, as elbowing and shoving and name-calling all seem fair play.

So, I wondered, why does this happen? Why does this frustrate me so? Such affronts to personal space and everyone personally, dont seem to bother anyone but me. And when others are affronted, they seem to not be bothered in the way that I am. What is so different about our cultures that these little twirks urk me so? Why cant I just push and shove on a bus, or step on someone's toe and then just continue on with my life? Why do I feel I have to apoligize for every stumble I make, and for every stander-by I nudge into?

I think it is that, here, there is no commitment to the greater good. And when I think about, America may the one places where this might still be true. People look out for each other, maybe not so much in the "neighborhood watch" sort of way anymore, but people stop for you to cross the street. People move out of the way when they are an obstacle between you passing between them, their shopping cart and a display of cereal. People apologize when they bump into you, and they actually try to prevent bumping into others. They dont block intersections with their cars as the light changes, and they see that if someone behind them is in a hurry, they kindly move out of the way. One of my Panamanian friends says that we have that luxary, becuase we, as a country have had to fight wars, we had to know who we were, and we had to pull each other up. We-va had leaders who know how to rally a people divided into one body of supporters. Panama lacks such experience. And another friend whould add that in a country with so much inequality, they only option is to look out for yourself.

That said, I think there is more of a commitment here to those you do know. While Panamanians might not apoligze for bumping into you, or they might not work to make life in this country easier for everyone, they would give their friend the shirt off their back. They talk to their balck sheep brother when he gets released from prison, to their duaghter who got pregenant before she got married. Unfortunately, I think this is being lost. We see children wanting to be more independent and families split beyond the point of recovery. So, here there is a commitment to good. ITs just different from the good that I am used to being committed to. And that makes me wonder which one is better, if in fact superiority can be claimed.

Bus Revelations...Part the First

So, at my new job, there is really no good bus route to deliver me to my building from my humble abode every morning. So while I have been accustoming myself to paying almost triple what I would like to pay for my daily transport in taxis, I have also forgotten what it is like to depend on the bus system. However, I still take the bus and have found that my few times being on the bus in the last weeks have lead to serious thought provoking moments. The first part (thats right, this is a three parter. Contain your excitment.), I would like to share, takes me all the way back to my childhood.

Did you ever read "The mitten" when you were a kid? I for sure did. I remember falling in love with all the great illustrations and thought how it was amazing that the spider, then the possum, then the wolf and then the bear all fit in one little woven hand warmer. I guess I was amazed and awed by the possibility of something so illogical actually happening. I remember thinking, "that could never happen." And while I am sure I lacked the knowledge and vocabulary to describe it at that moment, I always felt that something was wrong, that this couldnt happen, yet my meticulous nature wasnt developed enough to say exactly why it wouldnt happen. I mean in the fantasy world of children, who really tries to explain big mysteries like why a wolf would fit in a mitten but a bear wouldn't.

Well, I was proven that this impossible feat can be done. Panamanians rely, as I do, on public transportation. For most, this means fighting for a taxi (that is a whole other blog entry in itself), or taking the bus. By bus, I dont mean RTD with its plastic seats, and its cleaning service and the token homeless person nestling their brown bag alcohol, but rather I refer to the "diablo rojos" (red devils) as they are called here. Diablo rojos are simply old school buses that have not passed the safety code in the States, where people have a sense of justice, and have the recourses to make sure that they and their children are not dilebrately put in danger. These buses are then sent to all the places where safety standerds dont really exist or are not enforced at least, and these diablo rojos become the metaphorical mitten that the rich kid drops in the forest, not even realizing how valuable it is to those who dont have anything to keep them warm, a small piece of his layers of winter clothing he doesnt even notice is missing when others are lucky to even have a jacket.

This is actually the emergency exit of a "diablo rojo" (safely watched iver by Jesus himself), all decked out with its painting. Some people would argue that these old school busses serve better as canvas for urban art than modes of transportation.

And, we all cram in. Standing in the aisle of the refurbished bus, I wondered how many people there actually were on the bus, and how the little "Max. Capacity 67" sign was either not understoof or just flat out ignored (most Panamanians have a basic enough sense of English to figure out what it means). All the cold animals cram themselves into the mitten; here the need to escape the cold is the need to get from point A to point B, and the bus is the mitten that provides that so coveted warmth.

With one small difference. This steel mitten, with its bolts and screws and sparkplugs and axles, doesnt gracefully expand to accomadate all its needy occupants. Therefore, it is the occupants who must accomadate for others as they cram on, doubling over, pressing at least two thirds of your body against the wall, the roof fire exit, or some unsuspecting stander-by. And just when you think the bus is full, people are hanging out both exit doors, ive people are crammed side by side in the two foot passage way between seats where three children are sitting on one woman's lap, and oversized people hang off into the aisle, the driver stops at a bus stop, telling more people that there really is room, leaving all the animals in the mitten too hot becuase there is no air to breath let alone a breeze that refreshs as they try to find a blance between the need to be somewhere, the pain of being forced to be a contortionist, and the desire to not want to hit some old lady on her head with breifcases, shopping bags and textbooks.

I wonder why this happens? Whose fault is it? We can pin the blame on a number of sources. The greedy bus companies and school districts who really dont care or dont know that selling their busses to under developed countries is dangerous, becuase they get some extra profit. The government who makes said purchases and does nothing to inspect or repair failing busses. The drivers who continue to let people board so they can get their extra twenty-five cent bus fare. Or the people who just continue to push and shove, allowing such degradery become a part of their everyday life, whether because they dont know any better, they are lazy or they dont have the resources to make any better proposals.

Like the animals in the mitten, we all just want to be warm. We all have places to go. And the bus is the reality of our situation. And unfortunately, this mitten story doesnt have a happy ending. The kid doesnt come and find his mitten torn to shreds, and is saddened by it. No, when busses burn and people die, there is no action to prevent it from happening again, there is no one to step forward and take the blame, there is no one who seems to care.

Hardly the appropriate children's story.

A return to Bloggage

I relaized the void in heart was cuased by the lack of blogging.

I hearby solemnly swear to protect, uphold, and promote the enternal documentation of my trivial thoughts and sentiments as stated in the blog agreement made to all those who seem to find some kind of enlightenment from my rambling.

I hope you gain from reading this blog, and please leave your comments. I want to really do this well!

Thanks. And I promise I will write more!

keep reading.

Dichotomy and Anniversary

So I have been thinking alot about what it means to live in Panama. I feel this dichotomy has taken over my life. I am not really American anymore, but I am not Panamanian by any chance. There is not that wow I really have come into myself here feeling, nor am I overrun by some maddening nostaglia, driving me back to everything that is "my" culture. Everything seems to have this "everything and nothing" Catch 22-ness to it. I guess this is what we talked about in my culture shock classes. The feeling that "I am but a stranger here" will probably be the maxim for the rest of my experiences abroad. And yet, this feeling didn't go away on my last trip to the states, nor do I think I want it to go away when I eventually return. Friends told me I spoke like a Mexican, "or definatly at least with a Latin accent" and I was shocked at the looks of complete and utter bewilderment when I paid for a $25 bill at a restuarant completly in cash. As Tolkein said, some wounds (I prefer the word change here) are too deep, and we must go about learning how to tie the strings of two different lives together.

But, that is what life is about. Dichotomy.

I also realized that it is a very important time for me. There are few seasonal changes in Panama that are used to mark the seasons, so time just seems to continue without any kind of change. Some of the few changes that remind me of my approximate location in the "seasonal" calendar are as follows:
1. Fast food restaurants start putting out "fish sandwiches" in the weeks leading up to lent, and menus at restaurants Friday nights only offer fish and seafood specials (since most Catholics here don't eat meat on Fridays in Lent.)
2. Christmas decorations come out notoriously early here. ie. Its the first of OCtober and I already have shopped for my Christmas decoration. So while this might remind me that its beginning to feel alot like Christmas, I have adjusted my clock to have the arrival of Christmas decoration remind me that I need to get ready for Labor day.
3. The floor needs to be swept every five minutes. In February and March, farmers all over the country burn off all the growth from last year, and since they do it in the middle of the breezy dry season (for obvious reasons), it means that soot and ash are blown all over the city, and if you leave your windows open and unattended, your living room will soon be filled with little pieces of burnt corn husks and leaves. This occurrence always reminds me of what would be the beginning of spring in the United States.
4. Pompus grass turns white as it grows. And as the hills around the city are covered with it, it is about the only image that comes remotely close to looking like snow. This always happens the last weeks of September and the first weeks of October, and it reminds me of when I first come to Panama.

And that brings me to the point of this entry. While I am sure you appreciate the discourse on Panamanian culture, I am writing for other reasons. Yesterday as I drove through the fields, I saw the pompus grass and realized that at this time today, exactly two years ago, I was waking up in a new country for the first time. So, that means that today is the first day of my THIRD year in Panama. Wow. I have learned so much, and have changed so much, even though, as I have said, there is not much distinction of time and change here in Panama. That dichotomous feeling is how I have changed, as as with any big change, there is also that ambiguity of is this who I am, or is what I am doing right. That is maturity for me, and those of you who know me would say the same, since living with dichotomy and any kind of ambiguity was never really my strong suite. I miss you all and thank you for your continiuos emails and thoughts and prayers and ask for you to join me today in the happiness that I feel for accomplishing the feat of living in a foreign country for two full years.

And he lives!

Hey. After months of bloggin lackage...I am back by popular demand. Things have been so busy here in Panama that I hardly know where to begin. First, let me tell you there are sme big changes in my life.

First, visa status. Well, in the hope of self preservation, I wont publish any actual REAL information here, but hey. Things are going GREAT with the VISA. I was so APPROVED for my WORK VISA and my RESIDENCY has come up WITHOUT A HITCH ;) No, things have been rough and the whole visa process really forced me to think about a maybe not so optional trip back to the states. I was planning to leave my current job at Berlitz on May 15th, and well I resigned myself to looking for and even sending resumes to places of possible employment in the States.

But then lightning strikes and God drops the solution in my lap. I was offered a job at a company that, let me tell you, I couldnt really pass up. Just the timing alone of the way it all worked out made me seriously consider the offer, and when he told me what I would be doing, well, I was sold.

He had me at one word: TRAVEL!

I will be working for a company as a customer service representative, working to reruit and bring in new international customers, as well as helping them through the process they hardly wont understand, namly since they wont speak Spanish. I was told of traveling to the United States and Europe, and when I asked how often I would be traveling, well the CEO (who is the one created this job speficially for me!) told me (and I quote) "As much as you want."

So they really needed to pull my leg on that one! And here is the kicker. They gave me the starting date that I wanted, so I will have time to make a trip back to the States to visit family and friends and go to a friend's wedding! I am so excited!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, thats a quick update for now. I guess I have to easy back into this blogger thing!

keep moving...

From Costa Rica

Well, things have sure changed. Even the blogger wedbiste has updated, while I have been off in the abyss of non bloggage.

I am now in Costa Rica for training for my job with Berlitz. I am enjoying it, and really have nothing to write. Just thought it was time to put something up here. Pictures of Costa Rica to follow!