Who Here Loves A Good Standardized Test?

Well, a weight has finally been lifted from my shoulders. Last Friday, I took Le Test de Connaissance du Français as part of my TAPIF (Teaching Assistant Program in France) application. Most people applying have the luxury of just sending a college transcript with a few years of French courses and a recommendation from a French professor and call it a day, but since all of my French courses were in either high school with the incomparable Mme. Donley or in independent language insitutes (shout out to Jordan, Mouda and Julia at Fluent City in New York!), I have to take another route: standardized testing. What fun.

The TCF is like any other standardized test with time limits, multiple choice questions, lots of pressure, and bubble sheets. I arrived at the French Aliance about a half hour early since I had never been to the northern branch in Cali, and they seemed pretty strict about not showing up even a minute late, a refreshing change of pace in Colombia. After I had checked in, I felt myself starting to get nervous. The big day had finally come. But I knew my nerves would be a surefire way to sabotage, so I turned on some Coeur de Pirate. Because I challenge anyone to keep stressing out with that cute little voice singing in your ears. And sat there, waiting for the next thirty minutes, watching other people arrive for their tests, all of us collectively freaking out but unsuccessfully trying to play it cool.

At 8:45 a.m., we were allowed to enter the room. And by we, I mean me and one other guy. Apparently everyone else was taking the TCFQ. Why? I have no idea. I guess Quebec should be prepared for a Colombian invasion because there were quite a few people taking it and it's only good for immigration applications to Quebec.

When he entered, I greeted my companion in Spanish, and he greeted me back in French, so I made the only possible conclusion I could from his "Bonjour:" "Oh shit, this guy's probably like fluent and shit. What the hell am I doing here?" But I had already relinquished my cellphone to the proctor and with it, Béatrice Martin's voice. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I counted my breaths. Applied Buddhism.

The proctor, who was quite friendly and strangely familiar, explained that the oral section would be first.

Aw, shit....

I wish I could tell you how I did, but it really all a blur. Actually, the moments I remember where when I became a bit unfocused, wasn't listening to the clip (which we only get to hear once) and kicked myself as I let my subconscious guide my pen to whatever answer magically seemed right, like a kind of French dowsing. I had practiced this section before on Radio France International's website, but I didn't realize how fast paced it would be. My strategy of being able to skim the choices before listening went out the window about every other question, and I can't really tell you how I think it went. Maybe that's a small mercy on some nameless guardian angel's part; I'm prone to mental flagellation.

After that was a quasi-grammar section, which I suppose went alright, and then reading comprehension, which was pretty easy, relatively. Suprisingly, the guy who had inadvertantly intimidated me into nothingness with one word couldn't finish the reading comprehension. When the proctor called the end of the test, I was casually checking my answers, and he had begun to beg for more time. And I remembered how useless it is to go around comparing yourself to other people.

I left the test feeling "okay," which is acceptable considering that the questions ranged in difficulty from A1 to C2 on the Common European Framework. Since my evaluation at the Alliance put me at B1.2 and my aim for this test was B2, quite naturally, some of it was going to be out of my reach. Now I have to wait between one and two months to see if this feeling is justified. Those were the two difference answers I got when I asked how long they would take.

Now that this test, which has been looming over me for months, is over, I'm looking forward to my new freedom. Up to now, and since about the time I arrived in Cali, I have been taking almost two hours of classes Monday through Friday at 6 a.m., meaning I wake up around 4 a.m. every day. (See also: dedication.) Then in the course of the day, I have been doing two hours of practice, mostly listening comprehension. Lather, rinse, repeat for two months. But no more, folks. Sweet freedom. More time to explore Cali and Colombia. But what do?... I hear there's a cafe in San Antonio playing French movies every night this months.

I Just Gave My Last Fuck

AM I PRETTY YET?

My life is finally starting to take off here, everyone. And it's about fucking time! My job at the Pontifica Universidad Javeriana is now in full swing with all conversation clubs, office hours, class visits, and private coaching sessions are set in a routine. But that's not all, folks, I've got all sorts of fun things happening: The Test de Connisance du Français is coming up this Friday, and I'm studying really hard, like four hours a day hard, and actually noticing a big improvement in my listening comprehension and speaking abilities! On the physical fitness front, I'm running pretty regularly again, saving Abel Township from zombies as the one and only Runner #5, and you would be surprised how good some zombie busting is for relieving stress. I've also decided to start doing bar workouts because I'm getting a little bored with plain old weights these days. Besides, all the hot guys in the park I run at are doing it, and I want to be one of the cool kids too. I'm also trying to wrap up the translation of The Russian Nights, which fell into purgatory amidst all the life changes. God bless patient authors. And last but not least, I'm starting to feel comfortable living in Cali, which is leading to less withdrawn, hermit-like activity and to getting out of my apartment more.

A big part of why I'm feeling more adapted here is because people have stopped trying to speak to me in English as much. You might recall a past entry in which I expressed some frustration about this, particularly when I speak to someone in Spanish and the response (of a few different people) is been, "No hablo inglés." I started noticing a few weeks ago that this hasn't been happening, and I've been trying to think of why that is.

Wisdom from the RDJ

I think a good deal of it has to do with confidence. I'm a lot more confident about my Spanish skills than when I first arrived. It's funny because for the few months I've been here, I don't feel like I've really actually improved all that much, just that the rust that has accumulated since Spain has finally been dusted off. Ironically, my nervousness, in part, was due to fearing that they would respond to me in English, which I think created a self-fulfilling prophecy. My nerves made me speak poorer Spanish than I'm really capable of and because of that they would speak to me in English. I was also afraid that I would use words they didn't use or that they use in a different way than I've been taught. However, you can only give a shit about these kinds of things so long before you're just like what the fuck ever man. And I think it was the moment that I didn't care if an accidental tío or vosotros slipped out or that some ignorant Colombian would respond to me in English or tell me they didn't speak English was the moment that things started to improve. Just goes to show you how pointless worrying is.

Now flash forward from the basket case of nerves I was to last week when I was ordering something at my school's cafeteria, and some guy was like, "Where are you from?" (in Spanish). And of course, I was in my head like, "oh shit, here we go again...."

"The United States."
"And what are you doing here?"
"I teach English."
"What level?"
"No level. Just conversation clubs, private lessons, visits to other classes, things like that."
"Ooh, how long have you been here?"
"About two months."
"And you already speak this good of Spanish?"

"Oh, thank you.""Where did you learn it?"
"Oh, I studied mostly in high school and college. And then I lived in Spain a little bit, but not very long."
"Oh wow, and your parents, where are they from?"
"Indiana. The US."
"Oh wow." To the girl at the register: "And look what a nice accent he has."

And me in my head: "Well, that's a first."

That had never really happened before. Normally the only people who tell me I speak Spanish well are guys that are hitting on me, and of course, I don't really believe them because, you know, sex. And then it came to me: I didn't give a single shit that whole conversation. Like not even a little dried up turd that has stayed too long in your intestines so your body reabsorbed all the water from it. Not even a fart.

So beautiful, so free....

And that's when I realized that almost no one speaks to me in English anymore except my advanced students and the other English teachers (for obvious reasons). All because I couldn't be bothered to care anymore, because I gave up. Paradoxically, like a Chinese finger trap, the moment I stopped struggling was the moment that it all started working out.

Don't get me wrong. It still happens here and there. There are still people who have made up their mind that I can't speak their language simply because of the way I look or because I made a tiny mistake when my mouth is moving a little faster than my brain, but it's at an acceptable level and I don't walk around constantly feeling like an outsider. It's not that I "feel Colombian," like some other people claim when they move to new countries. I will never feel Colombian. I will never be Colombian, but I feel allowed to participate, and that's all I wanted all along.

This is Not an Entry (Ceci n'est pas une entrée)

Hey, everyone. I had an idea for an entry and it was a really good one, but it's been a busy week. Good busy. I'm exhausted. But good exhausted. So I decided to do something a little different for this week's entry. I have this playlist that was intended for someone a while back, and I've thought about sending it to said person for the last three months. The thing is that when you think about something that long you sometimes lose your nerve. And sometimes you start to wonder what's the point. I don't think there's any point to send it. I'm not sure what I'd want to accomplish by sending these. I don't think it would end up in anything good.

So suffice it to say this collection of songs will remain unsung to the ears for which I intended them. But I worked hard on it, and I thought I'd share it with you all. Why not? It's some good music. Perfect for, ahem.... certain occasions...

Maybe these songs will reach their destination after all. As far as I am concerned, I'm doing nothing more than holding out my hands and allowing the wind to pick them up and carry them off to wherever they may land, germinate, and perhaps, if they're lucky, bloom.



If this playlist doesn't work for you (i.e. you don't have Spotify installed), click the button on the top right corner, and it'll give you a link to listen at. Or click here to listen with Spotify's webplayer.


Till next week, mes amis.

Vegetarian Food Hoarder

Hello, my name is Adam Wier, and I am a food hoarder.

Yes, you heard me right. Food hoarder. I hoard food and only food.

Here's the deal, mes amis. If you don't already know, I'm a vegetarian, and much like when I went to Spain, one of my biggest problems adapting here in Colombia is finding things to eat. Often times, locals aren't too much help. In both countries, vegetarianism hasn't really taken off like it has in other places in the West. So when I ask where I can get vegetarian food, I'm normally told that "such and such place has great salads!"

Seriously?!

How would you feel if I told you, "Oh, don't worry, we don't have any meat, but you can just have a salad!" I would be just as woebegone as you.

I can't speak for other vegetarians, but I know that I don't really eat primarily vegetables and fruits. I mean, I'm not angry at vegetables or fruits. If they happen to be in whatever I'm eating, that's great, they're allowed, they can stay here, but I mostly go for other stuff. Like dairy. Not that protein is really a problem for your average vegetarian (iron and B-12 might be a different story), but dairy products tend to be a good source of it. But that aside... you've like heard of cheese, right?!

Of course, I go for somethings that aren't really meat substitutes per se but are the staples of a thriving vegetarian diet. Tofu, seitan, tempeh, and other things that if you ask a person in a grocery store in Cali about, they'll look at you like you just asked them where the glardivarks are. (And I don't know what a glardivark is, so don't even ask. It's probably not a vegetable though.)

In any case, this week I made a breakthrough in finding food, which brought the situation from red alert to a cool green. As a warm up I found a vegetarian sandwich with seitan at my university's food court. And with a lot of help from my roommate Luisa, I found about a gazillion different flavors of tofu at Carulla. And then thanks to my adviser at the university, Roger, I found some seitan that's even cheaper than what's sold in the United States!

Thanks to fellow Fulbrighter in Bucaramanga,
Eddie, for the meme. Check out his blog at
http://ciudadanoglobalcitizen.blogspot.com/

So when I found this bounty, I did what any other animal facing the threat of starvation would do.... I stockpiled. And I did indeed pile a stock! When I looked at my bank account, I clutched my pearls for dear life. A decent chunk missing. Vegetarian food here is often a bit on the expensive side, and I eat a lot. Put the two together and you got trouble. There's no reason to worry. I still have plenty of money till pay day, but man, I felt it. I also have a full fridge. And that feels pretty good too, especially after SALADFEST 2014, also known as Fulbright orientation week (see left).

That brings us to this morning. As I was cooking some eggs for breakfast, I started trying to figure out the next time I could go to another store someone had recommended. Maybe after work today? Maybe tomorrow? I opened the door to get some milk to pour myself for and looked at all the food I had in there. Several bags of milk (not a vegetable), about thirty eggs (not vegetables), a few stacks of tofu (also not vegetables), arepitas con queso (still not vegetables), some olives (okay... vegetables), and a freezer with two large packages of seitan as well as a few other odds and ends (all, I assure you... not vegetables). Enough food for a few weeks at least. I had no business buying more. And that's when I realized it: I'm a food hoarder.

And with that came the sudden realization of why. And of how freaked out I am. About everything. Because that's how it is when you're a stranger in a strange land. And stuff like that hits you especially hard when it encroaches on something so vital and familiar to you as your eating habits. Amassing food was a means to feel in control again, to feel like I've got something under wraps, to think that everything's going to be okay, and that life will begin to find a bit of regularity and familiarity again. And it is, but the thing is buying all the tofu and seitan and whatever in the country isn't going to make that happen faster. It'll come with time, and that's all there is to it. We should never underestimate the wonderful ability of humans to adapt to their surroundings, no matter how much the environment might change, but we have to have the confidence to give that ability the space and time to work. So, tonight, there are no more shopping trips, no more searching, nothing. Just eating some good food in my new home...

...and some anime.

I think I might make these teaser posts a thing

I'm making a habit of writing blog posts a bit earlier than I my own self-imposed deadline, which is a good thing. But the down side is that I get really excited afterward and want to post them right away instead of spreading them out a bit. Last week I posted a teaser post, and that satiated my desire to post the real post right away, so I'm doing it again this week. Hell, I might even make it a regular thing. We'll see. This teaser post includes songs (all in different languages! yay!) to get you curious about next week's post. I'm keeping it mysterious this time. I want to watch shiver with antici............

Alternate woes

Before I get into it, some thanks are definitely in order. As far as I see it, this was a group effort between me and so many other people. So super special, confetti-in-the-air thanks are owed to:

• 

  Nothing says confetti like Rip Taylor
  and a mariachi guitar player

  Gabrielle David, 2Leaf Press' publisher; Maria Cornelio and Adrian Izquierdo, my former translation professors; and Michael Jackson, my coworker and friend, for writing wonderful, amazing letters of recommendation;
• Myrna Evans, Hunter's Fulbright advisor, for guiding me along the way from beginning to end;
• Nick Lazor, a good friend, all-around smart guy, and Spanish language and culture enthusiast, for being the final eye on my essays;
• John Nolan, a friend who has pushed me from the very beginning to get out of my soul-sucking night job and find one that will really excite me; Rene Ugarte, venezulano extraordinaire whose patience with me knows no bounds; Susan Trowbridge, the Colombian aunt of Cheryl Trowbridge-Miller (who is the paternal grandmother of my niece); and Amy Obermeyer, a friend and comparative literature PhD student at New York University doing some really cool research concerning the relationship between Japan and Latin America (ask her about it sometime), for giving me challenging practice interviews in English and Spanish, which proved to be ample preparation;
• and of course Jesse Hicks, my boyfriend, who deserves a special beyond the call of duty sort of mention because he had to live with me and bare my neuroses over the six month waiting period. This goes double for the week that I hung in alternate limbo.

I couldn't have done it without all these people's help and the emotional support of a lot of friends, family, and even strangers sent to me by fate who would say a strange comment here and there that inspired me to stay hopeful. And I did stay pretty hopeful... until I got the email notifying me of my placement status.

I was in the middle of San Loco in the East Village drinking a Modelo after a very satisfying and very large burrito with guacamole when my phone flashed with an incoming email. Before I could even open it, the big "A" in the subject line had slapped me in the face with their decision: Alternate. The burrito nearly made its escape from my stomach on to the table and down Saint Marks Place right then and there. After six month of waiting since turning in my application, there was the answer. Out of the blue. Right there. One minute waiting, the next minute: Pow! Right in the kisser!

Footage of me in
the San Loco bathroom

I told Jesse, and I think he might have been more shocked than I was. I excused myself to the bathroom where I promptly started to imitate Shelley Duvall in The Shining. In a moment of desperation, I prayed to anyone who would hear me, “Please let me get it!! Please let me get it!!” As a Buddhist, I had written off prayer, at least in the sense of a sort petition, as something that increases your attachment to desire rather than frees you from it. I think I changed my mind that day. Sometimes you need to say something out loud to whomever or whatever will listen in order to really let it go. These little daily lessons. They come to us suddenly like that. Just as suddenly as watching all your dreams potentially fall through, like that slow-motion moment right before the glass of red wine you bumped falls on the white carpet.

By the time I had left the bathroom, I had pulled myself together. I don't think anyone had noticed the harrowing freak-out I had in the bathroom, but I was still undeniably upset. Jesse suggested a taxi home, and uncharacteristically, I gave in pretty easily. Unfortunately, it was around five o'clock, and if you've been running late at five o'clock in Manhattan, you know that's the time you will have to elbow an old lady for a cab, if you can even find one at all. And we didn't. I rode the hour home doing my best not to cry on the street, at the ticket machine, on the subway platform, on the train, anywhere with foreign eyes. I made it home with most of my remaining dignity and fell asleep and slept for twelve hours.

I called out of my graveyard shift job proofreading financial documents. I was in no mood for that. I was in no mood for French class the next day. I was in no mood for anything. It was Depression City, USA, population one, no trespassing allowed. Wednesday my loan repayment plan was denied. Friday I got sick with the flu and had to call out of more work. It was an all-around bad week.

This sums it up well.

So imagine my surprise when only a day and a week later, it all changed around! I was, once again, stunned. Since I woke up late for French class then had the gym and work directly after, it was only mid-document, at about 3:30 a.m., listening to Imagine Dragons' “On Top of the World,” that my eyes misted over because I realized my dream had in fact come true.

Why do I write all of this you ask? Because sometimes alternates do get selected. And sometimes your dreams do come true when you least expect them to. And I wanted to remind you all of that. It's the least I could do.