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 And last but not least, I'm starting to feel comfortable living in Cali, which is leading to less withdrawn, hermit-like activity and to getting out of my apartment more.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.

Adapting to a new country is a bitch

Every time you go to a new country, there's always a pesky period of adaptation you have to go through, and Colombia is no different. This period of adaptation is generally characterized by everything going wrong. I mean, EVERYTHING. A secondary characteristic, which may just be a symptom of the first, is that you feel completely out of place and you notice (whether it's actually there or not) a strange look in everyone's eye. You feel like an alien. And not the cute, gray kind, but the kind that like has five eyes, three mouths, some other identified appendage, and no manners whatsoever. The kind of alien where you don't even know where to look at when you're conversing. Some full blown H.P. Lovecraft, Azathoth shit.

It's great for self-esteem, let me tell you.

In order to show you how a day can go from normal to disaster without even trying, allow me to recount to you my last Wednesday, in which I tried to obtain my Colombian ID. It's called a cédula de extranjería, and when you have a long term visa, you're required to apply for one by your fifteenth day in the country or face the consequences which can be anywhere from a fine to deportation. This little nugget becomes important later.

I had intended to wake up at six a.m. just to be safe, but as we all make horrible decisions when we haven't gotten enough sleep, I decided to sleep in until nine. I got up, got dressed, had a short breakfast to try to make up some time, and I was out the door and onto Colombia's main public transportation system, the MIO.

I had never gone to the Migración office before, and I was in a bit of a rush, so I jumped on a bus I was pretty sure would take me there. To make sure, I decided to ask the girl sitting next to me what bus we were on: "¿Cuál es el número de este autobús?" Her response: "No hablo inglés."

Rude.

"No te hablo en inglés. Te estoy hablando en español. ¿Cuál es el número de este autobús?"

"E21."

"....Gracias."

You know, shit like that really pisses me off. Same as when you ask someone to repeat themselves once, and they either start speaking to you in English or they pass you off to their English-speaking co-worker. Like, really? We're in a bar. There's music blaring, and my asking you to repeat yourself has nothing to do with how you might need to speak up but everything to do with that I can't speak a language I've studied for well over a decade. Okay then...

Anyway, it was clear early on it was going to be that kind of day.

I got off two stops early to stop at the bank. I enter what I think is the right bank to pay for my cédula, and I'm told I actually need to go to the sister branch, two blocks down. So I do. As I walk up to the door, in some twist of tragicomedic kismet, I watch them shut the door and turn the lock as they look me right in the eye.

I basically freaked out, which looked something like this.

Click here to see
why Ingress is pretty awesome.

It turns out banks close here from 11:30 to 2:00. Yeah, you read that right. Two and a half hours. It was then that I started to worry about not getting to Migración in time. And that day was the deadline for my cédula. But I tried to keep cool. I played Ingress.

In the course of my wanderings, I discovered a supplement store, and as it was about one thirty at this point, I decided to go in, buy some better tasting whey than they were selling at my local supermarket, and then be on my way to the bank. Not so simple. It turns out they keep all the products in some other location and only keep display cases out. So when I finally decided on some overpriced whey, the guy left to go get it from this mystery storage center. I'm not sure what time he came back because at 2:45, I said I absolutely had to go, and I did.

When I got to the bank, I passed through the line twice because I didn't realize I needed to fill out a form. When I paid, I dashed down the street toward Migración. But when I got there, it was nowhere to be found. After asking about three different people, I found it hidden behind a series of other buildings. I also found it closed. The next day was a holiday. My deadline would be passed. I sat down and cried on the sidewalk. It had been a horrible day.

Epilogue
When I finally went back on Friday, they said I'd have to pay a fine. We went through the process of fingerprinting, registering everything, and they told me the website I can check to see when it's ready. They never asked for the money.

Yes, I'm nervous, but that's okay.

When I tell them I'm going away, people, of course, ask all sorts of questions, but one always comes up no matter how well or little the person knows me: Are you nervous? My stock response is, "I'm more excited than anything," and it seems people write it off as me being naive because, despite these dark circles under my eyes and my pitch black sense of humor, I somehow still manage to come off as a sweet, innocent, optimistic sort of person. Go figure. But let me share a little secret with you, dear readers:

Yes, I'm nervous. I'm nervous as hell.

I think normally people ask this in the context of Colombia's reputation for not being the safest country to travel to, and in that respect, I am not nervous. I have full confidence that the Fulbright people in Colombia as well as the ones here in the States have our safety at the forefront of their minds and will not let anything happen to us. We have to follow some basic rules such as informing them of any travel and, for the most part, avoiding any sort of ground travel in favor of going by air, but I'm really glad to have what I see as a resource for traveling within the country. Who knows, maybe they can also give me tips on how to find cheap airfare while they're at it?

What am I nervous about? For starters, trying to make friends, which can be tough when you don't know a single person. Then there's not having danced salsa since high school and only looking good doing so because of Luisanna Rodriguez telling me what to do all the time, which wouldn't normally matters two bits except for Santiago de Cali is the self-styled "salsa capital of the world." To a lesser degree, trying to find an apartment, though I truthfully can't imagine it being any worse than New York where you have to give a deposit; first, last, and sometimes second or more month's rent; pass a credit check; have a guarantor and then sign away your first born male child to secure an apartment. But above everything else, I'm nervous about adjusting to the little daily things that can really add up.

If Ryan Gosling and Ellen came out with their
own "¡you can learn salsa, gringo!" video series,
I would soooooo buy it.

If you were around when I was still making videos from Spain, you might recall a certain little moment of frustration and hopelessness in a giant park that I couldn't find my way out of and eventually missed two classes that day as a result. It was no good. Then there was the frustration with what I perceived as needlessly complicated procedures for securing a monthly Metro pass or the maze like streets of the city that I never fully understood, or the need to journey to the one Corte Inglés that carried seitan in all of Madrid to have some sort of significant vegetarian protein intake. Those little daily life frustrations can add up, especially when you make one fatal mistake: you try to live the lifestyle you had in one location when you're in another one. It was only in my last months there that I decided to let go of the lifestyle I had become accustomed to in New York in favor for something that was a bit more madrileño, and I regret how late in the process I allowed myself to grow into my new home.

One thing that has recently caused me to be more nervous is the end of my relationship with my boyfriend, who had originally planned to go with me. It became obvious after a while that it would put more stress on us that wouldn't be good for him or me. I won't mince words and say that knowing he would be with me was a great comfort, and now that things have changed, I'm a bit more nervous than I was before. But the fact of the matter is that my desire to go and do this, to see the world, to gain experience in an upper level academic environment, to improve my Spanish, and learn about Colombian culture all conspire together to overpower that fear. It's there, asking to be heard, but in a chorus of so many voices, it can't focus on it for long. None the less, it's hard not to feel like I'll be leaving a bit of myself back here. When I think about him, that he's no

Le Petit Prince et Le Renard

longer part of my life, that we won't be able to share these experiences together, I feel something strange, like an amputee feeling limbs they no longer have. He was my partner in crime, and now, having to pull a solo heist in a foreign land, I feel a bit daunted. He was and always will be one of my favorite people in the world, and I hope we'll stay in contact even after I go, and I'll bring him news of what's happening in the southern hemisphere. It reminds me of the TV series adaptation of the Little Prince and his rose, writing letters back to his home planet to share all the things he saw and did. As the fox said to Le Petit Prince, "Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé." ("You will always be responsible for that which you have tamed.") And in that way, we'll always be connected to each other, as two hearts that, in some way, tamed each other.

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............