fijate

I’ve decided to keep this blog going, seeing as I can’t send support letters out every week and you’d probably like to hear from me more than once a month. (Yes, I’m choosing to believe that you care deeply about what’s going on in my life and eagerly await any communication from me. I don’t care if it’s not true.)

I have an apartment! Well it’s not exactly mine, it’s an apartment that my current roommate (or flatmate, as she would say in her rad Australian accent) will live in with her future husband after their wedding in a few months. But for now, I have a lovely room with big sliding doors out onto a little tiny patio, a view of the hills painted by the sun when I wake up, and a really happy place to come home to after work every day.

We’re still working on finding a refrigerator and a stove so it can also be a happy place to come home to and grab a bite to eat. I love peanut butter and banana sandwiches, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sustain my love for them more than a couple weeks more.

Everything is going remarkably well, except my Spanish. I’m getting by, but talking to myself in Spanish in my head all day long is different than actually greeting people, understanding what they’re saying or getting any sort of point across. I’ll get there, I feel it; I already understand a ton more than I did the first days I was here, but I’m still frustrated because I feel like I should know more, should have practiced more and should have studied more before I came so that I could be as effective as possible in my new surroundings. I guess patience, huh? I’m not so good at that, either.

Whoa, how did I get here?

So here I am in Guatemala. Months of waiting, prepping and worrying over the moment I stepped off the plane. Too late to turn back now, huh?

It's a little early to be posting anything since my experiences in Guatemala so far have been pretty much limited to the airport (not that busy at 10 p.m.) and the lovely apartment a fellow intern is letting me stay in until I move into my new place this weekend. I've spent the morning more or less lounging around; it's totally justified, since I start work tomorrow and probably won't have many more Wednesday mornings to spend reading outside in the sun. (A little chilly, but I'll take 65 degree weather over the sub-zero temps people home in Michigan are experiencing any day.)

But I wanted to take a moment to jot down how excited I am about this adventure, how anxious I am to take in and be overwhelmed by a new place, and how I feel a sadness deep down being away from my family and friends but a peace surrounding it knowing that I'll be better after this, and therefore so will all my relationships. I've always wanted to do something that matters. I think this matters.

More soon.

I was recently reminded that this blog exists. I would apologize for my poor posting habits, but I'm quite sure that I don't have any regular readers so it's irrelevant.

I'm sitting at work, eating almonds I stole from a refreshment table down the hall meant for a group of people needing sustenance after their deep conversation about God, or war, or something (I haven't figured that out yet). They meet every day, which is great. While their door is closed and they're in deep discussion, I pop on down, duck when I pass the window, and fill up my coffee mug and select from the array of goodies. I barely need to pack a lunch anymore.

That's one thing I'm going to miss about Calvin - free food. I know there are others who have mastered this craft, but I'm pretty good at finding coffee and cookies h whenever I want it. I'm certainly not above popping into a lecture I care nothing about 5 minutes before it ends, simply to score a glass of punch and a scotcharoo. I've even gone so far as to sit in on a Faculty Senate meeting for a can of Cherry Pepsi. (OK, that's not entirely true. I'm the kind of nerd who actually likes to hear professors argue about the future of the college, and have a sneaking suspicion that Emma and I will be sitting next to each other griping about the fairness of a maternity leave policy someday. But you can just believe I go for the snacks.)

So it's about time to head home to my empty house and watch 30 Rock like it's my business. I rented season 1, and I'm loving it. Ooh, there's a new one on tonight. Score.

Then it's on to packing for my visit to my two favorite men: to Pittsburgh for Colin and then on to DC for Obama!

... I should just kick my heels together and go home

I saw Rosie Thomas in concert a few nights ago. It was her Christmas show, snow was falling, and I was with my sister. It was great.

I only mention this here because the title of my blog is from one of her songs (my favorite one, in fact). She got together with two of my other favorite artists, Sufjan Stevens and Denison Witmer (what I wouldn't give to bump into the three of them hanging out somewhere) and made this album called "These Friends of Mine." It's really fantastic, in my book, and "Much Farther to Go" is hauntingly lovely. Give it a listen, please. I promise you won't regret it:

http://www.myspace.com/rosiethomasmusic

So anyway, I had prepared myself not to hear my song at the concert. For one, it was a Christmas concert, and secondly, my favorite bands never play my favorite songs at their concerts. Death Cab didn't play "A Lack of Color," Of Montreal didn't play "Wraith Pinned to a Mist," Guster didn't play "Rocketship." Yes, I'm still bitter three years later.

Imagine my delight when I heard Rosie start playing the opening guitar for the song. Well, you don't really need to imagine it, you could just ask any of the 30 people sitting closest to me how I felt. I think I left permanent fingernail marks in Anna's arm and there might have been borderline hyperventilation involved. (As a disclaimer, I don't think I would have reacted like that had I not spent most of the day running from one end of the campus to the other trying to accomplish the lengthy to-do list I had written on my hand. I was tired.)

Thanks Rosie. Sorry, fellow concert-goers.

ENGL 290 and POLS 312, no, CAS 312 and PHIL 211... wait...

I registered for my very last class at Calvin last week.

I'm not exactly jumping for joy. You have to understand that registering for classes is one of my favorite things to do. I drew up a semester-by-semester plan early in my freshman year of college (it's titled "Lerae's Life," if that gives you any clue of its significance to me). I eagerly awaited classes to be posted each semester, and painstakingly fit my classes and work schedule together, always taking into account the professors. I had first choices, second choices, and occasionally even third choices. My advising periods were record breaking; I laid my plan on my advisor's desk, they looked down at it and up at me with a hint of fear in their eyes, and signed off.

I like planning classes so much that I hired out my services to other people. Well, "hired out" might be a bit misleading; I begged people to let me plan their academic careers for them. My suitemate, my roommate, my sister, poor random freshmen on the path: no one was spared.

But now it's over.

It's not even a real class; Calvin has this January term they call "Interim," where you take the same class every day for three weeks. I'm taking this photography class that looks great called "Negotiating Documentary." Come January 27th, I'm no longer a Calvin Knight. Come February 2nd, I'll no longer be working or residing in the United States. Hard to believe. Sad. A bunch of "lasts" are coming up, and in some ways they're eclipsing the "firsts" that I know are around the bend.

Maybe my sister will let me register for her classes for her from Guatemala.