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Ain’t that a Kick in the Head

WordPress, which is the platform I use to modify this blog and host my site, has this thing it calls “Freshly Pressed.”  In case you’re unfamiliar, it’s basically a list of highlighted posts from WordPress blogs that, when chosen, get published on the Freshly Pressed page for a day or so.

The cool thing about getting Freshly Pressed is that it can bring thousands of new readers to your site — readers who, with literally millions of blogs to peruse throughout a particularly unproductive work day, often refer to the Freshly Pressed page for the lucky picks the WordPress editors choose to highlight.

Needless to say, ever since I became aware of the phenomenon, I’ve been anxiously awaiting the day when I, too, would get Freshly Pressed and my new wealth of fame and readership would finally — finally — justify why I ever started this thing in the first place.  After all, I wanted to be a writer.  A surefire sign that I was on the right aspiration path would be to get pressed.  That’s what happened to Catherine.  And Nate.  It happened to Kat twice.  So it was perfectly reasonable to think it would one day happen to me as well.

Right?

So I waited.

Maybe it would be one of my food posts.

Okay, so I’m not a cook per se and definitely didn’t create the recipes, but if I don’t share the joys of an orgasm panini with the world, who will?

Maybe it would be one of my DIY home improvement posts.

Laying Backsplash Tiles

Okay, so I’m not the first person to tile a backsplash, but this might very well be the only place where, among the slew of detailed, step-by-step how-to photos, you can also see photos of my husband’s butt and learn why the word “caulk” is a homophone.

If it wasn’t going to be any of those things, then it would definitely be a post about one of my trips.  Who doesn’t love reading about vacations to Hawaii or 2-month trips to Costa Rica?

Apparently the WordPress editors, that’s who.

Wait — that’s not right.  I’ve seen Freshly Pressed blogs on each of those topics, including one almost exactly like my (and Erin’s) post about waterfall rapelling.

My post about waterfall rappelling.

Freshly Pressed post about waterfall rappelling.

So apparently they just don’t like my posts about these topics.

I honestly thought for sure one of my posts about Spain might get pressed.  I mean, I realize there wasn’t much writing involved, but I still have some highlights of the trip I’d like to share now that I’m home, and I somehow just knew the editors had my blog on a “watch” list, just waiting for the right post to press and finally give me some sense of validation.

Then, today happened.

I went to the Freshly Pressed home page and saw it — a post someone wrote about their recent trip to the South of Spain.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

It made me want to chuck my computer out the window.

It made me want to punch the wall.

It made me want to cry.

It made me want to quit the blog.

I realize this is a huge show of weakness on my part.  I mean, I didn’t start the blog for anyone else, so why do I suddenly care if many people read it?

Then it hit me:  I care because this is what I want to do.  Write.

I decided while on the trip to Spain that I would attempt to get a “real” job upon our return.  Not a “career” job, but something with a steady paycheck that I could manage while still trying to do the writing thing.  But still, in the back of my mind, I had this dream that some sign would intervene — one of those epiphanies you read about where some lucky person is handed a clue that tells him — beyond all reasonable doubt — that he’s doing the right thing.

The problem is, I was so intent on looking for affirmation that I failed to accept the obvious signs that maybe I’m not doing the right thing.

Or, maybe I’m concentrating my efforts on the wrong thing.

Or, maybe signs are bullshit.

I don’t know.

But I do know that persistence and grit will only get you so far.  After all, continuously spinning the tires will often dig a deeper rut.

So.  I’m not quitting the blog.  Not even close.

But this is my renewed commitment to myself to try some new venues on the path to becoming an actual writer.  You know, like maybe sending some pitches in to various publications.  Freelancing for other blogs/writing projects.  Starting up a rejection pile.  Things people who actually make a living in the industry actually do.

I know — there’s going to be work involved.

I can’t believe it either.

Here are some more Spain pictures if you’re one of those people (like me) who actually likes looking at other peoples’ vacation pictures:

Graffiti near Becca and Brad’s apartment.

Malaga from above.

Malaga market.

Old juxtaposed with the new.

Malaga store window.

Ferry ride with our hosts, Brad and Becca.

Ibiza City.

Lights.

How Spain said goodbye through an airport window.

See more Spain photos here, here, here, and here.

Um… It’s muy, not moi.

On my Facebook status the other day, I described the Spanish wine we’ve been getting as “moi barato,” which is French for “me barato” and Spanish for “moi cheap.”  I realize now, through the miracle of a little internet research, that what I meant to say was, “muy barato,” which is very inexpensive.

But it’s okay.  I can’t be blamed for these things because I took German in college and no one corrected me.

My friends are too polite.

Anyway.

Here are some things I like about Europe (and I’ve been to this continent all of twice now, so I feel it’s fair to generalize):

1.  Language.  No matter the country, I’m always surrounded by foreign languages.  Often several.  And while this is frequently the cause for discomfort and/or mild irritation, I find that when I sit down with a glass of wine and bowl of olives at an outdoor cafe, hide behind my sunglasses on a plaza bench, or type here at my computer in my sister-in-law’s basement apartment and just listen as strangers converse while they pass by (and it’s not eavesdropping if you can’t understand a word they’re saying), it really is quite intoxicating.

Bar snacks in Malaga.

2.  Food.  What can I say?  There’s nothing I don’t like about food.  Even food I don’t like.  Whether I’m sitting down in front of a tiny bowl of seasoned olives with wine at a swanky cafe, a steady stream of tapas and beer at a pub, an empanada or falafel procured from a street vendor, fried churros served at a tiny alleyway table with chocolate dipping sauce and a very strong café con leche (ie. couple shots of espresso with steamed milk), or a giant pan of paella cooked right out of the chef’s childhood home, I’m pretty sure I’m the happiest woman in the world.

Paella on Ibiza.

3.  Exercise.  When we want to go somewhere, we walk.  When we want to go farther, we walk to the public transportation, take a train, then walk again.  When we’re on the island of Formentera and have no car, we bike.  When we’re on the island of Formentera and decide we want to see the one thing that requires getting to the top of a very large hill (*cough*mountain*cough*), we ride our bikes, walk our bikes, and ride our bikes again — over 13 km, both ways, up hill, in the snow just to get there.

(All of that’s true.  Except for the snow.)

Formentera Lighthouse

Southeastern lighthouse on Formentera.

Oh, and sometimes these old cities have stairs.  Lots, and lots of stairs.

But whether you bike it or hike it, it’s always worth it when you get to the top.

Ibiza City

Ibiza City.

4.  There are like a billion ways to flush the toilets.

Need I say more?

See more Spain photos here, here, here, and here.

I Still Can’t Remember How to Write. But at Least I Have Pictures.

*If you don’t want to read this post in its entirety, which is completely understandable, you might at least want to skip to the end for an announcement.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Have you ever had a weekend that’s so utterly fantastic that you just can’t stand for it to be over?  And the beauty is that it was so great, you didn’t even waste any time worrying about the fact that it would eventually end.  Every millisecond was spent in blissful enjoyment – in the here and now – and not an ounce was wasted on worry or dread over its impending end.

Now that it’s over and I’m coming down from the high, I feel less sad and more satiated.

Dare I say?

Content.

Did you know that it’s constant worry that does that to us?  Worrying about the future and longing for happy times of the past takes our lives away, bit by bit, making us forget to just sit back and enjoy the ride.

I blame my recent lack of living in the present for the faint lines across my forehead and shadows beneath my eyes.

But the good news is that my eye crinkles can be blamed on laughter.

So I’m not a total loss.

And this weekend, I did enjoy the ride.  Thoroughly.  Friday was as relaxed as it gets, with nothing more than eating and dog-walking on the agenda:

Breakfast sausage casserole.  Recipe to come.

When it’s hot outside, we all could use a dip in the lake.

Saturday was Justin’s graduation day, and it was filled with wonderful friends and amazing food.

And wine.  Lots of wine:

I whisper-yelled, “Justin!” and they both turned around.  Guess which one’s mine?

Beautiful mother-to-be, Alaina.

My favorite would-be brother-in-law, Dirk.  And not just because he picked a great bottle of wine to go with lunch.

The Nice Guy, from Inside the Nice Guy doing his thang.

The Wine doing its thang.

The Street doing its thang.

Later that night, the steak also did its thang.  Mostly to my thighs.

(Dirk and Alaina bought a cow awhile back.  Then they brought like half of it – in the form of three 800 lb. steaks – to our house for dinner.)

Besides wrinkles from worry and crows’ feet from laughter, I’m sure I’ll have a few more lines to blame on my own stupidity for going to the beach and forgetting sunscreen the sun.  Due to a family emergency, Catherine wasn’t able to meet us at the lake yesterday.  We were bummed, but we reasoned that we are in a coastal state, and it’d be a shame for Matthew to make it this far without seeing the Atlantic Ocean.

So we grabbed a few necessities – towels, bathing suits, sunglasses, and of course cameras, completely neglecting the most obvious of beach-going accoutrements for pasty white Midwesterners, which is sunscreen.

(And kids, when it comes to sun safety, I don’t like to play.  No, I don’t find it amusing that I have a bow-shaped burn line on my back from the tie on my bathing suit top, nor do I find it amusing that I could die from melanoma. Fortunately, we all know I won’t have to worry about bow-shaped tan lines in Spain.  Only burned nipples.  Which might, admittedly, be worse.  So it’s safe to say I won’t be forgetting the sunscreen there.)

Aside from our lobster-like appearance, our impromptu trip to the coast inspired the elusive joy that travel-on-a-whim never fails to make me feel.  I was reminded that I don’t always need to fly far to experience a life less ordinary.

What is it about the beach, anyway?  I mean, it’s hot and dirty and I always end up with little sand mosaics embedded into my skin and we won’t even talk about the other pitfalls of sand ending up in places sand really shouldn’t be, but still we go and we complain about the crowds and we dig in the sand and we crisp in the sun just to experience that wash of awe when we realize we’ve gone as far as we can possibly go without a little help.

Or a yacht.

In a couple of weeks, I’ll be on the other side of that water.

Crazy, huh?

Speaking of crazy, Domestiphobia reached a milestone recently.  A milestone I plan to celebrate later this afternoon.  So.  If you’ve made it this far in this post, you probably, definitely, for sure want to check back later today for something I’ve never done before.

I realize I started this post by telling you to live in the present and not worry about the future, but you should probably forget all that because this is something to get excited about.

Naked. It’s the New Black.

I’m getting pretty excited for our upcoming trip to Spain.

Really excited.

So I was doing a bit of research on the 2 Balearic Islands we’ll be visiting, and it turns out that Formentera, with its stunningly beautiful beaches and crystal clear waters, apparently also has a “strong nude beach culture”.

Huh.

I’ll admit that I kind of got a little super excited when I read this.

Because here’s the thing.  I may as well just admit it.

(Joel, if you’re reading this, you might want to cover your ears.  Or eyes.  Or whatever.)

I am a naked person.  I mean, I’m not naked right now, but I’m comfortable with nakedness.

(Okay, Joel.  I could hear your “ewwww” all the way across the internet.  But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.)

Joel is my brother, by the way.  He doesn’t like it when I talk about being naked.  Though I can’t imagine why.

But that’s right – I like being naked.

And honestly, what’s not to like?  There’s no confinement, no elastic or buttons digging uncomfortably into your skin, no fabric bunching up in weird places when you’re sitting or trying to crawl into places it most certainly shouldn’t be crawling.  It’s liberating.

Actually, I’m just a seasonal naked person.  I’m not a fan of winter nakedness because then I’m just cold, and that kind of trumps the whole comfort factor of removing irritants that bunch and crawl.

Fortunately for the outside world, my nakedness is confined to the inside of my house.  And there is no naked sitting on furniture in the “public” rooms, where you  might find your own clothes-encumbered self sitting one day if I were to invite you in.  Although, I’m not sure why that would make anyone uncomfortable since I’m pretty sure my naked self is much cleaner than the majority of my clothes, which are exposed to the germs and grime of the outside world, including waiting room chairs and public benches.

Just sayin’.

So I was intrigued, to say the least, that this little vacay might afford me the opportunity to truly fly free, without the fear of strange looks from my neighbors and eventual prosecution.

Sure, it might be a little hard to not stare at people at first.  I’d have to try to maintain a doctor-like attitude of, “It’s just a body – get over it and move on with your life.  Dogs walk around naked all the time and it doesn’t bother them, so why should this bother you?”  You know, that type of thing.  And I think I could do that, unless someone truly phenomenal walks by, like with braided pubic hair or flapjack-sized areolae*.  Not that there’s anything wrong with those things, but I’m just saying – I might stare.

*Yes, I Googled the plural for “areola.”  I can’t be expected to know everything.

But aside from possibly witnessing some strange body phenomena (which could also be viewed as a plus when you really think about it), the nude beach thing just seemed like a fun thing to try.

Think about it, I said to Justin.  We could be naked!  Outside!  Feel the sun in places on our bodies that have never experienced the soothing power of its vitamin D-soaked rays!  Although I’m not sure I could go completely naked… you know… down there.  There’s just something about the idea of sand and various beach creatures and I’m just not sure I’m ready for that kind of complete exposure to nature, you know?  But it might be fun to try it.  Just for a little bit.  Because, you know, we can.  But topless?  Hells, yeah – count me IN!  We’ll just have to make sure to bring lots of sunscreen because I’m pretty sure experiencing sunburned nipples is not on my bucket list.  God, no.  Can you imagine?  Aren’t you excited to be naked in the wild?

“Umm, Katie.”  Justin did not sound enthused.

What?  What could you possibly have against being naked?  Americans are such prudes.  Why can’t we just appreciate the human body for its beauty?  Why do we have to be so uncomfortable and judgy all the time?  I can’t possibly be related to you.  Even if it’s just by law.

“Katie, we will be with my sister. Remember?”

Oh.

“My sister and her boyfriend.”

Oh.  Yeah.  I suppose that might be weird for you, huh?

“Just a bit.”

Well then, it’s a good thing we’ll have plenty of wine to go with our nonexistent tan lines!

Just kidding.

Sort of.


The Thrill of Discomfort

Well.

I have some news.

It bit me again.

What?

The travel bug.

Realistically speaking, I really don’t think it ever stopped biting me.  It’s like a greedy little deer tick, barely noticeable to the naked eye, latching on and digging in and sucking my lifeblood until I can think of little else but the pleasure of meeting new people, the adventure of traversing new roads, the taste of new flavors on my tongue, the thrill of discomfort.

Newness.

It matters not that I returned from a 2 month stay in Costa Rica a mere 5 months ago.

All that really means is that I’ve been suffering 5 months of withdrawals.

And I can tell you this for sure – after 2 months of high, the comedown can be a bitch.

When I talk like this, most people don’t tend to understand.

But… you have a wonderful husband, they say.  And that, I do.

But… you have a nice home and adorable puppies and a comfortable bed! Yes, I’m incredibly fortunate.

But… why would you want to leave these things for the difficulty of living out of a suitcase?  The pain of getting from one place to the next without the luxury of your own vehicle?  The questionable cleanliness of your pillow?  The struggle of communicating with people who don’t speak your language?

Because, my friends, that’s how I know I’m alive.

Travel is the pinch I give myself when life starts to feel too much like a mundane dream.  It’s a pleasant dream, to be sure.  Comfortable.  But you know how sometimes you get too comfortable and you fall asleep and your entire leg goes numb from lack of circulation – stimulation – and you have to beat on it just to get it to wake back up and feel something again?

It’s like that.

Like I said.  Most people don’t understand.

The good news is that this time, Justin is going with me.  Or maybe I should say I’m going with him.  Because, as is our fashion when we’re taking a “big” trip, we’re visiting someone we know.  It’s one of the best ways to make an otherwise unattainably expensive trip… attainable.  Besides, there’s no better way to experience a locale than to travel with a “local.”

We’re visiting one of Justin’s sisters, Becca, and her boyfriend Bradley, who have been living in Spain for the past 2 years.

That’s right – Spain.

They spend their time teaching English to students in Spanish classrooms and traveling around Europe.  And sometimes Africa.

I know.  It’s a rough life.

And since they’ve decided to move stateside again at the end of the school year to pursue even higher education, Justin and I realized that if we want to visit Spain while knowing someone who lives there, it might be now or never.

We’ve never actually met Bradley.  Becca met him while they were both working on the island of Mallorca in the Mediterranean and it’s all very magical and romantic.  I’m excited because I already know I love Becca and, based on his blog musings and awesome taste in music (just read the linked post comments), I’m pretty sure Bradley and I are going to be friends.

Plus, he’s a huge planner and Justin actually likes to have a schedule (I know – he’s weird), so Becca and I can just go with the flow.  It’s pretty much the perfect situation.

While I’m slightly bummed we won’t have time to see much of mainland Spain or any of Portugal (one of my dream places to see), we will get to experience two completely different and amazing Mediterranean islands, Ibiza and Formentera.  So I can’t complain.

And, based on preliminary Google image searches, on Ibiza we’re going to experience a lot of this:

Image source

And on Formentera a lot of this:

Image source

I.  Can’t.  Wait.

 

Up with Caffeine and Down with a Shot

I’m going to be honest.  I’ve been having a hard time lately.  You know, in case you didn’t figure that out here, here and especially here.

Sometimes I’ll be working at the bar and some customer will feel inclined to comment on my boobs or my tantrum-loving boss will throw a public conniption my way because, you know, it’s okay to do these things in a bar.  And then I’ll think to myself, for the umpteenth time, why the hell did I quit my awesome-paying, cozy little cubicle job for this?

You know, the boob thing doesn’t even bother me so much.  I expect that kind of behavior from drunk people and, if I’m going to be honest, I have nice boobs.  And taking it in stride leads to much better tips.  But the conniption thing?  Why someone this prone to high blood pressure and stress-induced hissy fits and all-around bouts of purely childish behavior would ever, ever own a bar is beyond my comprehension.

Photo source

When my boss is in the middle of a tantrum, I stand there and stare with disbelief for a few minutes because I honestly thought, at age 28, that my days of standing in front of a “grown-up” and enduring a verbally abusive rage of hysterics were over way back in my teenage years when I actually deserved it.

Then, when he finally stops to take a breath, I calmly ask, Are you finished?

Which is a little amusing to me because that ticks him off even more, and he gets revved up again with consternation and petulance, and his energy builds like the Little Engine that Could, painfully trucking his way up the hill, face turning red from the exertion of it all, only to putter to a stop at the top in an extremely disappointing and anticlimactic excretion of watered-down anger and spent steam.

It’s like emotional erectile dysfunction, and it’s exhausting just watching him.

Photo source

Now here’s something you should know about me.  I can get mad in certain trigger situations very, very easily.  The trade-off is that my anger is ridiculously short-lived.  So if you ever tick me off, don’t worry about it because we’ll likely be bonding over a couple of beers like the BFFs we were always meant to be in a matter of hours.

Which is how I’ve managed to continue working at this bar.  I get mad at my boss for his asinine behavior, but then I get over it.  That’s the nature of the food/beverage service industry, after all.

But anyway.  My hard time.

When I ask myself why I gave up my career to revert back to my college and pre-college days of professional food distribution, I have to force myself remember how I felt when I wrote this post, and specifically, this paragraph:

First, let me just say that the hardest thing about going to work when you know you want to quit, is going to work when you already have quit.  The gray cubicle walls seem a little… grayer… and the harsh neon lighting seems a little… neonier.  It’s like the last couple weeks of a prison sentence.  Except with coffee breaks and I don’t have to worry about my co-workers shanking me on my way to the bathroom.  Usually.

That place is not where I’m supposed to be.  This much I know.

But neither is the bar.  Not by a long shot.

So.  Where does that leave me?

I remember my 2-month adventure in Costa Rica and how it’s when I’m traveling that I feel the most alive.  I remember the sinking feeling I had when a dear friend invited me to India with her next month and I felt like I had to turn her down because travel costs money, and I don’t feel justified in spending money I’m not actually earning.  I want to earn money from traveling and writing, but can’t travel without money and can’t write without travel.

Huh?

Exactly.

That’s not 100% true.  I can write without travel, although the ability to say “yes” to these lofty excursions when the opportunities arise is my ultimate goal.  (And another opportunity has arisen.  It may not be as exciting as a trip to India, but it does involve a road trip and one of my favorite bands ever, but more on that as plans – or my typical lack-thereof – evolve.)

In the meantime, I’m going to jump into this writing thing with renewed zest.  I know it seems like I keep saying that on this blog, but that’s because I get inspired to write a post every time I’m on the up-slope of this emotional roller coaster.

I don’t write as much when I’m down, because… well… it’s dark down there and it’s hard to see the pages.

But then, then I get an encouraging comment on this blog or an email from a reader, and it’s like I can breathe again.  It makes me feel like I’m on the right track.  So thank you for that.

Sincerely.

You’re the best uppers ever because you’re free and just as addictive.

I’ll leave you with a question and some lines from Talk on Indolence by the Avett Brothers (hint, hint) because, as usual, they can express how I’m feeling much better than I ever could.

Question:  Have you ever had an extremely shitty boss, and if so, how did you deal?  I could really use some advice on this one.

Avetts:

Well I’ve been lockin’ myself up in my house for sometime now
Readin’ and writin’ and readin’ and thinkin’
And searching for reasons and missing the seasons.
The Autumn, the Spring, the Summer, the snow.
The record will stop the record will go.
Latches latched the windows down,
The dog coming in the dog going out.
Up with caffeine and down with a shot.
Constantly worried about what I’ve got.
Distracting my work but I can’t make a stop
And my confidence on and my confidence off.
And I sink to the bottom and rise to the top
And I think to myself that I do this a lot.
World outside just goes it goes it goes it goes it goes it goes…
And I witness it all from the blinds of my window.

There’s No Place Like (a guilt-ridden) Home

I wanted to have a post ready for you about what I do during many of my waking hours here in Costa Rica (and no, contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t about this).  But as I was going through some of the pictures on my hard drive, I ran across some that slapped me with my first real dose of homesickness.

I snapped these just before we left for Costa Rica.

I think they knew I was leaving.

And their very demeanor made me feel bad about it.

You’d think they were raised Catholic or something.

The guilt was palpable.

Clearly, my mistake was taking photos of the moment.  Because now I have to admit how much I miss Mara’s mitten paws.

And Capone’s curly tail.

Looking at these now, I have to ask myself, were they trying to make me feel guilty on purpose?

Obviously I can’t be sure, but…

Yes, I do believe they were.

Ein Boot. Un Barco. Whatever – It’s a Boat.

I knew before we came to Costa Rica that the language situation would be a challenge.  And when I say “language situation,” I mean the fact that I speak next to no Spanish.  Nada.  Remember?

I’m lucky so many people speak English here, but I still feel like a standoffish gringo bitch whenever one of the non-English-speaking employees tries to talk to me at work.  I grasp at the air, desperately trying to pick up a few words I might recognize in the outpouring of one-sided conversation.

T-shirts San Juan del Sur

This “situation” has led to more than one embarrassing moment, not excluding the time last week when one of my co-workers came into the restroom a minute after me.  She was chatting away, presumably asking questions, judging from the inflection in her voice.  Hearing no one answer her, I assumed she was talking to someone on her cell phone.  I couldn’t tell, since – you know – I was sitting in the stall, pants around my ankles, oblivious to even the most basic of human interactions in any country – women gabbing in a restroom – that she was talking to me.  Duh.

I literally let her go on for 2 minutes while I sat there as she searched for some type of response – any type of response – to let her know that there was, in fact, another woman sitting in the stall next to her and not some psycho person creepin’ in the girls’ restroom.  Finally she started calling out names… Vivian?  Carla?  Erin? (I love how they pronounce Erin’s name here – Aireeen? With a lovely roll of the “r”.)  Then, finally – Katie?!

In retrospect that really should’ve been her first guess.  I mean, everyone here knows that I’m the ignorant one.  So really, the total confusion was her fault.  Right?

San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua

Anyway.  I am picking some stuff up.  I’ve learned how to say bitch (puta), dickface (carapichá), and of course, una más cerveza, por favor.  I think the most confusing issue for me (and everyone around me) is the fact that every time I try to speak, I’m mixing English, a wee bit of Spanish, and… wait for it… German.

Yes, I’m that girl.

I took German classes all throughout highschool and 3 years in college.  So, when I try to speak a language other than my native tongue, I automatically deflect to German.  It’s what I’ve always known.

Old Boat San Juan del Sur

Ein boot?  Un barco?  A boat.

But crappy Spangermlish aside, I hope my minuscule improvements – no matter how slight and wrought with errors – at least make it known that I am trying.  I didn’t want to come down here and presume everyone would accommodate me by speaking in English.  In fact, I originally assumed that I’d pretty much be a social outcast, lurking in corners with a drink in one hand, cigarette in the other (no mom, I did not pick up smoking – it ‘s for visual effect), mutely surveilling the Ticos and my American friends as they talk about me not behind my back but in front of my face because I’m just. that. dumb.

Graffiti San Juan del Sur

And I would have deserved that.

But it’s really not that way here.  The patience of some of these people as I struggle through a simple sentence that comes out sounding like a 2-year-old crack-addicted schizophrenic with Tourette’s (Yo quiero un… shit! – como se dice “ride”? – ah, paseo… al la… al la… oh puta.  Tienda?) is astounding.  And sure – there’s probably the occasional – okay daily – chuckle at my expense, but that would be a human thing – not a Tico thing.

Even while completely surrounded by it, learning a new language is hard.  At least for me.  And I’ll tell you one thing – it’s far more difficult for the people living in Latin America to decipher my Spangermlish that it is for me to “push 1 for English” in the United States.

Wall, San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua

I Don’t Know Where There Is

I mentioned way back here that I’ve been getting a lot of questions about this upcoming trip to Costa Rica.  Since then, some people have been acting a little… timid… around me.  Like they’re afraid to say or ask anything lest I bite their heads off with my self-righteous wailing.

Let me clarify by saying that these – well most of them – are not bad questions.  If I seem annoyed when they’re asked, it’s only because I’m irritated with the fact that they force me – repeatedly – to face the fact that I don’t really know what I’m doing.

I do, however, know that when I force myself to answer them, I don’t doubt for a second that this trip will be a worthwhile experience.

And don’t worry – we’ll be sharing our packing list and trip blunders along the way.

But it’s the after questions – the, “What are you going to do when you get back?” and, “How long can you sustain your finances without a real job?” questions that, as much as I hate to admit it, make my pits turn damp and stop me cold.

For these, I really have no answer.  Right now I only know my way out of what I don’t want in this life.  Stagnancy.  Politics.  Achievements in the form of framed certificates I can hang on my cubicle wall.

Slowly, after literally years of questioning the career path that found me, I eventually realized that all I can do is take my exit, as gracefully as possible, and hope it leads me not just somewhere else, but somewhere better.

I picked up on another Avett Brothers line the other day (I’m sorry if you’re sick of the mentions here – but their lyrical wisdom is far superior to anything I could write myself), that translated the plea in my head to real words:

“I’m as nowhere as I can be / Could you add some somewhere to me?”

There’s that word again.  Somewhere. 

When it dawned on me that I’m only where I’m “supposed” to be and doing what I’m “supposed” to be doing, I wondered why I’m not doing what I want to be doing.  I can’t explain it.  It’s pure selfishness in all its glory.  And I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.

All I knew was that I needed a new experience.  Any experience.

So that’s what I’m after.

(That, and figuring out how to make my thoughts work without ending them in prepositions.  Because like Winston Churchill, “Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.”)

After that?  Who knows.  But I’m sure it will be great.

And even if it’s not, at least it will be me.

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