Input: “The teacher provides the information needed for students to gain the knowledge”--Madeline Hunter
It’s always a good idea yo allow oneself the luxury of a quiet night to get one’s bearings. Serendipity has led me to this charming Euro style 1920’s hotel in Buenos Aires that was the temporary Argentine home of the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca. His room, 704, is a museum now.
Lorca is somebody I found on my own, neither having been required to read him in college nor desiring to. I like Lorca. He liked Gypsies and stargazing and romance and the moon and was such a gentle gentle man and such an inconceivable threat to the Spanish government’s machismo that the Franco regime murdered him in a dark country field after making him dig his own grave.
It’s said his ghost still visits the seventh floor. This night, he is certainly visiting me. Tonight as I write this in South America under a gypsy moon, fueled by insomnia and homesickness, Lorca urgently keeps reminding me of someone I can’t get out of my mind--
Sleepwalker’s Romance by Federico García Lorca
Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Under the gypsy moon.
Waiting. Waiting in the International departures area at JFK airport in New York City. Spanish is swimming around me and tickling my ears like tiny fish colliding with my body in a salty sea. I am ready to immerse myself into the linguistic ocean of Argentina.
I want to be graceful. I want to be as smooth as George Clooney’s character in “Up in the Air”--effortless. I want to be one of those polished, facile travelers--every hair in place, flawless makeup, perfectly coordinated ensemble with matching luggage and handbag--who glides effortlessly through the airport and who literally floats through the aisles of the plane--
Instead I am slow and clumsy. The scruffy no makeup me trips over her own two feet, loses her passport and boarding pass in her purse, spills her coffee (and then her coke) down the front of her baggy shirt. That’s me.
There are cities in FoldintheMap that have populations smaller than the number of people now boarding this plane. My fellow temporary citizens and I are finding our homes on this flying city--and scoping out the neighbors.
In spite of all my planning, my cumbersome “carry-on” has become more of a hindrance than a help--all the things I carefully packed inside that I think I can’t live without for the next 18 hours are far, far above me in an overhead compartment.They might as well be on the moon.
The nice lady next to me on the plane speaks no English..She is a nervous flier but an effortless one. From nowhere, she produces a pair of noise canceling headphones and smoothly slips them on. I drop mine on the bulkhead floor in front of me; when I pick them up, they break.
After takeoff, I decide to retrieve my laptop from the moon. My seat is in the first row of the compartment, so when I stand, it’s like being on stage. I stand to smoothly open the overhead bin, where the “contents have shifted during takeoff”. All eyes are upon me as both my stuff and my seatmate’s come tumbling down around us and bounce on the floor. My shame is there for all to enjoy. Nice lady shakes her head a bit.
I retrieve everything and settle in . I’m getting tired. Maybe the $7.00 Amstel Light is kicking in a bit. A meal is served. Tortellini or Chicken? I go for the pasta remembering it’s always good to eat vegetarian while enroute. I flip my fork onto the floor before I’ve even taken a bite of my lettuce salad. Accustomed to school lunch cafeteria dining with a plastic spork, I remain unfazed. I calmly eat my salad with my plastic spoon. Empowered, I tackle the tortellini. Nice lady is shaking her head again and smiling ever so slightly. All is well until the drink cart comes by again--this time from behind--and my right hand holding the spoon gets bumped. The plastic spoon, covered with tortellini and red marinara sauce, sails up, splattering the emergency exit, landing on the floor. With finesse, I now polish off the tortellini with my plastic knife. I know nice lady is watching all this but she calmly keeps eating her chicken with her knife, a fork and a spoon, shaking her head ever so slightly.
Once the meal trays are gratefully taken away I stumble to the restroom. In the line, a brutally handsome Dominican man smiles at me and softly says something unintelligible in French: I respond in my best (worst?) Quebecois; He scowls and walks away.
Returning to my seat, I’m tired and wonder if sleep will elude me this night. I have no doubt if it comes that I will snore. and Loudly.
“The two most important ingredients of education are: knowing that we’re valued, and being in the presence of people who want to share with us something of this world that they love.” – Fred Rogers
What is probably the most insane thing someone with less than a week to go could be doing right now? If the answer is dropping everything and retreating to a hidden sanctuary 40 miles from the nearest hamlet in FoldinTheMap, with no phone service, sporadic cell coverage, no Internet, TV, Cable, then Correct.
And I’m loving it.
Nothing is a better cure for pre-trip apprehension than stopping, taking a step back, reassessing, and just taking stock. Removing all the bells and whistles that clutter everyday life is one of the best remedies for anxiety I know of. That and a motorcycle ride. But since no bikers have stepped up, a retreat is the best option.
I am in the loving supportive company of 14 other professionals from across FoldinTheMap who are metaphorically holding me gently in their collective arms and are willing to listen to and indulge in every fret, worry and worst case scenario I could possibly imagine. And hopefully I am doing the same for them. And for you who gently held the baby bird, Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.
“Being listened to is so close to being loved that most people cannot tell the difference”. --David Odegard
"Four wheels move the body. Two wheels move the soul.” ~Author Unknown
Anybody who has swung a leg over anything with two wheels and a motor understands the inherent danger in that action and understands that in a split second precious life could be snuffed out like a moth in a candle. Those who ride--out of necessity-- have to have a heightened sense of their surroundings. It is imperative to survival on any city street or country highway. And for those of us on the back, that hyper awareness may be the only thing that might save our lives.
Maybe it’s because that when they walk out the door to get on that bike, there’s a lot bigger chance they may never come back. Maybe that’s why their friendships seem stronger, their drinks a little stiffer, their music a little more thunderous, and their laughter a little louder. Maybe that’s why they love with a little more urgency than the rest of us.
I am naturally attracted to people with a passion for life and with a passion for the things and causes they love. Their passion tends to draw the contours of their lives, as my passion does mine. The intensity that exudes from most of my biker friends draws me like a moth to a flame.. although they may be a mystery to many, figuring out what you love and designing a life around it earns the respect and admiration of us all.
“Is there anything as horrible as starting on a trip? The last moments are earthquake and convulsion, and the feeling you are a snail being pulled off a rock.”--Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea
Oh Anne. You got it. You took many trips, and you knew. You understood that as we discover the world and physically move about the planet, you understood that we discover ourselves on the inner journey that accompanies our travels..That if we are paying attention, and that if we allow it to happen, our journeys will be emotional ones as well as physical ones--and it is my deep, fervent wish that this journey, like Annes’, be an emotional expedition as well as a geographical one.
However.
Dear Anne was not All. Alone.
By herself.
In South Freakin’ America.
And that little (BIG?) fact has caused more consternation in the past few weeks than anything else.
“The trick is not to rid your stomach of butterflies, but to make them fly in formation.” --Pacific Outward Bound School, Book of Readings.
So in an effort to herd in the butterflies, sleep becomes a luxury, and every detail lurks large. When viewed through the lens of anxiety -- the smallest inconsequential detail becomes an extreme emergency to be dealt with NOW--like a wasp that flies into your motorcycle helmet on the highway.
The trick is to plan as much as possible and turn the rest over. That and lots of motivational music.
“Anticipatory set: actions and statements by the teacher to relate the experiences of the student to the objectives of the lesson.”--Madeline Hunter
Occasionally, one’s life can be compared to one giant roller coaster ride, the highs and lows and sharp unexpected turns throwing the rider out of kilter and off-balance--and all one can do is grasp the cool metal bar with white knuckled terror, teeth clenched, and face contorted into one long eye popping horrified scream.
The word in Spanish for roller coaster is “Montaña Rusa”, which means “Russian Mountain.” Apparently Spanish speakers feel mountains in Russia are especially thrilling. Or insurmountable. Or both.
Planning an extended six week independent overseas trip on one’s own is the same as climbing a Russian mountain; the victory of a successful reservation, the accomplishment of a flight connection, the overcoming of an insurmountable language barrier, the lackadaisical attitude of clerks for whom deadlines are not a part of the culture; the numerous and expensive international phone calls to wrong numbers--the best laid plans going awry-- all give the feeling that sometimes we are tightly strapped in to a roller coaster and the best we can do is hang on for the ride.
The delightful slow anticipation on the ascent, the tick tick tick of the the computer keys on the keyboard as the hopes and expectations slowly inch upwards into the clear blue sky and the sudden plunge into the dank abyss when they plummet into a fetid pool of lost opportunities and disappointments --only makes the determination to succeed stronger and the victories that much sweeter when they do come.
"Before the lesson is prepared, the teacher should have a clear idea of what the teaching objectives are. What, specifically, should the student be able to do, understand, care about as a result of the teaching."--Madeline Hunter
This summer's lesson: South America.
Specifically: Argentina, Uruguay and Bolivia.
The student: me.
First, to Buenos Aires, Argentina to a language school. The objective: to "get" South American Spanish much better than I do now--in order to communicate and understand the people with whom I'll be spending the next six weeks. To explore this incredible city, the "Paris of South America," to further my understanding of Argentinian culture, to make new friends and see new sights. To stay with a family while there, sharing meals, using public transportation, and in general, to live like a "Porteña"--someone who lives in Buenos Aires.
From there, across to Montevideo, Uruguay to meet with fifteen other US teachers and our Uruguayan counterparts as we complete the South American portion of our Fulbright exchange. After a week in the capital I'll be heading to the city of Tacuarembo in northern Uruguay to work with students and teachers in the school of my Uruguayan exchange teacher and friend, Laura.
And finally, to Bolivia, to experience its amazing culture and sights with one overarching goal: to finally meet in person my sponsored child Belinda if at all possible.
