So, how fast can one learn Spanish?

As I move down this continent and up in age groups I feel more pressure to learn Spanish as fast as possible. I’m beginning to find myself in more lofty conversations where the speed is faster and I trip on about 50% of the words that they’re saying (quite the jump from Special needs kids and toddlers). If I could read a transcript of the conversation I would probably understand more of it, but to just listen to the quick sounds, my brain has trouble keeping up with the foreign tongue.

Lima is fantastic. The air is warm, the ocean breeze is salty and the land is flat. Metropolitan activity excites the streets and the architecture reflects the developing economy. Southern California constantly pops into my head as I’m in a taxi driving along the wide stretches of highway and able to see for miles down the long stretches of avenues. The modern city lights tell me that it’s a few notches above Quito in development and I feel a few notches safer as well. My backpack is often worn on my back now.

Last night I spent some time on a rooftop with a mixture of Peruvians, ex-patriots (or, ex-pats: people who no longer live in their home country, all of which were English speakers) and lots of Pisco (a liquor made from grapes). English and Spanish competed for conversation the entire time. Since I was the worst player on the Spanish team, I wasn’t sure what to do. Self conscious of actually speaking my broken Spanish I just wanted to keep listening to the rapid conversation surrounding me, hoping that I would comprehend 75% of it eventually. I felt babied when a person would start speaking English with me, like when you can’t keep up with the person you’re running with so they run slower just for you. Kind in some ways, but no one likes to be pitied. Asking people to repeat their thoughts felt very dorky. In English it might sound like….

“Yeah, so I thought the movie was pretty cool but nothing to write home about.”

“Um… excuse me?”

“I thought the movie was cool but nothing special.”

“What? Sorry… more slowly, please?”

“Cool. The movie was cool. But not great.”

“Oh! Ok. Sure. Cool?”

“Good.”

“Oh! Ok. Nice.”

*Silence*

If you notice in that dialogue, it begins with two kinds of slang: “pretty cool” and “nothing to write home about”. If a fledgling English speaker didn’t know that “pretty” could be used for “very” or that “cool” could actually mean “good”… or, even worse, if the speaker couldn't pick up on the pronunciation of either, then the whole meaning has no chance of coming about. The listener wouldn’t even make it to the next idiom and would possibly only understand the word “home” and wonder, “Did you watch the movie in your home?” For the person speaking, who only made a casual comment about some half decent movie, all the repetition would feel kind of annoying leading to them avoiding the fledgling English speaker. This would reduce their interaction to smiles and facial gestures which only take you so far.

Hence, I smiled a lot last night and drank a few pisco sours with maracuya (passion fruit). Very tasty.

Prior to even arriving, I spent about 5 minutes misunderstanding my cab driver who was trying to tell me that I owed him a dollar because he had given me too much back in change. I remember my students telling me that cab drivers in NYC had been impossible to understand and now I fully comprehend why. It was the quick mumbling that really got me; I hadn’t had the same problem in Ecuador. The Peruvian accent is a bit faster and less clear. Unfortunately, I think Chile is going to be even worse.

Therefore, I am bolstering my Spanish skills as fast as I can. I was reading aloud to the maid here (yes, there is a MAID where I’m staying. Completely unheard of in the US, but not so out of the ordinary for a middle class family here) like a little kid to their mother.

La sala de espera de este doctor es muy grande porque trabaja solo.

The waiting room of this doctor is very big because he works alone.

Practice makes perfect… or makes more practice where language is concerned. Learning a language is never-ending which makes it forever fascinating but often frustrating. However, the feelings of stupidity and frustration haunt me, forcing me to absorb as much as possible as quickly as possible. I know that even at that it will still be slow-going, but I’m determined to press on!

When I got in the car after the rooftop I immediately spoke to the driver in Spanish and demanded that he play Spanish pop music only. Down the wide highway and passed the city lights we drove as I tried to kill all my English thoughts.

Hola, Espanol.

Song for Sharon

My friend Sharon just got engaged the other day. She and her boyfriend had been apart for five months before he flew down with a ring in his pocket and proposed to her that evening. By the time I saw her the next morning she was glowing nonstop and bumping into things all day.

Joni Mitchell sings a beautiful song in the form of a letter to her friend Sharon about how she’s moved out to NYC but all she really wants is to find that one person she can share life with. Not only did I feel it necessary to use the title for my friend Sharon, but I love the way that Joni poetically tells the story of love (and the search for it).

I went to Staten Island, Sharon.
To buy myself a mandolin
And I saw the long white dress of love
On a storefront mannequin
Big boat chuggin' back with a belly full of cars...
All for something lacy
Some girl's going to see that dress
And crave that day like crazy.

I think that “some girl” is Joni. I used lyrics from a Joni Mitchell song in my last post from a song about Woodstock. Ironically, Joni never made it there due to a rainstorm. She ended up stranded in New York but created this beautiful song about the event.

I’m going on down to Yasgurs farm
I’m going to join in a rock n roll band
I’m going to camp out on the land
I’m going to try and get my soul free
We are stardust
We are golden
And we’ve got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

Joni was a bit a hippie and from CANADA. Guess where my Sharon is from?

CANADA.

We have now come to the real connection between my Sharon and Joni.

It took awhile for both Jen and I to fully adjust to a Canadian, attempting to understand the language and local idioms. To make matters worse, Sharon also grew up on a farm in Alberta. She was speaking about silage, birthing cows, cutting amneonic sacks, and was stressed out when their bulls weren’t going to make it across the border because border control couldn’t read the numbers that had been tattooed in their ears.

Nothing is worse than an unexpected group of 80 bulls.

She was saying “Ay” and talking about their currency up there as loonies and tunies (Looney Tunes?). We talked about playing board games when we were little while she gloated about having thousands of acres to create her hundreds of fort kingdoms. She told us about the time she took some kind of gun and shot a coyote. Due to the length of the gun, she had to open up her window along with the back window of the truck she was driving. We were told that when the cows are calving she has to check on them at 1 AM or 2 AM to make sure all is going well, while her dad checks them in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes they have to drop everything and run outside when a calf is born and hasn’t broken the amneonic sack that is now drowning it. She also expressed,

“I think every kid should see an animal butchered. I mean, I had to eat my favorite cow when I was 12.”

Sharon uses the word sh** and calls the handle above the passenger seat the “oh sh**” handle, saying that us Americans don’t swear. To her credit, she’s actually talking to the right crowd where that’s concerned.

That being said, Sharon is my dear friend. We watched many an episode of Gilmore Girls together and I ate all of the meals she cooked for Jen and I, especially her banana chocolate chip muffins. I also took full advantage of any offered massage. She showed me pictures of her Albertan childhood that resembled something out of a Land’s End catalog with her family often in the outdoors grouped together in snow gear and various outdoor attire. Now she has a shimmering special something on her ring finger, which means she’s got a whole lot of something wonderful coming her way.

Best wishes, my Canadian amiga.

We Are Stardust (We Are Golden)

What would you do if you were diagnosed with a fatal disease? This thought is the reality that the directors are facing here. Clark has been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease which will wear down his motor neurons for the next few years. He had been experiencing difficulty walking while he and his wife were visiting churches in the States. In Boston, his friends told him to get checked out which resulted in various MRIs and being referred to two different doctors both of which confirmed his fatal diagnosis. Since returning to Quito, he has been struggling with the high altitude a bit, but not to any extent that an outsider would notice. He does carry a cane now though, without stress or difficulty. Today many people came forward in church to lay their hands on Clark and his wife Melinda to support them in this diagnosis, showing their love and respect for the work they have done and the people that they are. Though Clark and Melinda shirked any kind of pity, it was hard to keep a dry eye.

Clark was educated to be an attorney and in fact had a successful practice out in Mammoth, CA. He had come down to Quito on a missions trip some years prior, with his future wife Melinda, and a few years later felt moved to return and begin an orphanage here – moved by God, they would attest. Despite their friends’ concerns, they packed up their life and came down here 20 or so years ago and began creating a place where unwanted children could come in the hopes of being adopted. At first it seemed uncertain as they faced great difficulties, even involving losing the life of a baby in the process. But though they questioned this calling, they didn’t turn back.

They told people that they felt called by God to start this orphanage but would be challenged with, “But has God also called your children?” Ecuador is not exactly the safest country, nor is it on par with the United States in standard of living. They assured their children that if the territory were to affect their family, they could always go back to the states. This consolation provided enough assurance for the children to be on board with the decision. They could always go back if they absolutely needed to: family came first.

Now I’m sitting here, 20 years later, enjoying the fruits of their labor. There are three buildings here, all of which provide a loving environment for any child to grow up in. I sit on the porch of a guest house that welcomes any team willing to help. As of now, there is a team from Boston here, which makes me even more contented (they were showing us pictures of all the snow up there, making me feel a bit nostalgic). They’ve helped guide the process of hundreds of children to families. It’s amazing the things that you can do in your life and the lives that you can greatly influence. Helping a child find a caring family seems to be one of the most basic to human happiness.

And now, here they are faced with a life threatening illness. The difficulty of that only challenges their character even more to respond in a great way. Some people would fall apart when faced with such finiteness, yet many would only be able to respond with great strength and power. I have often thought that losing a spouse would be more difficult than losing a child, and here is a woman faced with exactly that. Time doesn’t stop for trials, it keeps moving along challenging us to cope. However, its incredible the support that you can find in the people around you. As Melinda put in, she feels like she has been injected with peace and comfort only by the grace of God, feeling the warmth of a thousand prayers.

Realizing how short life really is, reminds me that appreciating relationships and building a meaningful existence is paramount. Not allowing stress or difficulties overcome you is key, as you intentionally take advantage of all the goodness that surrounds you: friends, family and helping others. It sounds cliche, but most true things are. We often repeat these kinds of things for a reason. Life is really about giving and loving the best you can.

Dias para las Tias

For the past three days we’ve been offering spa service to the Tías. From 12:30 until 4:00 the Tías can come to our guest house for facials, manicures, or pedicures. We’ve been playing peaceful spa music, or Enya, along with decorating the table with crackers, cheese, grapes and boiling water for hot chocolate and herbal tea.

Over the past few weeks I have gotten to know all of these women through the English classes that I’ve been teaching along with helping them in each of the three houses with the children. Most of the time there are three Tías in each of the three houses: the baby house, the toddler/preschool house, and the special needs house. The special needs house is right below our guest house and we often hear them playing music at around 8:00 in the evening, imagining all of them having a dance party down there.

At 8:30/9:00 at night I have gone over in the dark to the preschool house just in time to hear the children going to bed or a Tía reading or praying with them as they drift off to sleep. A couple times I have gone over and little Joshua or Josue has been sitting on the landing, being punished for not wanting to go to sleep. I only know he’s up there by the little feet that are sticking out of the railing. Meanwhile, I sit with the three Tías below the stairs and teach them the alphabet song.

That moment of rest at the end of a busy day is when I get to see their personalities exhaled, which is really enjoyable. We’ve played matching games with vocabulary words such as crib, blanket, bottle. The first game that I created I drew amazing pictures of the items and they had to find the matching Spanish word. Each day I would teach three different groups of Tias, so it was fun to see some of them excel and others laugh and fumble at their lack of English knowledge.

In the baby house there are two Tias that are around my age: Nancy and Alisha. Alisha brought us out to her house in the countryside one day and says that I know more Spanish than I speak, which makes me laugh. Whenever I walk in I hear, “Senorita Saaaaaarah. Beunos Dias!”. There was one afternoon when I was looking for some social company, so I visited them while the babies were sleeping and showed them pictures of Scotland, Europe and friends back home. They both came into our spa a bit camera shy, despairing with a smile at any picture I would take of them.

There are some other Tias that I click with more than others. There’s Merry from the toddler house, who one of the other Tias jokingly referred to as Merry Christmas during one of our games. She’s very funny, in a dry kind of way, and seems to get a kick out of the children, wanting to mess with their minds a little bit sometimes (in a playful kind of way, which is right up my alley). Isabel strikes me as a strong woman yet retains this sense of loveliness and openness. There’s also Marcia, who has a harder looking face and is stooped when she walks or stands because something has happened to her leg. But when she feeds the babies or works with Thalia (who has special needs) she sings to them in the most motherly way, gently holding them and rocking them.

All of the Tias come with their own way of disciplining and mothering the children, carefully watched and monitored by the directors here. Most rooms have cameras , making them very intentional about how they instruct or play with the children. We’ve been told not to pick the toddlers up as much because once we’re gone they start to cry. Everyday all of the toys are disinfected and every piece of laundry is washed. I’ve had to sit and wash the balls in the ball pit: it was not the most fulfilling task, especially since I wanted to shoot the children’s music that played on repeat in the background.

Giving back to the Tias and offering them a day of treats was so wonderful for us. Sometimes I felt like I had found my true calling, since I strangely enjoy picking at things – therefore, picking at people’s toes and nails all day was actually quite fun for me. Jen would pull off their fask masks when they were finished, Sharon would carefully paint their fingernails. We were like the Asian nail places, only we were speaking English amongst our Spanish speaking Tias – quite humorous.

The kids here have such a wonderful home as a consolation to their lack of real family. When the children are adopted, it must not be easy for these women to let them go, but they know they have to. They’ll have a place in the child’s photo album of their years here, but continue on raising children and babies until others are ready to do so.

Muchas gracias, Tias.

Fleeting Rain, Passing Quilt

Two bus rides and three hours later finally landed us in the town of Latacunga. We walked along patches of sidewalk by men draining liquid out of machines, a man within the hood of his tractor trailer, people on bikes carrying carts of supplies, stray dogs wandering, and a woman washing her clothes in the concrete basin outside with a view of the patchwork of colored houses across the valley. The sun was actually on our backs as we walked closer to the center of town to find a taxi. From there we were driven to the orphanage constructed of one building situated in the countryside.

Soon enough I had a sleep pile of two toddlers sitting on my stomach and legs. The playroom was spotlessly clean and quiet music played in the background as baby Joanna wrinkled her nose against a stuffed animal duck. Meanwhile Sarita investigated my dirty shoes but I quickly pulled her away. Soon the Tia came in to herd them all to their respective high chairs for dinner.

I stood outside as the clouds increasingly grew black. In the yard I taught a couple little boys to blow the remains of a dandelion into the air. One of them, Carlos, rode around on his tricyle. Eventually they began heading inside, missing the beginning of the show that was about to take place. Carlos called to me to come with him, but I couldn’t take my eyes of the natural stage in the sky.

The clouds gained speed as they moved from the mountains in the distance closer to us. Weighed down by hours or days of moisture, their canopy seemed daunting. Slowly my mental thoughts cleared and my concerns of the day disappeared as all of my attention was taken by the storm above me. Every inch of independent anxiety was alleviated and washed away by the slow onslaught of the raindrops and the echoing thunder. Faster and faster they fell down onto the grass, drowning the dirt and pounding the pavement. This time I was safe under the awning, kept dry and alive to watch the incredible forceful throws of the storm surrounding me now. The thick clouds had moved over top of the orphanage and the smell of the rain made me smile.

It was sublime for a few minutes, especially when the hail came. I watched jagged edges of lightning cut the sky and break it for a moment. Thunder boomed its way into the distance and I watched the grass sigh, relieved that la tormenta had drifted.

Being driven to our hotel, we saw that the rain had managed to flood the roads, particularly a bridge that our taxi needed to cross, with water rising up into the bottom of the car. At the restaurant of our hotel the four of us shared a bottle of wine among our tiny sherry glasses and toasted to Valentine’s Day.

The next morning we rose early for our drive to a lake within a crater. We hired a driver who showed up with his little red truck and a camouflage jacket on. He drove us higher into the hills, above some of the low lying clouds. The volcano in the distance showed its face briefly but soon it was overshadowed by the moving clouds that slowly tiptoed their way in front. They drifted into the valley like ballet dancers, slow yet elegant in their sweeping powerful pointe work of pirouettes embodied with allegro and chassé.

Onward our truck took us, the terrain gradually becoming more divided in color and texture. We were now among the land of the indigenous farmers, their dry grass bound houses settled into the mountainsides as if it were a Shire. The bright pink or red dots marking the indigenous people with their colorful clothing often speckled the deep brown dirt.

Looking out my window, I remembered the glory of traveling. Here was a pocket of the world now made known to me, staring at me. We would drive straight for a bit and then curve sharply to the left or the right and the land would dip down and open up a whole other pocket of quilted farms, stitched together by people once escaping from the Spaniards. The shades of green below us and gray clouds hovering above us created a feeling of stillness. Alongside the road we would pass a couple of women wearing skirts to their knees, high socks, brightly colored shawls with long hair in a single braid wrapped with fabric and a panama hat on top. Half the time, they will have a baby wrapped onto their back as well.

We drove by one woman walking alone on the edge of the road. She was wearing a bright magenta shawl and stoically looking over the hillside at the expanse of farmland below her. I imagined her mind thoughtfully suspended in the air above her though her body was still walking around. Another woman we passed had a bright orange shawl and was herding sheep, lamas, and even a donkey all at the same time. Two more women worked the tilted black dirt up the hillside, one with a baby on her back. I wondered whether they felt satisfied.

Similar to when I’ve driven through the highlands of Scotland, I wish I could hear the stories of the land. In both places there is an eeriness that lingers in the air, alarming you that things have happened in these places even though it may be quiet and still now. The way the land showed itself with its colorful quilt, it was begging for quality time. I wish I could have lingered there a little longer.

The glory of traveling is wrapped up in the tragedy of leaving. But the fleeting moments can’t be stopped, they linger on and speed by as soon as you look up to see them.

Once we arrived at the crater it began to rain. The lake surprised me with its deep turquoise color as if someone had photoshopped and tweaked it to make it look more fantastical. But we only saw it for a moment before the rain chased us back to Latacunga.

The Cloud Forest

Our hour or so long bus ride came to an end in a beat up town in the middle of biodiversity’s splendor. The ride wound around lowlands covered in trees and misty clouds hung over the valleys. The clouds hid the sun, making it feel timeless, as if we were moving through a dream where the ceiling would bend around us and wrap us up in its gray aura. I swear I saw a unicorn move through the branches below us within the steep decline into dark caves wrestling for light at the bottom of our ascending and descending landscape. The steps to heaven were also hidden in there somewhere, behind the invisible gorillas making their way through the wispy clouds that needed a rest from the high altitude. Meanwhile, stuffed into a humid bus, upholstered with maroon seat fabric and covered with Ecuadoran travelers, I stifled my growing nausea and leg cramps by setting my mind on the scenery and the thin slit of air breathing through the cracked window.

When we arrived I hobbled off the bus, landing on a concrete stoop alongside a dirt road, in the middle of a clouded town. The air was saturated with moisture, seasoned with birds squawking and squeaking. Wearing my backpack on my front no longer felt as necessary. I could feel that the dangers of Quito were behind us. Here we were in the forest of the clouds.

We walked along the dirt road up to our hostel, passing concrete houses and nondescript restaurants and juice bars along the way. The air muffled any sharpness that the noises of the few cars around us would have made. My clothes were already beginning to dampen, as the hidden sun evaporated above the thick mess of clouds.

Our hostel stood immersed in green waxy plants and leaves, allowing no space for creation to think but just to exist in its astounding colorful beauty. The river rushed below us, as it had been filled by the rain of past days. Tiny insects were present, though we didn’t know it until feeling their bites later. The brownies are what this town was known for, which we partook of at a table sticking out of a small restaurant where the hummingbird plants grew. The restaurant makes its own chocolate and harvests its own coffee, two concepts that create a little piece of heaven on earth for my taste buds.

Afterwards, we pulled back the mosquito nets in our tree house and fell asleep to the sound of the lively river.

In the morning I couldn’t help but head to the café for some of that freshly roasted coffee with my name written on it in ten different fonts. My travel companions Toshiba, Osprey and Nalgene joined me as well, taking their place on the table and encouraging my fingers to type on the keyboard. I tried to shoot some of the hummingbirds with Canon, but few would hold still long enough. Like overgrown bumblebees, they bounded from flower to flower to drink their nectar as I drank my own.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that I met the forest, the raining blessing our engagement. Along with my human friends, I slid down muddy paths collecting the chocolate dirt in my shoes and on my feet. We continued on in search of six waterfalls. It was impossible to take in the thousands of different kinds of plants surrounding me as I was trying to watch every slippery step. Centipedes and caterpillars were also traversing the same ground and we met them from time to time. Every inch of my head, hands and feet felt soaked. The concept of being dry had never become so appreciated in my mind, though the circumstances perfectly matched my concept of being in a rainforest. After crossing two rivers, we finally found all of our waterfalls. By then the rain had stopped, and we headed back to where we had begun, taking our zip line cart hundreds of feet in the air above the forest.

We got in the back of a truck and were jostled all the way back to the town center, picking up a few ex-pats along the way. Finding my only dry clothes was like Christmas morning all over again. After putting on my pajama pants, we headed out for food and hot chocolate, all of which were wonderful rewards for our day of rainy outdoor adventures.

My headache began to set in and spiked during the night, continuing throughout the next morning. I attributed it to the altitude (of course). However, writing next to the river and reading in our hammocks calmed it down eventually. A skinny green vine stretched its arm through the window of the bathroom as I was taking a shower, its leaves greeting me (in Spanish). Before we left, we walked along the mud puddles next to the coffee farm and sat on the bamboo swings of the juice bar. At 4 pm we headed to the bus and spent the next hour and half or so journeying through the mystical forest back to Quito, with A Night at the Museum (with Ben Stiller) playing the entire way, dubbed in Spanish.

The Cloud Forest rests there still, holding its butterflies and hummingbirds captive for the next visitors to enjoy. May they receive less bug bites and more sun, but still feel the magic that exists there.

Planes Land on Us

We listen to the plane land in our living room. Not really, but it sounds like it. The Quito airport is difficult to fly in and out of, being located between the mountains. It is also located right in the middle of the city and about the size of a few football fields. While watching episodes of Gilmore Girls, we sometimes brace ourselves for being joined by a 747.

We’ve started a fire a couple times in our wood burning stove. Normally, during the day the temperature rises to 70 degrees and at night cools down to 50. Lately, it has been very cloudy and rainy, even causing me to whip out my Northface jacket. Though the mid 50s sounds perfect to a New Englander suffering through the pangs of snowstorm after snowstorm, when there is no electric heat anywhere, the air temperature in the evenings here is probably comparable to a New England house. The glass slated windows are shy of shutting, creating the chilly aura of camping, and it takes hours for my feet to eventually defrost inside my covers.

The water in our shower is either freezing cold or burning hot. Sponge baths have now become my morning regime, mixing the freezing cold water with the burning hot in a pot and then using a cup to pour it on my head. Every morning I am reminded of my Uganda study abroad experience. I’d rather have consistency than have to jump around in the shower to avoid the boiling or icy water.

Quito is the second highest capital in the world, at about 9,000 ft. This causes me to blame most headaches, fatigue and insomnia on the altitude. Climbing the stairs to our third floor hotel room the other night made us all incredibly out of breath. We’re not out of shape or anything, it’s just that dang altitude…. Right?

Juice has been one of the highlights of Ecuador. Their juice is very much unlike the watery sugary liquid that the States has to offer. This fruit juice is thick and sweet with nectar straight from a mango, tree tomato, pineapple, or mora. Mora is similar to blackberries, but a little bit bigger. They also serve papaya, jackfruit, guanabana, papaya, and apple juice, to name a few others. When mixed with milk or yogurt it’s a batido. I also give the ice cream here high praise, being similar to Italian gelato.

Our milk and eggs don’t need a refrigerator. Apparently the milk doesn’t because it’s loaded with so many preservatives that it’s hardly milk anymore (according to Sharon, who owns cows in Alberta). As for eggs, supposedly if they’re not refrigerated to begin with, they don’t need to be refrigerated. Why did the US start refrigerating eggs? That’s a question I’m sure Google can answer.

The alarm for our guest house is continually beeping much like a cell phone or computer with a dead battery. I’m about to shoot it. Jen thinks I'm ridiculous. I've found that when it decides to beep at night, if I put a pillow over my head it blocks the sound.

Those are a few things about the everyday here. Planes don’t really land on us, but they almost do.

Puzzle

Primero, queremos buscar esos…
(First we want to find these - I didn’t know the word for “edges” so I pointed to them)

Uno esquina… dos equinas… tres… y donde esta cuatro?
(One corner… 2 corners… three…. and where is the four? That's the word for corner on the street... don't know if it's the same for puzzles...)

Y segunda, ponga esos partes aquí…
(And second, put these parts here… meanwhile, I’m pointed to edges that I’ve assembled)

¡Mira Leslie! ¡Mira! ¡Están juntos!
(Look Leslie! Look! They’re together! I say excitedly as I have assembled various pieces of the puzzle. Leslie is the adorable little girl in the first picture on this blog.)

Y después, queremos poner esos partes juntos…
(And after, we want to put these parts together… I didn’t know the Word for “piece” so I used “part” instead...)

¡Mira Leslie! ¡Qué Perfecto!
(Look Leslie! Perfect!... I proclaim my excitement for having assembled the whole puzzle together.)

“Otra Vez!” says Leslie. (Again!)

That is an example of my broken Spanish as Leslie and I completed a puzzle together this morning.

“Tía y yo estamos trabajando.” Leslie told the other Tía.

(Tía and I are working… I am referred to as “Tía” just like they’re caretakers.)

"Acá.... acá, Tía….” said Leslie.

Acá means “there”, usually used with verbs of movement (“Lo ponga acá” – put it there!). Leslie was sitting in her seat that holds her legs in place. Her legs are small since they don’t get much use and her voice is lighter than a feather. She wanted me to move her closer to the table.

“Tía… tía… vamos afuera…” she says. (Tía, let’s go outside.)

“Quieres caminar?” I ask her. (Do you want to walk?)

“Sí, sí tía…” she smiles. (Yes, Tía)

A softness surrounds Leslie’s face, muffling any kind of frustration that may accompany her handicap. I would love to magically allow this one child to walk.

This would be my own miracle…

“Levante te y camina!” I said. (Stand up and walk!)

Leslie smiled, knowing what was happening in her bones. In that moment, earthly science was pushed aside and a miracle took place inside her joints. With vigor, she lifted her head erect, her back straightened and her thighs positioned themselves over her knees. Slowly they lifted her knees which commanded her calves to follow and her feet moved upward, over, and down, one at a time. She slowly realized what was happening and began to understand that she could in fact run towards the outdoors. More quickly she began to step into a jog and then a run, as she darted around the entire yard, between the play house, the swings, and the baby trampoline. She hadn’t understood how running felt before, and now she knew. It was as awesome as she had thought.

That is what I would hope for Leslie.

Come on, God… just one little miracle… just one…

Football

While America was watching the Superbowl,  I was caught in a downpour on the field of Liga vs. Barcelona. Barcelona is a soccer team based in Guayaquil, Liga from Quito. Thousand of fans in white and yellow cheered from the cement, white for Liga. Some climbed the wire fence and sat above the bleachers, others danced to the constant singing of Ecuadoran songs, and the rest held their beer in their hand waiting for a goal.

There are a few reasons why soccer is superior to other sports.

1) The game is constantly moving. There is so much to watch! The ball dribbles down the field, being passed from guy to guy, the crowd shouting “Ole!” with every pass.

2) The players themselves must be the most fit of any athlete. They are strong and lean, kicking the ball with incredible strength down the field. The only guts they have are made of adrenaline and emotional gusto.

3) The whole world watches soccer and loves it. America is mostly on the outs of the international energy that surrounds the game and especially the World Cup. They even give it a completely different name.

4) It’s hard to get a goal, requiring a whole field of teamwork and careful foot work. When one is actually scored, it is a feat worthy of cheering! Though other sports may be high scoring, it takes more skill to actually achieve that goal in soccer.

5) Time actually matters. 45 minutes is 45 minutes. If there are 3 minutes left in the game, it won’t take another hour. You know when it will start and when it will end. This helps when it’s raining outside yet you know that in 45 minutes exactly you will be drying off.

To sit in the rain and watch it must mean that I really care about it. Prior to actually getting into the stadium we literally ran around the entire place one and half times, at high altitude, through legions of police on motorcycles and horses, trying to find our group that held our tickets. From inside the stadium I could hear the resounding cheering of the first goal, yelling to Jen about the absurdness of the situation and lack of effective communication.

I believe in soccer. Leave your American football behind! Your padding, your helmets, your steroid muscles! You have four years to gather yourselves and get excited about the World Cup in Brazil. Yes, you can!

Field Trip to the Mall

There are certain times when I am reminded that direction in life is something that we impose on ourselves and others.  Art, play, or music has this curious ability to point to more layers of the world than we see.  I was listening to some jazz music today that immediately stretched out the time in front of me, making it seem like all I really have to do is try to dance beautifully in the space provided.   Sometimes there are moments with people where we are not really going anywhere, we’re just dancing.     

Today I accompanied the special needs kids (Jose, Rosa, Lisseth and Tatiana) on a field trip to the mall.  Jose Luiz experienced sensory overload immediately while walking around.  He lost track of his foot movements, his head bobbing and gazing at all of the sounds and colors. Taking the elevator made him squeal and whine in fear while Tatiana’s mouth dropped open and she smiled wider than ear to ear.  

To these children, the mall is the wonder of wonders.  Tatiana’s excitement brought her to her tiptoes as I held her hand trying to quell some of her energy.  She began banging her hands against the glass of the pet store, exhilarated by the cat, the mice and the two dogs, as if to say, “Animals!  I love cats!  I want a cat!” but all that came out was hand movement.

While having a snack at the food court, I checked off some of the items on the development assessment (a list of milestones I observe in the kids) and realized more clearly that Jose Luiz performs at the level of a 1 year old.  If it were up to him, he would lie and giggle in his bed all day.  His biggest talent is smiling, which he does spontaneously and responsively (check, check). 

He currently has a huge bump on his head from Rosa pushing him into a wall, which he didn’t retaliate against.  The other day, Jen witnessed one of the kids, Adriana, biting his hand in the yard below our apartment and couldn’t do anything fast enough to help him, being on the second floor.  Jose whined for a few moments until Adriana stopped, then went back to hobbling around the yard and playing with his doll.  I imagine him wanting to yell, “Hey!!  Help!!” rather than whimper.

I was just informed today that Tatiana has fetal alcohol syndrome and epilepsy.  Her developmental level is around age 5, minus the language development.  Lisseth can speak some words, but she is probably at the level of a 6 or 7 year old, and Rosa may be around the same.  In actuality though, Tatiana is 16, Lisseth is 16, Rosa is 12 and Jose Luiz is 10.

If they could speak, I would love to know what they’re thinking. The more time I spend with them, the more I can tell that they recognize me.  Tatiana will bang her hand against the window as I walk by, or Jose Luiz will begin to gurgle in his throat.  Even Rosa, seems to be coming around and making efforts to play with me. 

In the little therapy pool today Tatiana and I took turns pouring water on each other’s heads, pretending we were giving each other showers.  Her mouth is the source of her expression.  When she gets excited it multiplies to ten times its size.  Meanwhile her hands move rapidly up and down and her feet extend to tiptoeing.  Without words she was saying, “This is so cool!!!!” as Jen put goggles over her face, allowing her to see under water.  As she moved above and underwater, she proclaimed with her face, “I love goggles!!!”

There’s a trampoline in our backyard where the special needs kids can play.  I took some time to jump on it as powerfully and as high as I could.  When I'm with the kids, we're often just playing, but there's moments where it's just pure human interaction, and even fun.  

The moment in the air is one I’d like to repeat my entire life.

Questions

In the US:

So, what do you do?

In Ecuador:

So, do you have a boyfriend? Are you married?

When do you want to get married?

How many kids do you want to have?

Do you have any brothers or sisters?

I had a conversation with one of the Tías yesterday:

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because there are no men! They’re all married, with children.” She said smiling.

“How old are you?”

“30.”

“And they’re all married with kids already?”

Jen actually got tired of answering the boyfriend question one night to a cab driver and made up a whole story of how she was married to an Ecuadoran. She made up how they met, what he does for work, and their last name. The next night she went to the airport to pick me up and happened to get the same taxi driver who proceeded to refer to her as that Ecuadoran name and ask about her husband.

While gardening I was asked the same questions by the gardener.

“So, how was your time gardening?” asked Jen.

“Very good!” I replied.

“What’d you talk about?”

“Just small talk: am I married, when do I want to get married, how many kids do I want to have…”

In the States, and many other places, I think those questions are classified as personal. But then again, do most people really want to talk about their jobs?

Family size and living situations are also points of contrast.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Just one.”

“Only two!”

“Yeah, it’s good! How many do you have?”

“Nine. “

“Wow.”

“Do you live with your parents?” the Tía asked me.

“Nope. I live with 3 friends.”

“Really? From what age?”

“Well, since I went to college I haven’t lived with my parents.”

“And your brother?”

“He lives in an apartment, alone.”

“And how old is he?”

“22. He likes it!”

“I would live with my mother forever!”

Interesting....