Now that's a bad day

We've all complained about having bad days. You know, the ones where everything that can go wrong does? Well, just saying, I think my little kitten has tipped the scales and is in the running for the worst day ever.

This morning she's running around like a playful kitten. No big deal. Ignorance is bliss. I smile the long sad smiling of knowledge as I consider the long road ahead of her. Today is the day she is getting spayed. It is neat to think about pets having no ability to stress over something in the future. Interesting. Anyway, so I'm getting ready for work and she's having a grand old time. Maybe she's a little hungry (she can't eat/drink) but I can't tell. Pretty soon I get the cat carrier out. This moving jail cell is not her favorite. I can't even say she likes it a little bit. The moment I lock her inside she starts the meow. Meooooow. Meoooooow. Okay, Amguita, I know it's not fun but you've got to go.

Not only is she shoved into a cage, the weather is not cooperating with me this morning. Cats don't like water. It doesn't matter. In the bath, in the sink, or falling from the sky like flaming daggers. Amiguita can hear the rain battering down and her bellowing intensifies. I'm calling a taxi. Meoooow. Meeoooow.

The taxi arrives and I sprint to the back seat. As I jumped in the car clutching my cat carrier I realize Amiguita has never been in a car before. Great. I hope she doesn't get motion sickness. Please don't vomit. All throughout these thoughts I hear the background bleating: meeeeow. Meooooow. Meeeeeeeoooooow. You'd think she's dying.

So before going to the vet, I ask the taxi driver to take me to my friend Emily's apartment. Emily is the proud owner of Amiguita's sister Mona. It is a day for sister bonding - both of them loosing their sex on the same day! Ha! I ask the kind taxi driver to wait for me as I run up to Emily's apartment with my cat carrier. Emily doesn't have a way to transport her cat, so she asked me to bring my carrier over. Sure. Through the rain. Into the building. Up the elevator. All along: Meoooow. Meoow. When I finally set Amiguita down on the table she immediately goes silent. Safety? Not quite. Before she knows what is going on, Emily opens up the carrier and tosses in Mona. The hissing fit begins. Both cats spatting and instantly separated: one cat at the front of the carrier, one cat smashed up against the back. I guess they don't remember each other.

There we have Ami's stressful morning. From here it just gets worse. At vets she gets analyzed, put under anesthetics, cut open, and her reproductive structures are taken out. Bad day. At least she's not meowing anymore. When I came to pick her up, she was covered in blood. The vet took one look and explained that the place where they gave her an IV had opened up and that she'd go clean it out. She picked up Ami by the scruff of the neck and carried her off. My pour little girl with 25% coherence gets rinsed off. Man did that wrench my heart.

When it was time to take her home, I placed her back in her cat carrier. My silent, groggy Amiguita didn't protest. I wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. I could feel her shaking in the carrier and I knew she was stressed. We made it to my apartment in record time and I decided to take the elevator. I didn't want to bump Ami around anymore than I needed to. Into the elevator. There was this awful buzzing noise and all I could think about was how Amiguita would perceive that. Still 50% under anesthetics and there is this bzzzzzz. Bad day. I pushed the button for the fourth floor and the buzzing turned into a squealing. Then as quickly as it had started, it stopped. So did all function of the elevator. I pressed every single button. Nothing. Door open button? Nothing. Door close button? Nothing. There was a picture with an alarm on it, so I hit that one. Blllllrrrrrrinng. Ah! I don't like that. The final button was a picture of a phone. I hit it and I could hear Elvin my portero: Proteria. How can I help you? Now is when my vocabulary fails me...um...ummm...Elvin, I'm in the elevator. It's not functioning. He responded: I can't hear you, speak up. I'm yelling at this point and then it's silent. I peer into my cat carrier at my little girl, consider the inopportune timing, and laugh. Really? I'm really stuck in an elevator right now? Ha! I just couldn't stop giggling. I knew they'd get me out at some point.

A few minutes pass and all the lights go out in the elevator. It's pitch black and my mind flicks to horror films. Come on Leanne. Not now. Before I have time to imagine more the lights come on and the door opens. Wooo hooo!! Once again my Portero saved the day. He comes running up to me to make sure I'm okay. Everything is fine, I assure him. No problem, it was just bad luck. I decide to take the stairs and haul Amiguita up the 4 flights. I'm breathing hard at this point, but I just want to get my little girl home. Whew. We made it.

But the day isn't over for Ami. I open the cat carrier and she tried to come out. Fail. Her little legs just aren't working quite yet. I help her onto a blanket and she lies there for a while. Her eyelids are half open and every once in a while she tries to move. I smile the sad smile and sigh: Ami, I'd say it's been a pretty rough day!

My Colombian Children

I've decided just now as I've sat down to write that I will now refer to my students as my "Colombian children". On one hand it makes me sound like some humanitarian helping poor kids in Latin America. The other hand portrays the real picture: their not poor and destitute (actually quite the opposite), I just really like them. So yeah, I have 60+ Colombian children. If I told them their new name I can already hear their whiney response, "Mease. You can't call us your children. You are too young." Oh well, they'll just never know!

Well, my Colombian children are enough to make me crazy sometimes. One reason is the cultural difference of personal space. As a North American, I value my personal space. For those of you that know me, you can attest that my bubble is a lot smaller than most people from the United States - BUT my bubble is still there. I'm of the strong opinion that Colombians just don't have space bubbles or maybe they just don't respect them. Case in point: standing at my desk when the bell rings I immediately have 3 children standing within 3 fingers of my body. I move to the left a little to give myself more space and they naturally move with me. I'm pretty certain they don't even realize this. So I move a little more. They follow. I move - they move - I move - they move. And before we all know it, I'm standing at the door and they are still close enough to count my eyelashes. Sometimes it makes me claustrophobic. Especially with my taller kids. Last week 3 boys were standing around me harassing me about some homework assignment. All 3 of them are at least 5 inches taller than me. I was surrounded. Thankfully the bell rang and they departed. The truth of being saved by the bell!

One of my fellow North American teachers can't handle the closeness of students. His 7th graders suffocate him. His response? He took a roll of masking tape and made a box around his desk. No one is permitted into the box without permission. And if some kid happens to make it into the box without asking? Oh, this teacher will just stare at the students feet until they take a few steps back and respect the box.  Even though his personal bubble has been popped in Colombia, he has more than made up for it with his box of tape. I haven't gotten to that point yet.

Another thing about my Colombian children: they love to touch. It is not uncommon to find a students hand resting on my arm/shoulder while they are talking to me. That really isn't much of a big deal to me. I am a "toucher" by nature anyways. It helps me show people I care. What IS the problem with their touching is that they also are always touching each other. Poking. Messing around. Celebrating. You name it and they are touching. About 7 times each period you can here me say: No touching. Khaleb, stop touching. Sebastian, why are you touching Felipe. Carolina: no touching. At least they aren't violent. They just like physical contact. I think it's fair to blame it on culture though. Colombians are touchers. Males always shake hands when they greet each other and females (with females or with males) always greet each other by touching cheeks and making a kissing noise. There is so much to be said with the cultural norms of greetings. I'll save a later post for that.

So yeah, my Colombian children. They drive me up the walls sometime, but I certainly adore them...and I think they know it too!

His AmbiTION

There is nothing that can quite awaken the senses on a relaxing Tuesday afternoon like getting your legs waxed. Hot hot hot wax spooned onto the leg and then ripped off with hopes of taking all hair with it. Really, I voluntarily made this happen. I even was willing to pay for it! A whole $25,000 pesos. Although this is a start to a great story, this isn't the point. The highlight was talking to the main man in charge of the salon I went to.

Alright, us native English speakers like to make English words Spanish by adding an "o" to the end of our words. Come on, I know you've all done it. It's after dinner and we want to relax...let's go sit on the couch-o. Yeah and we can have some dessert-o to accompany our coffee-o. Just stick on an "o" and it's automatically Spanish, right? Well sure, to us it makes sense but it may make a Spanish-speaker cringe.

Little did I know, Spanish speakers like to do something like this to make their words "english-ized" too. Certainly they don't add an "o". The suffix of choice? -tion. I recall hearing this at some point but I thought it was nonsense. Well today, this myth became a reality. The man at the salon quickly realized I was American and so began his attempt to speak English with me. Not English-English, but rather his Spanish-ized version.

"Señorita, quisiera un aguitation" ....Miss, would you like some "water" ....agua + ita +TION

"I speakey poquito inglestion" ....I speak a little "english" ....ingles + TION

"Mucho gustation" ...."happy to assist you" ...gusta + TION

On and on it went. The entire conversation was like speaking Spanish is piglatin. In my head I had to chop off the "-tion" and figure out what Spanish word he was trying to say. It took everything in me not to giggle as the man was talking. I know he was just trying to accommodate me and I appreciate his ambiTION.

Shocked

Sometimes things at work go really well. Sometimes things at work go really poorly. I've found a comfortable roller-coaster (like the oxymoron??) of emotions in my job. Being a first year teacher is quite the challenge.

So one of these days when work hadn't been going well I thought of one of my teacher friends. His advice to me was that when things were spinning down the drain in class, just repeat this one phrase over and over and over, "3:00 will come." I struggled through each period. 3:00 will come. 3:00 will come. 3:00 will come. In actuality, I only had to make it to 1:15 when lunch started. After lunch I would stake my claim as a survivor of the day. Guess what, I made it! The bell rang for lunch and I sank into my chair for a few minutes before heading to lunch. Here we go Leanne, you've made it!

Lunchtime is always nice and I savor the adult conversation. I'm uncertain my co-workers realize the oasis they are on a teaching day in the desert. Well this day I didn't quite make it to the oasis in time. As I cruised through the line with my tray I heard the voice of my principal, "Leanne, when you set do your tray can you come talk to me?" Oh great. How did he sense my awful day. Did he figure it out when he stopped by my room earlier? My mind was racing. What could James need to tell me or ask me. The majority of time, things like this don't make me nervous. That's probably because the majority of the time when this happens a bad teaching day isn't lingering. Think Leanne. Think. What was he going to tell me.

After setting down my lunch I strolled over to where James was camped. Here goes nothing. The following coversation ensued.

"Leanne, do you know how the 10th grade takes a trip to the Amazon every year?'

"Yeah, I've heard a bit about it through the grapevine. The kids seem pretty excited."

"Well, we are looking for a female chaperone and I'm wondering if you would like to go. The school pays for everything."

My eyebrows shot up, my eyes got real big, and I did what any logical person would do: Say yes to your boss, "Yeah, sure! I'd love to go."

The remaining conversation was just small talk and I don't remember much.I was consumed with thoughts of the amazon.

Consumed: Rainforest. Rivers. Swimming. Pink dolphins. Manatees. Peru. Brazil. Amazon river. Hiking. Yellow fever. Culture. Indigenous villages. Mosquitoes. Galoshes. Canoeing. Crocodiles.  Hammocks. Dancing. Huts.  Fishing. Cooking over fires.  Bonding with students. Speaking Spanish. Adventure. 

...I think I'll have a little fun...

Feast on a Platter

If you come to Colombia, a Colombian might ask you to do a strange thing. Don’t do it. Use your better judgment! Let me lay out a scenario for you.

It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m walking to my friend’s apartment building to meet up so we can stroll downtown. As I turn up his street, I notice something twitching in the middle of the road 25 yards ahead. I pensively tilt my head and try to make heads or tails of it. Nothing.  Upon approaching I notice it is a bird that is wounded. I don’t know if it was hit, if it ran into a window or if some ninja street cat swiped it out of the air. All I know is that it’s laying there flopping a wing every once in a while. It made me sad.

This Colombia man was standing at his balcony 2 floors up and starts telling me something in Spanish and motioning to the bird. He killed the bird!? Yes. That must be what he is saying. He was trying to tell me he was an airsoft gun extraordinaire with incredible marksmanship. Okay, that’s not what he was saying. But what he was telling me to do was just as bizarre. “Niña, go pick up the bird and get it off the street.”

Really man? Really? Yes. He motioned again and told me it needed to get off the street so it doesn’t get hit by a car. Seriously bro, the birds going to die. But this man was persistent. I couldn’t just walk by him and ignore his request. I had thrown out that option when I had made initial eye contact. Fail. So, what do I do? I inch my way towards the bird and see the blood. How the heck do I explain to this frantic man that I am in no way touching that thing.  I look at him, charading fear the best I could, “There’s a lot of blood. A lot of blood. I can’t touch it” Then, I continued walking.

So, the next passerby came and you’ll never believe it: Balcony Man actually convinced the man walking by to pick up the bird. Yes. The pedestrian walked up to it, took his bare hands, lifted up the limp bird, and placed him on a ledge nearby. Woot woot. Bird saved? I smiled a little on the inside. Because the bird was safe? Naw... Balcony Man just served our street cats a feast on a platter.

The Doctor Comes to Town

It’s one thing to be so nauseous the mere thought of food produces a gag reflex, have diarrhea that demands staying near a bathroom at all times, and a stomach ache that comes in waves like battles in a war fought inside when you are a child at home with someone to care for you. It is an entirely other monster as an adult, living in a foreign place, with absolutely nothing in your brain to sort things out.

Sunday morning it hit; that is, the nausea.  I woke up early, ate a left over scone, decided that was an awful idea and crashed on the couch. Ick. I don’t really feel well. It takes more than feeling a little under the weather to slow me down so I continued the morning as usual by skyping with a friend, hanging laundry, and changing the linens on my bed. Soon I was getting ready for church and making breakfast. I thought trying a new smoothie would be a nice change: avocado and banana. Although my stomach didn’t agree, it wasn’t protesting, so down it went – a wonderful pale green smoothie sliding into my gurgling tummy. Before long the revolt came and my stomach was in knots. Growing up it was always saltine crackers to ease a stomach ache, so I grabbed two as I ran out the door.

Church was painful.  When feeling nauseous it is incredibly difficult to focus on anything except, “okay, don’t vomit. Good, 30 minutes left. Okay, don’t vomit. Man, 29 minutes. Can I make it? Don’t vomit. Focus Leanne, don’t vomit. 20 minutes.” With such mental toughness I finished the service. Although I finished, it left me weak and ready to curl up in bed. The 11 minute walk back to my apartment was laborious. How thankful I was to have my dear friend Debbie walking by me the entire way. We kept up conversation and this allowed my thoughts to wonder away from how sick I felt. I just needed to lie down; certainly I would feel better after a nap.

My nap turned into 4 hours of fitful rolling to ease the pain in my abdomen. I did manage to pass out for a bit though and when I opened my eyes to look at a clock it was already 5:00.  Then the diarrhea hit. I’ll spare the gruesome details and just tell you it was bad. I had a phone date with my mom so I briefly called home. Mom answered and more than ever I just wanted her to be in Colombia with me. She’d know what to do. She’d know what I should take. She’d take care of everything while I centered my attention on feeling better. She wasn’t here though. I was still alone and feeling like death. At least I could tell someone my pain. So, I let it all out; told her everything. My lip was in the full out pout position and I was feeling sorry for myself. Like many moms do, she talked me out of my slump and assured me things would be fine. I believed her….her timeline was just a little different than mine.

After ending the Skype call I hunched on my little love seat in a fetal position.  “No Amiguita, I don’t want to play. Leave me here to die.”  I whimpered once or twice and again slipped out of sickness and into nothingness. An hour later I woke up and knew there was no way I could make it to school Monday morning. Picking up the phone, I gave Luisa Super Woman a call. I told her my symptoms and she said she’d send a doctor to my house right away. If I needed anything I was to call back. Within the half-hour (it’s about 7:30 by now) my portero called and ushered the doctors in. In my best Spanish I tried to explain what was going on. They probed and prodded and found nothing out of normal except my stomach making a lot of noise. I assume it was the battle cries of whatever was at war.  They decided it was probably a parasite, wrote down 4 medicines, explained how to take each one, and then asked if I wanted the injection.

The injection? They explained that it would be a shot that would make me feel better. My friend had warned me about this. It must be their drug of choice. So the doctor led me my bedroom and had me lie on my stomach on my bed. He pulled my shorts band down, exposing my rear end, and planted the needle right in there. Ow, owe, oweeyyy. It did not feel good. “Does it hurt?” he inquired. Really? Are you asking me if sinking a needle into a strong muscle (ha! Who am I kidding?) and leaving it there for 10 seconds while you take your sweet old time getting the medicine out of the syringe hurts? Yes. It hurts. Satisfied? Sheesh.

So I received the infamous shot in the butt (3 days later and my limp is finally receding) and the doctors left me with wishes of better health. I could see a brighter future. The sermon from earlier was about joy. I wasn’t quite to leaping through fields and singing in a loud voice, but I returned to my bed with a smile. Again, my imagined timeline of getting well was shorter than would actually be, but I didn’t know that then.

 The next time I woke up it was 9:00. I knew I had to send substitute teacher notes to my secretary at school, so I took care of that and went back to bed. Once again I returned to a dreamless state with interrupted changes of position to ease my stomach. The next time I looked at the clock it was 5:30 Monday morning. I had survived the night.  I hadn’t eaten anything since my Sunday smoothie, and decided I should try to eat something. The doctors had given me a list of foods to try. The only thing I had on hand was an apple and saltine crackers. 2 more crackers and an apple later and I was done. The nausea had returned and I was stifling the urge to vomit. Back to bed. Must go back to bed.  At this point I had slept 20 of the past 24 hours, but I just needed more.

When I woke up around noon, I knew that I had to go get my medicine. It was possibly the only thing between being sick and being healthy again. I recently found out I could have ordered my drugs and had them delivered, but my Gringa self didn’t know this at the time. So I got dressed, hauled myself in the sun to the pharmacy, paid the $45 and turtled my way back. I thought the fresh air might do me good – who was I kidding.

1 medicine was liquid and grape. Not bad. The next was powder that I dissolved in water and taste like some bacteria broth I would make in bio lab. Sick. The next was a pill. Normal. The final was another powder to be dissolved in water and drank. Luckily this was orange flavored. Not so bad. Upon taking the medicine, the next 24 hours ensued: sleeping, bathroom, reading, bathroom, sleep, bathroom, planning, bathroom, skype call, bathroom…etc. Eating was nowhere in my routine as the nausea was lingering. When will this ever end? Tuesday? Not quite. Back to school, but not back up to speed. At least the diarrhea wasn’t urgent and the nausea was subsiding. The only thing left to kick was the pains in my stomach. Owey. I ate my first meal Tuesday at lunch , made it through the entire day, walked home, and crashed. Wow, that was exhausting. Relaxing the rest of the evening and taking meds did me a whole world of good. I was on the final stretch – this is what my mom was talking about: I would get better.

And better is where I find myself writing this today. It’s Wednesday and I’m finishing up the last hour of the day. My stomach is still a little upset, but not enough to prevent me from eating or force me into a fetal position. I’m writing from a thankful standpoint of overcoming a sickness. Who knows what it was, but I’m joyous knowing that it’s almost gone! Thank you God. Yes, thank you God.

One more thought about being sick: It overwhelms me how many people inquired after me while I was sick. Several (I mean more than 5) of my Colombian/America friends reached out with sympathetic hands and offered help if I needed anything. It warms my heart knowing that I have caring people concerned for me in this strange place. With friends sickness is overcome and joy is replenished.

French?

When I sit down to think about it, I don't really like to go grocery shopping anymore. Sure, I like to have food, but when you have no one to go with, you know you have to carry whatever bags back with you at least 1/2 a mile (okay, I could take a taxi...but I am anit-taxi unless necessary), and you never know exactly what you are going to find - it's not so much fun. Okay, now that I've said that. I halfway take it back. Ha! It is fun meandering the aisles and browsing. I've found some pretty neat stuff. Today I saw a whole pigs leg. Kind of gross but kind of cool. There are also endless fruits. Yummm!!! So I guess it's not THAT bad to go to the grocery store. (Thanks for baring with me on that talk through of grocery shopping. Ha! Pointless.)

The point of this story lies in the check-out counter. As I walk up to check out, the clerk always asks if I have a "tarjeta de puntos". This is my points card. Whenever I buy things I accumulate points to use on merchandise. What exactly? I have no idea. Ha! I just know that whenever I buy something I'm racking up the points. Sweet. Makes me feel good! Well, most Colombians, when asked for their tarjeta de puntos, just give the number of their cedula (identification card). This 6 digit number is their code into the computer system so they don't have to carry a card around. I tried that once (I have an identification card for foreigners). Told the lady the number to my cedula and 1, 2, 3, fail. She just shook her head. I wasn't about to give up so I handed her my cedula. For about a minute straight she was punching in numbers, canceling, punching in numbers, adding numbers, subtracting numbers but nothing seemed to work. I shrugged and handed her this flimsy piece of paper with a bar code linked to my account. Bleep - and like magic my name appears on the screen and she can proceed to give me my hard earned points.

Here's something that always makes me smile. When the clerk scans the bar code on my card they are supposed to say my name. Like I've mentioned in the past, Leanne is NOT an easy or common name here. So, their first challenge lies in my first name..which usually gets butchered. What's funnier is watching them try and say my last name. VanRemortel. This name is 11 letters long and intimidating. Not that it is difficult to pronounce (just sound it out and your golden) but it just doesn't seem to end. The same thing usually happens at the check-out: the clerk sees my names, nervously glances up at me, grins, and then makes their best attempt to say my name. I always smile back and explain to them that my name is pretty strange for Colombia and that I'm not from here. Two days ago the man looked at me, looked back at my name, looked at me and asked if I was french. Sure, why not, today I'll be French. No, just kidding, I told him that I was from the United States. He smiled.

That was the second time in a week that someone asked me if I was French. A few days before this incident I went to a pizza shop with a friend. We walked in and the owner said Happy New Year in Spanish. I responded with Happy New Year in Spanish and then another worker said with a strong accent in English, "Happy New Year!". I grinned and responded back to him in English, "Happy New Year." Then he asked me (in Spanish) to say Happy New Year in my language. I was confused so I just said Happy New Year in English again. Ha! He was probably confused then too.

 "No, no, no - in french or Italian."

I apologized, "Sorry, I don't speak those languages."

He was shocked, "Really you're not French or Italian??"

"No, I'm from the United States"

"Oh, you appear to be French or Italian."

Interesting. I wonder how he would imagine someone from the United States. We all look pretty different anyway. So yeah, 2 times in one week being told I was French - I'll take it!

Well, my train of thought/writing has brought us from the grocery store to France, how does this happen?