Living Abroad Brought Me Home

When we observe how some people know how to manage their experiences—their insignificant, everyday experiences—so that they become an arable soil that bears fruit three times a year, while others—and how many there are!—are driven through surging waves of destiny, the most multifarious currents of the times and the nations, and yet always remain on top, bobbing like a cork, then we are in the end tempted to divide mankind into a minority (a minimality) of those who know how to make much of little, and a majority of those who know how to make little of much. —Nietzsche

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Travel is like love, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end. — Pico Iyer

It has been a full week since I kissed my studying and service semester in La República Dominicana adios, flew smoothly through a 10-hour travel day, and crossed the threshold of my good old Wisconsin home for the first time in five months. I had told myself earlier that I would resist the urge to pen one of those “How Studying Abroad Changed My Life For Ever & Ever” posts, since the Internet (or at least just my Facebook feed) is overly indulged with them; all preaching essentially the same “carpe diem” thing. Yes, you should go study abroad! Your life will never be the same (obviously)!

But these next few paragraphs will be about something quite distinct: how spending five months in a beautiful yet developing country turned out to be just what I needed. Because I didn’t find what I needed there.

The central question that made itself at home in the depths of my mind throughout the entire five months was “why am I here?” And before I am misunderstood, I must emphasize that Encuentro Dominicano was an incredible opportunity that I continue to be 100% indebted to for revealing to me the beauty of service and community. Even more, these past few months could be viewed as a rapid succession of thrilling adventures, in which the Comunidad 19 accomplished feats we had scarcely previously imagined, while doing our part to leave our temporary home better than we found it. I was inexplicably drawn to the service-learning program in La República Dominicana, but it continually bothered me that I could not quite put my finger on why I was there.

Seeking out the answer relentlessly, I stumbled upon the “little” reasons. I was here to learn the patient art of living in community with 15 to-be-friends; I was here to be an older sister to Caoli and Carelin, my siblings in the campo; I was here to belt out “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” with the bright smiles of our Haitian school and teach them the English words for their favorite animals while a cuddly 2-year old was cradled at my hip; I was here to revel in the glamour of the open, glittering sea and to fail miserably at salsa dancing.

But by the time I had about three-fourths of the semester under my belt, I found in myself a desire that shocked me beyond belief, truly. Clara Elizabeth Jace just wanted to go home. This was astonishing because up until this summer, when someone would ask me where home is or where I am from, I took pride in explaining that I have moved a lot in my life and don’t really feel right calling just one place home. I was the independent, free-spirited wild child who wanted to discover and possess every aspect of life, intimately. And we all know that those kind of people are bitten by wanderlust and were made to explore the wide world rather than end each God-given day by watching Netflix at home in their suffocatingly comfortable beds. What was wrong with me? I became haunted by this aching desire to return home in order to carry out my unfinished business, business that was nothing more than a resolution to be a better person, both professionally and personally, to those who were ordained to remain in my life for longer than just five months. I especially couldn’t wait to start being a better daughter and older sister after relearning the value of family through the campo immersions. There is no denying the marvelous natural beauty of the Dominican Republic and of Misión ILAC (please believe me that some of my favorite nights were going on jogs around their tropical plant-enveloped trail) and it’s friendly culture. But while I was happy, my restlessness kept my thoughts turned homeward.

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Living abroad taught me how to be thankful.  I had this intellectual sense of thankfulness before, where I knew instinctively that I needed to practice thankfulness in order to be happy, but it was only habituated for the obvious things– I was thankful when I had a major victory in school, pushed my limits on those evening runs, or enjoyed a fabulous night on the town with friends. When not only those things (which did actually appear in their Dominican form), but the general order and cleanliness I was accustomed to in the United States, every single one of my friends, and most of my material possessions were stripped away for those five months, I had to discover newer, “smaller” things to be thankful for. My list (yep, actually a note on my phone): the lull of the fans, yuca, the rocking chairs, the spiral staircases to reach the rooftop terraces, plantains, la bandera, the characters of the campo, Sunday mass in Spanish, the comunidad and our awesome teachers/friends, familiar books, bachata and merengue dancing, the powerful sun, childhood songs I had nearly forgotten, technology such as Skype and handwritten letters, spontaneous adventures due to the gauguas…the list is extensive while not nearly exhaustive. Currently resting on my peaceful back porch in the States, it may be said that my thankfulness count has increased exponentially. I notice the birds, plants, and whistling wind as if I were encountering them for the first time. We truly aren’t aware of how good we have it here.

Living abroad taught me how to understand beauty. And that is absolutely, inextricably linked to practicing thankfulness. My individual aesthetic ascribes beauty to a certain sophisticated elegance, for example, on the rainy days my heart wanders back towards the seductive wisdom, history and art of the museums in Rome, the lofty cathedrals of sacred Israel, and the rolling French countryside in which I picnicked on white wine and fresh bread last summer, surrounded by my family and friends. Though the Dominican Republic undeniably possesses an intriguing history and abundance of culture, our service-learning program revealed a novel kind of beauty to me. In particular, I was returned back to the basics. Though I was admittedly out of my comfort-zone in the simplicity of the campo, I only had to raise my eyes to admire the sublime mountain range that watches over the houses. Though the road was not paved and we didn’t have running water, I soon began to see the beauty in the careful manner in which my campo mom, Olga, thoroughly cleaned her house every day. Though there were no books to be found, I saw how the kindness and piety that was displayed by countless members of the community is purer than any worldly knowledge. I could continue on with precious pearls of experiences, but let it suffice to say that the gift of simplicity revealed itself to me. All the while, I still did not lose sight of my more learned loves and made it my personal mission to leave Carelin and Caoli with their own petite, classical library.

Living abroad taught me what home is. With my renewed understanding of thankfulness and beauty, I could not wait to rush back and behold the familiar as if it were magical once again, to treat my family and neighborhood like we were a real community. Though far away from our homes proper, our experience had been saturated with experiences of community and family. I have long held that one ought to practice the ability to cultivate a home wherever one is planted, no matter how transiently. I had not legitimately put that belief into practice until taking up residence in the Dominican Republic for those months, and I now realize the poverty of that view. What makes home “home” is that it’s irreplaceable, unable to be replicated. Sure, enough time might suffice to reconcile the disparity between strangeness and familiarity, but the object of the majority of travel is to return home. With new eyes, a rejuvenated perspective, and a new treasure chest of memories and friendships, yes, but nevertheless to return home. I profess that never have I been more enchanted with my home, more thankful for my country, or more in love with my family. I have my thrilling, difficult, interesting, uncomfortable, crazy and refreshing semester abroad to thank for that. Living abroad brought me home.

When we observe how some people know how to manage their experiences—their insignificant, everyday experiences—so that they become an arable soil that bears fruit three times a year, while others—and how many there are!—are driven through surging waves of destiny, the most multifarious currents of the times and the nations, and yet always remain on top, bobbing like a cork, then we are in the end tempted to divide mankind into a minority (a minimality) of those who know how to make much of little, and a majority of those who know how to make little of much. —Nietzsche

Hold On To Your Humanity

Last Friday, the Comunidad 19 traveled to the Haitian-Dominican border in order to witness market day. The pushing of the crowd quickly pushed each of us through the initial shock of doing something few of us ever pictured ourselves doing. As my eyes soaked in the piles of dirty, donated merchandise presided over by glazed stares, I was overwhelmed by the atmosphere that vibrated the very air with sounds of struggling humans– struggling for their daily bread and struggling to believe in their dignity. During that day, I met more faces and still shared smiles, but I could not help but be moved by the fact that this brutal learning exercise for me was their ugly, daily reality.  Did they know that they were made for more? How could they? As is brilliantly noted in one of my favorite travel articles of all time,

“Happiness is important, sure. But it’s also common and can be found in most situations once your mind adjusts to your surroundings. You can find happiness in any slum or in any mansion, on the beach, in the mountains, or in the middle of the desert.

But what is rare in many parts of the world is human dignity. You know, people who aren’t treated like animals — used, ignored, cheated, beaten, mutilated, silenced, or suppressed” (5 Life Lessons from 5 Years of Traveling).

I have explored marketplaces before, most impressionably the Jerusalem bazaar shown below, but what really struck me about this binational convention was the distinct lack of crafts, or anything locally hand-cooked or hand-made for that matter. Everything was packaged in crisp plastic, evidently manufactured in bulk, and soiled from the transport. Clearly there is no fault in making your living by reselling donations, but the initial tragedy that I realized was the lack of resources and training available for the merchants to harness their human creativity and ingenuity in providing unique goods, services, and creating wealth. As humans, we take pride in the works of our hands. We love to create beauty and order when we cannot find it naturally in the world around us. I would have leapt for joy at the sight of one single artist.

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”Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.”

Unfortunately, the picture gets substantially darker. Underlying the ugly market is the uglier disease of rampant corruption, bribery, and mistreatment. Whenever there is a situation where one group’s livelihood is at the mercy of another, there you will find scumbags taking advantage of the powerless

…but on that battlefield you will also encounter those who choose have turned their backs on comfortable, safe lives in order to protect the powerless. They hold on to what makes us human.

During our stay in Dajabón, our group listened to two talks by groups who labor to protect and defend, sometimes in the face of persecution– our first speaker had just been released from over 500 days of unjust imprisonment. Relations between Haiti and the Dominican Republic are complicated and overshadowed by miscommunication and misinformation, but there are always those who profit off the weak and those who speak up for them.

I know which side I want to be on.

On that theme, I’d just like to share a TED talk that I watched this morning. It’s uncomfortable, unsettling, and not fun, but it’s infinitely better to work at bringing truth, dignity and beauty to the uglier faces of life than to cowardly cast our eyes away. Hold on to your humanity.

Bucket-Shower Baptisms

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

With the gentle eyes of hindsight, these past two weeks may very well have been a dream. But as I thumb through my smutty journal and study my crude, daily recordings, I am firmly reminded that they were full of rocky ups and downs.  Somewhere in between frigid bucket-showers, raw blisters, and the endless supply of hugs, I was taught something more about myself, hard-work, and friendship. But that is old news; that is to be expected with each new, uncomfortable experience. What remains now is to attempt to share, though in much less a poetic manner than that of Thoreau, an average day in our dear campo:

6:37 am: Wake up gracefully to the sun shinning through the curtain. JUST KIDDING: the roosters have been “heralding the day” since 4:00 am. I untangle my way out of my pink mosquito net, try to journal down some morning thoughts en español, braid my hair, and then all that’s left is to throw on my muddy hiking boots (since I was clever/lazy enough to sleep in my work clothes.)

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Buenos días! Es un día glorioso.

7:30 am: Enter Olga, always with a piping hot cup of mega-sugary coffee and a cozy, back-rubbing hug. Did I mention that my campo mom is an angel?

8:00(ish) am: Gather up the crew and wade through four rivers (yep, you bet we named them all) to get to breakfast. Discuss in depth the events of the night before, i.e. who won at dominos, who got offered the most food, and who bonded with a new friend over our weird American music.

9:00 am: I finish dunking my last piece of bread in the breakfast hot chocolate and hop into the bed of the community truck– the guagua. We try not to bruise our tailbones on the way to one of the worksites: the tank, digging, or tubing. Let the games begin!

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NB: when given the opportunity to ride in the bed of a truck, always say yes.

11:00 am: After a few hot hours of working on and off, the kiddos come by during their recreo.  They insist on singing us a new song that they learned, and I find myself fighting back tears because children are just so beautiful. Especially these ones. Always holding our hands, they fawn “mi hermana” before scampering back to la escuela.

12:15 pm: Lunch break, gracias a Dios! We all traverse back to the meeting place, a small patio surrounded by chickens, dogs, and mud. Before we carry on, we bow our heads to sing “Bendigamos, al Señor…” Never mind that we still don’t know the tune of the third line. 😉

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1:00 pm: Although uncomfortably hot in our jeans, we recline and some manage to nod off while leaning back on their plastic chairs. After washing my hands and face in the outside spigot, I daydream and watch the still, bright green montañas.

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2:00 pm: And it’s back to work; some sigh and some sing. By this time, much of the community has joined in the fun and we progress quickly despite the lack of palas y picos, our tools. I have a newfound appreciation for loose, light dirt.

3:00 pm: One of the local madres brings out grape and orange soda. Although never a huge pop drinker, I don’t think I’ve had a more refreshing beverage in my life– ¡Ah, muchas gracias! By this time, almost every able-bodied adult is trying to contribute in some way to the construction of their aqueduct. Some even dig with their bare hands.

5:00 pm: And finally, the aqueduct is another day’s work closer to completion! Our sore feet drag us back home over the rivers and through the woods to wash up before dinner.

5:30 pm: I arrive at my front porch to find my family reclining in plastic chairs and chatting up a storm.  They gleefully greet me and insist that I sit down to cool off and relax before I take a shower. I always open up with, “Ay Dios! Fue un día glorioso.”

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6:00(ish) pm: After another rousing prayer concluding with the beautiful “Oh-h Padre Nuestro,” we dig into the abundance of plantains, salami, yuca, and salad spread before us. I have a new appreciation for ketchup and hot sauce, as they are somehow able to make all the above taste like a gourmet meal (or maybe that’s the hungry tummy talking.) We thank the cooks profusely, and some of us girls get a free cooking lesson from one of the older women. Nevertheless, I am still convinced that those wrinkled, brown hands work nothing short of a miracle when it comes to the challenge of raw food and open flame.

7:00 pm: More members of the community roll around, and we engage in cards and friendly banter while the elders avidly matchmake the eligible young men and women (but c’mon, what a great story that would be!)

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8:30(ish) pm: The River Crew gets a ride back home in the guagua and we arrive to find a gaggle of our neighbors hanging at the local colmado. The party starts as the bachata music is turned up and the dominos are brought out. Quieres bailar?

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10:00 pm: Although my sister was with me, I decide to scamper home at a decent hour in order to pass some time with the adults in my family. We watch baseball and do our best (necesito practicar español más) to discuss adult things. Somehow, the conversation frequently turns toward the importance of education (surely they knew the kiddos were listening awake in their beds), and I don’t mind at all since I have a lot to say on the subject.

11:30 pm: It has been a long, long day for us all, but I know that my family will patiently keep me company until I explicitly yawn and declare that I would like to sleep soon. We hug, scuffle back under our mosquito nets, and I turn off the light after recording the new Spanish words of the day. While thoughts of home drift to me in the dark, I catch the whispered Ave Marias of my abuela and am reminded to dar gracias a Dios for my day. And now it’s time to rest. Hasta mañana, mi familia de ángeles– si Dios quiere 🙂

In Between Guagua Rides

“Aw man, I really wish so-and-so could see me right now.”

Whether out of humor, glee, or smug pride, every fresh traveler knows the above sentiment well. There have been many instances recently during which that the thought has traversed the paths of my mind– the guiding theme has been humor. In fact, I would even venture to say that travel is the art of learning to laugh at yourself. And to laugh incredibly hard. Please see below:

The Guagua

Thirty-four. This week I rode in a twelve passenger van with thirty-four other passengers and it was great. In fact, it was one of those times you rush to dinner, excited to brag about your experience over the beans, rice and salad. For all who need a reality check, or just a little cuddling, please take the preferred Dominican public transportation- the gaugua. The name itself demands the attention it deserves. Additionally, my inner poet requests that I mention the lovely local scenes one can witness through the wide-open windows (ventilation is key), and my inner economist adds that the fee is only 25 pesos (roughly 50 cents.) What a deal!

The Service Hours

Few things are more enlivening than screaming the hokey pokey at the top of your lungs while jumping amidst a gaggle of happy, dancing children. For a moment, the hokey pokey was my favorite song in the entire world. The funny thing is that rewarding experiences like such are the exception, not the norm, during service but you keep coming back because that brief and intense joy so far makes up for the tedious and frustrating times. Two weeks ago, I was awfully reluctant to climb out from my mosquito-net canopy each morning and hop on a guagua to go to my service site.  But part of maturity is gaining the undeniable elegance and grace required when leaning into such discomfort. Part of maturity is understanding that teaching requires entertaining, and entertaining means screaming long-forgotten nursery rhymes at the top of your lungs and sillily dancing, well, like the gringa you are. Having a few more classes at the makeshift Haitian school in Pontezuela under my belt now, I can finally say that I know why I am doing this. Little-by-little, picture-by-picture and song-by-song, I am confident that Sarah and I will be able to do good. And as always, doing good feels good. I could not ask for more.

The Salsa Hours

Two Fridays past, the Comunidad Crew made an appearance at a local bar. We were led there by our maestras y advisoras, Margarita and Kat, who slyly knew what they were doing, since we soon discovered that this was the Friday date night hot spot for all the elderly couples of Santiago– though it was still just as lively and loud as one would the expect the scene of twenty-somethings to be. Looking back, for confidence’s sake, it was probably for the best that we were primarily spectators that night. In fact, we niñas were happily mesmerized by a darling old couple who didn’t even make it to the dance floor; the man intercepted his wife right after dinner and began to twirl her around right next to their table. We all search for what they have.

Then in Santo Domingo last Friday, we were led by the locals to the promised land, and by promised land, I mean the local hot spot for dancing (and with partners more our age-group.) For all who have never tried bachata, merengue, and salsa, they are worthy of addition to the bucket list– in ALL CAPS and permanent marker. There is truly nothing like letting the music move you. Like the bad tourist that I am, I only have two grainy photos to share from that night, a dance and our addition to the signature wall. Thankfully, there are times so gleeful that one forgets to take pictures.

And the next morning… the Comunidad got the grand tour of La Zona Colonial: Catedral de Santa María la Menor, Calle El Conde, Plaza de España, y Museo de las Casas Reales. It was all so beautiful, but still my primary takeaway was the reminder that deep in my heart, I still yearn to be a princess and live in a castle when I grow up. 😉

The Studious Hours

And in addition to the little daily lessons that emerge in the sneakiest places, our actual coursework has also been marvelous. My studies have been a lovely mingling of economics, theology, history, accounting, and literature– infused with zesty Spanish. Not only do we examine the tumultuous DR-Haitian relationship through texts, but we go forth to teach English in both Dominican and Haitian schools. We don’t just learn about free-trade zones; we spend Friday morning touring Alta Gracia (which deserves its own future post, I promise.) Not only can we conjugate comer in the future tense, but we throw around Dominican slang words and hum our new favorite songs: Las Cosas Pequeñas, Todo Cambió, Niña De Mi Corazón y Darte Un Beso (honorable mention, always: Heroe.) Let us now take a moment to appreciate how endearingly over the top these music videos are.

There are also the universal lessons. The clash of cultures and countries is only a supersize version of the clash between individual personalities and minds. At best, it involves the beautiful mutual exchange of knowledge, best practices, and wider-encompassing interpretations of the world in which we live and thrive. Thus it turns out that travel is about the root of laughter: delighting in and learning from one another. Emerson is quoted as saying,

 “In my walks, every man I meet is my superior in some way, and in that I learn from him.”

I cannot think of a better way to describe my days here in La República Dominicana.

Learning a Million New Things Everyday

Yesterday, the Comunidad 19 participated in an engaging tour of Centro León, feasted on “La Bandera”, and sang Prince Royce’s “Las Cosas Pequeñasen nuestra clase de español. While this was all wonderful, the real unexpected treat for myself came after dinner in the form of a casual talk by the Dominican Director of ILAC. He began per usual with his background, talking about how he grew up as the youngest of eight brothers on a farm, worked hard in a factory, educated himself enough to own his own farm, and how he now helps run the ILAC center by teaching the campesinos, or Dominican countryside farmers.  As soon as the words “opportunity cost” came out of his mouth during an example, the economist in me was hooked. Rightly so, because it was at this point that he began to speak about the economic differences in the Dominican Republic, and how it was important for our Comunidad to observe the differences but keep in mind that there was most likely an unnoticed rational behind them. “Observe, but not judge,” he repeated over and over as he described how they no longer took American groups to tour the factories where people worked, since in the past people had staunchly objected to the fact that the Dominicans were working such long hours and being paid only about $1 per hour. He pleaded that we do not realize that Dominicans are able to stretch that weekly $50 to support themselves better than we could imagine, since we Americans frankly have little clue about the art of being frugal in a developing country. He added that some people once suggested that the government double the minimum wage, but that this would be completely counter productive as it would cause the factory to relocate to another more lucrative country, leaving behind poor and now job-less workers. The way to break the poverty cycle was not through free handouts, but rather through supporting jobs and education. And here I will interject, because earlier in the day, on the sunny ILAC rooftop, I had read the universal proposition derived from that exact logic. It was a great hour during which the principles that I held by my own reason and logic, here specifically faith in the free market, were confirmed by a completely foreign source who had also arrived at the same principle, but through sheer personal experience. I mentioned in the last post that I had recently read Fr. Sirico’s wonderful book, Defending the Free Market, and found it informative and logical. Here is an important portion from his chapter on foreign aid that was unknowingly repeated almost verbatim during yesterday’s discourse:

“What then can wealthy nations do to assist developing countries? First, don’t make the matter worse by encouraging corruption and governmental irresponsibility, which is exactly what government-to-government aid tends to do. Second, stop undercutting businesses in the developing world by flooding their markets with free goods year after year. Save emergency aid for genuine emergencies, and when you rush in to help, see if there are any local producers already there with whom you can partner to source emergency provisions. Third, open the world’s markets to the businesses of emerging economies. As things stand today, many Western nations practice the confused and contradictory policy of protecting domestic firms through tariffs and subsidies–thereby shutting out the products of developing nations–and at the same time sending billions of dollars in tax money to developing nations to supplement their failing economies. This is the misguided strategy we have used to ‘develop’ Haiti for the past few decades. Is it any wonder Haiti’s people are still struggling to develop?”

The director, a neighbor and eyewitness of Haiti, added vibrant language of his own and described the foreign aid as “handicapping” the Haitians– they don’t need free things, he said, rather they hunger for education so that they themselves may be creators. Work allows individuals to have the necessary responsibility, independence, order, and sense of purpose in their lives. If you truly want to help people and break the cycle of poverty, advance education. And so I climb (through my loathsome mosquito net) into bed tonight feeling content. Content because while La República Dominicana and this experience outside of my comfort-zone has already embellished my surface interests (e.g. bachata music, yuca, siestas, etc.) my core beliefs stand not only unshaken, but triumphantly confirmed. But the best part yet: my Comunidad and I have the privilege of being a part of this legitimate foreign aid since, beginning next Monday, we will be teaching English in three different schools throughout the semester. Here’s to learning–now hopefully teaching–a million new things everyday. 🙂

Siempre Estoy De Buen Humor

And I’m not just referring to the fantastic beaches and waves, although the natural beauty here does rock me to the core. This lush ground has already begun to infuse some of its soul into mine, and that is very, very good.

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“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.” -Jane Austen

Thus begins my four-month long excursion in La República Dominicana, and I am currently a lovely mess of enthusiasm and nerves. The thought “This will be very good for me” has rung thrice through my mind in these last 24 hours. And I’m not just referring to the fantastic beaches and waves, although the natural beauty here does rock me to the core. This lush ground has already begun to infuse some of its soul into mine, and that is very, very good.

I wish I had words for the grin on my face as I disembarked from the plane early this morning (literally 3am) to find myself caught up in a gaggle of boisterous Spanish voices – voices whose owners were clearly full of the zest of life, even at that ungodly hour. When we experience such unexpected, simple joy, we immediately understand how we ought to make others feel. The Dominicans – and this is unabashedly cliche, I know – have a real grip on the simple joy in the simply lived life. Stripping away life to its necessary components will be very good for me.

Already, I have been humbled. Not only is my grip on the Spanish language so weak that my blunders had Ricardo, our cab driver, chuckling the whole way here, but I am sure that his amusement with my inadequacies will be shared with many other of his countrymen as I continue to struggle through claiming “sí, hablo español, más o menos.” I am looking at copious amounts of copying verb charts and Duolingo-ing up a storm, although I can’t complain since all studies will commence under the glorious Dominican sun to the view of rolling, tropical pastures. Why nap all day when you could be learning a new language? Oh and also, I persisted for a grand total of 14min on my morning jog before surrendering to the heat. Gosh darn it. Adjusting to life in the big and little ways here will be very good for me.

Lastly, there is a pastoral quality to the entirety of life here that is wholly uncommon in the States. Chairs are always pulled out to the streets and from them reign eternal observers.  I think first of our gatekeeper– a lanky, tan man who keeps a sleepy, yet mysteriously watchful, eye on the entrance into “Sunset Valley.”  Side note: he is also quite the friendly and encouraging jogging companion, as I discovered this morning.  Another small example, after some gloriously fresh seafood last night (that certain members of my family ended up regretting late last night), my dad slowly backed up our massive white van as a huddle of Dominican men looked on from their perch outside a restaurant. It was clear that this sort of gathering was a nightly occurrence as their experienced hands handled fat cigars and worn cards.  I have already mentally collected a plethora of favorite characters that I could reference in this regard, but already it seems safe to gather that the Dominicans are generally not a hasty people. Slowing down here will be very good for me.

As the trials of travel are popular for showing the true colors of one’s traveling companions, likewise the curveballs bring out the usually concealed sides of ourselves. My all-encompassing travel advice? Always be in a good mood — as we all know, this involves a whole hell of a lot of “fake it ’til you make it.” 😉

Hasta lugeo, mis amigos!


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Amen.
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Mi vista as I’m penning this post 🙂