I wake up every morning to an alarm clock labeled "Wake Up. You're In Colombia." It often goes off around 4:30am, giving me time to snooze, get ready, eat breakfast, and travel to school all before my 6:30am class begins. I make some really crucial choices that early in the morning - will I attempt another day with my hair down in this dreadfully hot weather? Will I succumb to the Colombian ways and wear jeans again? Should I jam-pack by backpack full of things to last me for two more days in case I end up somewhere else tonight? Dare I wear white today, even though my mom says it looks awful on me?
The tough decisions come to an end as soon as I walk down stairs. I open the fridge to this beautiful, nearly color-coded display of coastal Caribbean fruits and vegetables. I take a second to say "Wow, that's nice" and then grab the bread, the crunchy peanut butter, and whatever piece of fruit that I feel matches personality that morning.
The tough decisions come to an end as soon as I walk down stairs. I open the fridge to this beautiful, nearly color-coded display of coastal Caribbean fruits and vegetables. I take a second to say "Wow, that's nice" and then grab the bread, the crunchy peanut butter, and whatever piece of fruit that I feel matches personality that morning.
I scarf down my meal with a newfound sense of Colombian ease, guzzle a liter of water, refill my water bottle, and wait patiently near the door. I admire the last third of the Colombian sunrise, the generosity of my host dads daily routine of bringing breakfast to an old man that works for him, and the love between my host parents, the mom standing outside saying "chao" and waving goodbye until the very second we've driven off out of sight.
We drive the bumpy roads that bounce me up and down and destroy the sound of any half-decent thing I'm trying to say in Spanish until we get to where the guards sit. My host dad rolls down his window, yells "Comando!" in Spanish, followed by "good morning!" or some other english phrase that he's been working on. By the time we pass through, there are 2-4 workers that have jumped in the back of the pickup truck we're driving to hitch a ride into town. My host dad chuckles, tells me the price for the ride and that I have to relay the news to the men in back, then chuckles again because he couldn't be father from joking.
I arrive across the street from school, greet the policeman standing at the foot of the bridge, cross the bridge, shuffle through my bag to find my colorful UniNorte ID, and walk 5 minutes to class, being stared at the whole time because I'm foreign; not as foreign as the posse of bleach blonde German girls, but somehow, they just know.
I go to class, chill around campus, buy some food, chill some more, buy some more food, chill some more, and then always, without fail, end up in the lime green ISA office. The air condition is killer and the bathrooms are new, so it's always my when-in-doubt destination.
We drive the bumpy roads that bounce me up and down and destroy the sound of any half-decent thing I'm trying to say in Spanish until we get to where the guards sit. My host dad rolls down his window, yells "Comando!" in Spanish, followed by "good morning!" or some other english phrase that he's been working on. By the time we pass through, there are 2-4 workers that have jumped in the back of the pickup truck we're driving to hitch a ride into town. My host dad chuckles, tells me the price for the ride and that I have to relay the news to the men in back, then chuckles again because he couldn't be father from joking.
I arrive across the street from school, greet the policeman standing at the foot of the bridge, cross the bridge, shuffle through my bag to find my colorful UniNorte ID, and walk 5 minutes to class, being stared at the whole time because I'm foreign; not as foreign as the posse of bleach blonde German girls, but somehow, they just know.
I go to class, chill around campus, buy some food, chill some more, buy some more food, chill some more, and then always, without fail, end up in the lime green ISA office. The air condition is killer and the bathrooms are new, so it's always my when-in-doubt destination.
I stand amongst the mob of people waiting for the elevator. By now, I've learned how to be politely aggressive and how to say "6th floor, please" in perfect Spanish. I get to the office, open the confusing glass doors that say "push" but mean "pull", attempt to explain last night's adventure to my program director in Spanish, question why the wifi is slow in the newest building on campus, and then sit at the front desk, knowing adventure is coming my way. We find ourselves doing the weirdest things in the ISA office.
In between adventures in the ISA office, we go to the gym on campus, get our hair cut at the salon on campus, sit in the grass and get bitten by the ants on campus, or waste all of our money on the food on campus. Other times, we hop on the bus and head to our favorite spot - Buenavista. It's a seemingly endless series of shopping centers that are connected by a bridge. Here, we resist the urge to indulge in McDonalds, people watch and talk about how cute Colombians toddlers are, enjoy the struggle it is trying to communicate our needs regarding data plans or strange items (superglue, toothpicks, cupcake papers), ride the people movers for fun, and try to get to the bottom of why the food court doesn't open until 11:30 or 12pm.
After classes have finished and we're done exploring the campus or the country, I head home to Puerto Colombia on the bright yellow, festive bus that does nothing less than represent the bright & festive culture all around me. After two months of bus rides, I've finally mastered the whole "I only have two hands. Do I grip my purse to ensure the safety of my things, or grip the rails to ensure I don't fall out of the bus on the next turn?" The answer - both.
I hop off at the entrance of my neighborhood, and am either greeted by my host mom with a car ride up the hill, or enjoy the walk through this beautiful neighborhood I live in. It's full of gorgeous modern homes, luscious green golf courses, fresh water pools, and the friendliest of people. I often stop and have a conversation with the guards, explaining for the 400th time what it is I'm doing in Colombia, why my accent is good but my content knowledge is bad, who I live with, and why I'm walking all the way there. Other times, kind residents of the neighborhood offer me a ride to my house, and use me as a way to catch up on the lives of my host family and their relatives, asking me what everyone is up to in life, how the kids are doing, etc.
I get home, ring the doorbell, get attacked by the dogs, and make my way to the back door of the house. It's always locked, so it results in my going through my list of contacts for whoever is in the house at the time. I text/call, or sometimes go to desperate measures like I did yesterday. I jumped the fence in my brand new white shirt made of easily rippable fabric - a sight to see. I sit down, catch up on the day and enjoy dinner with my host family. Whereas dinner is our biggest and most important meal in the US, here it's more of an evening snack.
We often make this dish which my host parents insist is "not pizza" although to me, it's definitely pizza, with a hint of Arab spice on top. We drink freshly made juice, chat about the day, and then rejoice over the fact we're all going to sleep soon, ready to wake up early the next day.
If it's a week night, I usually sit on my bed and do my homework, spend the evening googling my next destination, or occasionally FaceTime with friends and family back home. I wake up the next day and do it all over. If it's a weekend, however, the story is a little different. I've found a comfortable mix of staying in and going out. I've started having friends over on Fridays nights to chill and conjure up some manmade fun.
If it's a week night, I usually sit on my bed and do my homework, spend the evening googling my next destination, or occasionally FaceTime with friends and family back home. I wake up the next day and do it all over. If it's a weekend, however, the story is a little different. I've found a comfortable mix of staying in and going out. I've started having friends over on Fridays nights to chill and conjure up some manmade fun.
Saturday nights, I tend to go out, whether to a club, a bar, a house party, or a mix of all of them. Regardless of what we do, we're celebrating that weeks' birthdays. This weekend, it was the birthday girl, Claire. She happens to be 100% Irish and obsessed with St. Patricks day, as you can see by her getup. She's a self-proclaimed "Birthday B****", but loves everyone's birthday, not just her own. We've already made some plans for me to go visit her next September in Charleston, SC so she can show me what a REAL birthday is like.
We went to that cabin in Santo Veronica that I mentioned a few posts back to celebrate the birthday boy, Pipe. At 12 o'clock, it turned from Pipe's birthday to Claire's birthday, so a 2-for-1 special. We kept the music blasting, ate nothing but 5 rounds of good ol' American-like burgers, occasionally passed out for a short nap in the hammock, and watched both the sunset and the sunrise.
Half-way through the festivities, I stepped barefoot on a lit cigarette and spent a few hours in the penalty box (the rainbow striped lawn chair on the porch). Luckily, we rallied and had a great time. I hitched a ride home with the birthday boy's friends, made some great conversation, and spent the evening finishing my summer internship applications, making sure to submit them before 11:59PM in the correct time zone.
At the end of each night, I pass out somewhere - my bed, someone else's bed, the couch, the hammock, wherever - and wake up the next day excited to see what this new South American life has in store for me. I'm 42.2% of my way through this experience, day 60 out of 142. I have come a long way but have a long way to go. I'm ready to switch gears from letting Colombia happen to me, to me happening to Colombia. I'm going to start really studying the language, really using my courage to find myself new experiences, really budgeting to get the most out of my money, and really doing some soul searching while I have the chance.
At the end of each night, I pass out somewhere - my bed, someone else's bed, the couch, the hammock, wherever - and wake up the next day excited to see what this new South American life has in store for me. I'm 42.2% of my way through this experience, day 60 out of 142. I have come a long way but have a long way to go. I'm ready to switch gears from letting Colombia happen to me, to me happening to Colombia. I'm going to start really studying the language, really using my courage to find myself new experiences, really budgeting to get the most out of my money, and really doing some soul searching while I have the chance.