My Blog-osophy


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Prologue: I drafted this post almost four years ago, when I first forayed into the blogging game before I left to work in Spain. I just recently found it and thought it would be fun to share (miraculously, it still accurately reflects my feelings on the subject.) Also, raise your hand in silence if you forgot what a vuvuzela is…I can guarantee you that you knew in 2010, hehe.
August, 2010

This being my maiden voyage into the sea of blogging, I’m trying to maintain a “don’t knock it til you’ve tried it” attitude. BUT, I will admit to joining this adventure already possessing serious doubts about this medium. I keep asking myself “Do I NEED a blog?” but I think it is fair to say my real question is “Does blogging need ME?”

Maybe it’s my small-town Protestant upbringing (Jante’s law, in da house) but I find it difficult to believe that A. Anyone will actually care to read this and B. That they are wrong to not care. A quote from one of my Communication professors accurately encapsulates my doubts:

Opinions are like assholes. Everybody’s got one, and all they all stink.

My fear is that the booming popularity of personal blogs will only serve to inflate the egos of the already precociously self-absorbed Millenials, further encouraging the (mistaken) notion that all opinions are created equal.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a card-carrying member of my tech-savvy generation: well-versed in the art of profile-making, content sharing, picture uploading and the like. I can surf internet links and their links and their links like a pro, and would probably expire of unquenched curiosity if I didn’t have the ability to Google every doubt that flits through my head. I’m a digital diva, just like the millions of other 20-somethings that crowd the interwebs with their self-important ramblings and thoughtful 130-character discourses on the world’s most pressing topics (Justin Bieber and vuvuzelas, for example.)

But deep down, my question remains the same: Who am I to presuming that people will give a rat’s ass about what I have to say, and why should they?

The answer, I suppose, will be told in time. (Assuming I actually post on this thing, that is.)



A good ol’ fashioned rain dance


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Dense sticky air and hot gray rain pounding into palm tree silhouettes. That was my very first impression of Costa Rica, as I stood outside the airport with my 150 pounds of stuff waiting for my chauffer (yeah, I’m a celeb. Just kidding, it was a Honda Civic.) As I sat in the backseat of the car for the 2 hour drive to my new home, the same hot rain made a soothing drumming noise and promptly lulled me to sleep.

The first few weeks at EARTH, I was as giddy as a schoolgirl watching the rain pour onto campus for hours and hours on end from my office window. I think my Tico co-workers were equal parts amused and baffled by my excitement (we live in the TROPICAL RAINFOREST! What did you expect?)

I tried to explain: that growing up in rural Minnesota, rain was never just a type of precipitation. Rain is life and growth and money and happy smiles at coffee counters all over town. Rain is ever more precious than it’s slutty sister Snow, and even more rare is a good “soaker”. The kind of steady, penetrating rain that disappears into the ground and makes crops grow tall.

For weeks, I battled the rain and won. With my arsenal of an impermeable raincoat, automatic umbrella and well-timed exits from the office in between showers, I managed to go a month without a soggy incident. And then one day, I lost- in the best possible way. Rain dance I dashed home on my bike and arrived home just as the first rain drops fell. I flopped on my bed and listened to the rain on the tin roof above my head (a completely delicious sound that I’ve wondered about since I was 7 years old when I read it in a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.)

I laid there and thought of the first time I was homesick living abroad in England in 2007. My mom had sent me an email (she didn’t have Facebook then, in those days it was just for cool college kids like me) and in it she wrote “It’s been raining alot these last few days, and me and Emily went out in our pj’s and got soaked. Wish you had been here!” That moment was the first time I really thought I was missing out on something in the life I left, that I had lost the chance to run barefoot in my nightgown on cold slippery grass with the only two people who shared my love of playing in the rain.

Maybe it’s a testament to the 6 years of life experience that have passed since I was that 19 year old girl living in England (or maybe it’s the pharamaceuticals) but this time, my memories didn’t make me sad. Instead, I took off my jewelry and my leather sandals and jumped slowly off the back porch of my little house in the jungle, pale feet landing in a squishy pile of lawn and mud and threw my arms out Shawshank-style and got completely, totally, evenincludingmyunderwear WET. As you can see by my photo, it was a blissfully happy event.

As if my neighbors didn’t already think I was a crazy-ass gringa.


Life’s a Beach


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A couple weekends ago, I celebrated my 1 Month Costa Rican Anniversary with a trip to the beach and a mild nervous breakdown (though not necessarily in that order.)

Let me explain. For the past month, apart from a few shopping trips and a less than 24 hour road trip to the coast, I’ve been on campus-where I work, live, play, exercise and sleep. I knew that moving to Costa Rica would be a huge adjustment, not so much for the language (which was obviously a hurdle for me when I left for Spain) but more so for the fact that I would be returning to a rural life, a life I haven’t lived since I was 18. In short, by the time last Friday rolled around, I was so desperate to be ANYWHERE BUT ON CAMPUS that when my plans fell through to leave for the beach, I cried. Hard. Which then resulted in drinking vodka and watching Disney movies by myself on my back porch.

After a tin cup full of Absolut Mango and pineapple flavored pop, I came to the realization that this probably wasn’t the best way to deal with my anxiety/sadness, so I went to volleyball club with disgustingly red swollen eyes and pounded out some serves and felt a lot better.

The next morning, I called a taxi to take me to the bus stop (yes, the bus stop is that flippin’ far away) and waited for the direct bus to Puerto Viejo. Now, waiting on the side of the highway for a bus is never fun, but it is especially LESS fun while obsessively scanning the hundreds the road trying to discern which bus is MY bus out of the hundreds that pass by. After an hour of waiting, a trio of three wheezing tour buses passed by all at once, one after the other….and my bus was in the middle.


This of course, resulted in another swearing cry-fest, and a hysterical call to my co-worker who advised me “Get on the next bus you see and just figure it out. And stop trying to kick a hole in the bus stop.”

5 hours, 3 buses, and many cuss words later, I arrived in Puerto.

This was my face::::::

Or as one of my dear friends from Ireland comment, “This face is the definition of “disgruntled.”

Still, I had FINALLY arrived and wasted no time in finding a private room in a hostal and taking a well-deserved nap.

My disposition greatly improved, I spent the rest of my weekend wandering aimlessly throughout the Caribbean chillness that is Puerto Viejo. Basically, just imagine Jamaica but with Spanish subtitles. I did a little shopping, including an adorable turtle necklace carved from jade (I named her Manuelita) and a gorgeous Guatemalan style textile purse for my sister–not sure how I’m going to get it to her, but I’m sure that will be another exercise in frustration.

P.S. The real best thing about the beach? PIPAS aka fresh cold baby coconuts that are hacked open with a machete to access the delicious fresh coconut water inside. Phenomenal. Pipas en la playa

Work in progress….

All I can say is, I hope this blog endeavour turns out better than the last one (see previous posts…from 2010! hahaha.) I’m hoping the fact that I now have a job that keeps me at the computer alot will help me actually post some content here. We shall see. For now, I’m off to the beach! Puerto Viejo ya vengoooo

Visa Ordeal: Update



I have skipped a few critical updates since my last post…

1. Magdalena, my only contact, quit working at the ministry without notifying me, and left me high and dry with no documentos.
2. I had a nervous breakdown.

Long story short, I received my documents (from some anonymous Ministry email address) and I successfully applied for my long term student visa at the Spanish Consulate in Chicago on Friday the 10th of September. The trip was absolutely exhausting (I took the megabus from Minneapolis-Chicago from 10:30pm to 6:00am on Friday, had my appointment at 10, then came back on the bus at 3 and arrived back in MN at 11pm.) The woman that received my app told me she hoped it would be done in two weeks flat, but obviously there are no guarantees.

I’m so happy I finally got to apply, even though I’m for sure going to miss my teacher orientation in Madrid (its the 25th of September) but I feel confident in saying I am actually GOING to be in Spain.

I would love to say this process has taught me patience, and made me more appreciative of cultural differences in time sensitivity and communication but….I’d probably be lying. Really, it just made me mad.

It wasn’t so much the waiting that pissed me off, it was the complete lack of acknowledgment that they (Magdalena, specifically) were in the wrong for promising dates, and never delivering faithfully. It would have been much better to say “Hey, the month of August is vacation month here in Espana, and literally every government employee is gonna lay on the beach all month. So forgot about getting what you need until September 1st at the earliest. Have a good summer!” rather than “Your documents will come next week…these things just happen sometimes. Honestly. Be patient ok?”

Next debacle: Buying a plane ticket, finding an apartment in Madrid, learning how to give a four hour presentation on language and culture to a bunch of primary school students. Uhhh…..




I need a mantra. I need to meditate. I need anything besides a frontal lobotomy that is going to GIVE ME THE PATIENCE TO WAIT FOR THIS DOCUMENT.

It’s been a little over 3 weeks and still nada del ministerio. I should not have gotten my hopes up (again) when my contact emailed me and said that my document was finished but due to “electronic processing errors” would be here “the earliest the 21st of August” but, I did. And once again, another week has passed me by in bone-crunching impatience, checking my email at 6 in the morning, only to be crushed by 0 NEW EMAILS.

I understand the cultural differences. I understand that time delays in a bureaucracy are common if not expected, and that when coupled with a culture that places much less importance on timeliness than the U.S. (and from what I’ve heard from others, customer service in general) I have a recipe for tardiness.

Does this give me comfort?

NO. I don’t care! I wanted it YESTERDAY DAMMIT!!!

There is no real reason for the post, other than I need an outlet for my extreme frustration, and hells bells this is my blog and I’ll do what I want. Send good vibes I guess, though at this point I’d rather have a cattle prod.

Voy a Ethpaña, vale?


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So, I received an newsletter from my Ministerio de Educacion (a general mass publication of course, they didn’t actually take the time to answer my personal emails from this week) that informed me, among other things, that I would not be penalized for being late to start my school year there if I had “visa related issues.” Considering that so far, my “visa related issues” have been directly related to their tardiness, I’m very happy that this concession will be made.

I’ve set aside my panick attacks and have given myself license to dream about strolling through the sunny metropolitan streets of Madrid, wearing an excellent pair of walking heels and a breezy dress with big shades. The outfit is important because the LAST time I was in Madrid (April 2008) I was by myself, on day 4 of a 5 week-long backpacking excursion through Spain/Morocco/French Riviera/Italy/Greece- and if you’ve ever lived out of a backpack, it’s pretty hard to look cute on a fixed repetoire of 4 shirts, 1 pair of jeans, a skirt, and a cardigan- and everyone wants to look nice in a city where everyone else looks nice.

As I daydream, my list of concerns is growing even faster than my pile of shoes to pack. Some of the most rampant recurring are:
1. What if I can’t understand their accentos?
As an estadounidense, most of my exposure to hispanoblantes has been with Mexican, Ecuadorian and Peruvian dialects, and so my speech and comprehension abilities greatly reflect my ears (and tongues) preference for the clear and rhythmic patterns that I’ve been hearing for the past decade or so. The strong lisp and crazy shorthand contractions that I associate with Spanish Spanish require me to concentrate really hard, I’m talking brows-scrunched-together-lips-soundlessly-mimicking-words kind of concentration, haha. Ah well, if I can acclimate to the Brummies from the Black Country (basically, the scourges of all of Englands many dialects,) I can get used to the Spaniards.
2. Slang, slang, and more slang.
I’ve got the skinny on what NOT for the most part from friends that have spent significant time in Spain (Alicante, Sevilla, etc) but I’m still pretty apprehensive about embarassing myself.
Example: Apparently, in Spain the verb “coger” (to grasp, to catch) is used allll the time, and in a completely innocent sense. Anyone that knows their Spanish from south of the border would probably snicker just a bit to hear somebody say “Voy a coger un taxi.” Were you really that desperate? jaja.
I realize it is a natural part of the learning process but no one likes to look like a jackass.
3. Vos this, vos that.
Plainly put: I have no idea how to use the vosotros form, of anything. Blame me, blame my gringa high school teacher, blame my profesores (except for Maureen, she’d kill me if she saw that) but I just don’t get it.
4. Finding an Apartment
The last time I lived abroad, I did so in student housing, with pre-assigned roommates, 40 other Americans from my home university, and a programme director (or Grandma, as we sometimes called her) to hold our hands through the “trials” of living in a foreign country (ummm…it was England. They speak English there, for the most part.) This trip is going to be significantly different, as I will be responsible for finding my own apartment, living with roommates that most likely will not share my native tongue, and I won’t be blissfully funding my lifestyle on copious amounts of student loans (ohhh, those were the DAYS.) That being said, I’m rather excited about this prospect of hunting for the perfect piso and the possibility of meeting some really interesting people. Spanish cragislist, anyone?

In short, it’s time to hit the books for a little refresher course before I go. And maybe watch a few movies to get myself in the lisp-y mood. Maybe I’ll watch the oh so awesomely creepy Pan’s Labyrinth for the 50th time. Looove it.