Perspective

(I'm posting this a day and a half after I wrote it because of time constraints. But the lack of immediacy doesn't make it any less relevant, I promise!)

There’s no turning back now. I’m mid-flight, probably somewhere over Jersey, as I write this. My eyes aren’t burning anymore from salty tears, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that this move abroad is happening, so I figure I’m at a good place to write. (United Airlines has pretty solid movie selections – think “The Lucky One,” “Brave, “Mirror, Mirror,” "Dark Shadows" and “The Avengers” – which I’m putting off to jot down some thoughts.)

I’ve been called “brave,” “courageous” and “gutsy” for embarking on this months-long adventure. And I suppose by some measures, I am those things. But, essentially, I’m on a 9-month whirlwind vacation from the real world that I would otherwise be entering as a college graduate.

I guess I’m saying that I don’t deserve so much credit. Don’t get me wrong – the support and encouragement from friends and family has been amazing. I am incredibly thankful that I have so many people interested in the next nine months of my life. I couldn’t do this if you all weren’t along for the ride. But I’m not doing anything noble over there. 

Young Americans make temporary moves abroad every day. The difference between them and me? Well, thousands of them end up in combat boots in the desert for a year or more. Others end up in scrubs in dilapidated hospitals in impoverished, remote corners of the globe. Those people are brave in a way that I will never be. In Spain, I’ll be fighting immigration paperwork and language barriers. They’re fighting al-Qaeda and AIDS.

When I start to feel sorry for myself, when I start to pout about leaving home, I think of those people – the soldiers in Afghanistan and the Peace Corps volunteers in Rwanda. I will have virtually unrestricted access to Skype, email and Facebook. I’ll be officially working a mere 12 hours a week and will do private English lessons on the side at my discretion. The rest of my time will be spent diving head first into Europe. Is that bravery? I don’t know, but I do know I’m in a better spot than a lot of young people who’ve recently packed their lives into 65 linear inches.

One final, admittedly unrelated thought: Wouldn’t theater-style arm rest cupholders be a great invention for airlines to adopt? How am I supposed to type with a cup of water in my hand?

Buenas noches,

Teresa

The integration challenge

We all know there's some animosity in America toward immigrants, in some cases even toward legal ones. Some of that negativity, it seems, stems from some immigrants' resistance to culturally integrate. It's not uncommon for them to gather in pockets and seek out the familiar - Latin music, German food, Asian markets, etc. Some Americans are bothered by that; some aren't.

Here's where I admit that, at times, I'm just like those immigrants when I'm overseas.

Sometimes, there's nothing worse than being the minority. In Costa Rica, I hated being the only white person on the bus or the only foreigner in the supermarket. Locals often assumed I couldn't speak Spanish (I can). The constant cat calls (a Hispanic cultural quirk that I just can't get used to) drove me crazy. So when I was feeling especially alien-like, I sought the familiar. Speaking English was strangely comforting. Eating the closest thing to American food made me feel closer to home. Country music soothed my unease.

Being a two-week tourist doesn't count. A foreigner's discomfort lies in the daily grind of public transportation, routine purchases, bank visits, etc. Those are the true test. During my first stint in Spain and my semester in Costa Rica, I failed those tests many times (I remember a particularly awkward incident at a Costa Rican grocery store when I simply could not, for the life of me, understand the cashier's explanation that people sell back empty glass bottles). Sometimes I had a hard time figuring out how much I owed the bus driver. After each uncomfortable encounter, I curled up into a ball, clinging to the American subculture around me. (Don't get me wrong here, people. I loved Costa Rica.)

I'm going to try my best to do things differently this time around. So, here's to integration. Here's to keeping a smile when I want to cry. Here's to reaching out to the chronic bus starer. Here's to watching Spanish television and drinking local wine - even though I hate wine.

Buenas tardes, Teresa

Tick, tock, tick, tock

To be entirely candid, I'm getting a bit scared. My departure date is really, really soon. And seriously, who is the menace responsible for suddenly speeding up time? I swear a minute has gone from 60 seconds to 30. Days are passing like never before, I'm sure of it.

I feel ill-prepared. I have a long list of items to pick up before I leave. I wonder if, at some subconscious level, I've been intentionally delaying those purchases. My final must-haves run will just make this trip seem all too real. I'm most worried about teaching English. The closest thing to teaching that I've done was tutoring, and I'm not even sure how effective I was at that (I didn't get much feedback). So, I just show up and start shaping young minds without any legitimate credentials? We shall see, I guess.

Buenas tardes,
Teresa