blog

For the following note I'm ignoring Spanish Monday.

I realize I have not written an actual English blog for sometime, which I'm sorry for. I promise to get going on that soon. Maybe not tomorrow, probably not till after Christmas, but soon.

In the mean time, Happy Holidays.

Sincerly yours,
Erika

Español Lunes 2

Ay! Hoy es Español Lunes numero dos!!! Loco, no? Osea...¿que es nuevo?
Ayer hicimos muchas cosas navideña...
Despues el almuerzo, Mama, Carola, Edu, y yo ponemos el arbol de Navidad. Es un arbol muy bonita. ¡Pensé que el arbol sería falso, pero no es! Actualmente, es similar a ''hemlock,'' pero no sé que tipa es.
Más tarde, casi a las ocho, fui a la casa de una Hermana de mi iglesia. Tenemos una practica de coro para la Navidad. Tengo un parte donde canto sola. Siempre un hermano dijo -¡Más fuerte!-
Pero en mis meses sin canta, mi voz fuerte perdió su fuerza. Que triste. Pero me gusta a cantar no obstante.
Terminamos la practica como todos los actividades Mormones termina: con comida.
Cuando llegue a mi casa, ayudé a ponder bolos y luzes en el arbol de Navidad. Pero no aprendemos que los luzes no funcionaron hasta despues ellos estaban en el arbol. Jaja.

Y hoy...hoy quizas haré pies (no, no ''feet.'' Pie. El postre.) y iré a mis clases de baile como siempre. Y más...? No sé. Leeré Harry Potter en español y querré para Emily a dame su libro Twilight, para los días que no son Español Lunes. :)
Besitos,
Erika

Journal Excerpt

For all you crazies out there who are just dying to read my journal, here's a quick paragraph I wrote today. I was feeling especially poetic after finishing one of my favorite books for the billioneth time.

''The heavens are dropping down fat, heavy water bombs of rain. The air smells hot and wet and very much alive. It's the kind of rain that makes you inhale more deeply in an attempt to get more of it inside you without drowning. It's the kind of afternoon, being just before lunch, that makes one want to curl up ouside in a hammock, nurse a mug of something sweet, and dream of happy nothings in particular. It's an afternoon made for forgtting obligations, chores, and the mundane monotony of a life set too much in its ways . Deadlines should cease to exist on days like this, as should excess noise, electronics of more than the most necessary functions, and any future dates. It's a day for here, now, and no other time or place, save it be the other world of a novel. Diets should be called off. Insecurities and social taboos should vanish. For this one, perfect day, people should just live. We should be trees for a day, happy to be what we are. Tomorrow can be loud, busy and rushed. Just let today be. ''

Needless to say, today I'd much rather stay home than go to dance class. You know, give myself a chance to breathe. But that's not going to happen. No, I'm going to go to dance, then come home and eat, shower, and collapse on my bed, either with Jane Eyre, or a TV show. Because that's what I do now. Things might change later though. We'll see.

Español Lunes

Hola...hoy es el primero dia de Español Lunes. Iiii...no me gusta. jaja. Pero tengo la culpa, y necesito tratar a estar contenta.
Entonces, la historia de Español Lunes:
Decidí que no hablo bastante español en mi vida normal en Bolivia. Siempre estoy escuchando a musica en ingles, o la tele, or hablando con mis amigos. Siempre en ingles. ¡Pero quiero aprender a hablar español! Hice lunes ''Español Lunes'' a practicar mi español. Las reglas? Habla solo en español. Escucha a musica solo en español. Mira solo la tele en español. No lee libros en ingles. Escribiré en mi diario solo en español en lunes tambien. Hoy, por una hora traté a hablar solo en español y es tan deficil! Va a ser un dia muyyy largo.
Ahora: Papi, si quieres salir una nota, por favor, no edite este blog. Solo diceme que soy inteligente y maravillosa y bonita y fantastic y todos las cosas buenas.
Christian, puedes editar este si quieres.

A todos: feliz diciembre!! 18 dias hasta navidad!!
TQM,
Erika



Dad was wondering if I would translate this pretty little post for those of you who decided to take highschool French, instead of Spanish, so here goes:

Hi...Today is the first day of Spanish Monday. Eeeeeee...I don't like it. Haha. But it's my fault, so I need to try to be happy.
So, the history of Spanish Monday:
I decided I don't speak enough Spanish in my normal life in Bolivia. I'm always listening to music in English, or the TV, or talking with my friends. Always in English. But I want to learn to speak Spanish! I made Monday ''Spanish Monday'' to practice my Spanish. The rules? Only speak in Spanish. Listen to music only in Spanish. Watch the TV only in Spanish. Don't read books in English. Write in my journal only in Spanish on Mondays also. Today, for an hour I tried to speak only in Spanish, and it's so difficult! It's going to be a veryyyy long day.
Now, Dad, if you want to leave a note, please, don't edit this blog. Only tell me that I'm smart and maravolous and fantastic and pretty and all the good things.
Christian, you can edit this if you want.

To Everyone: Happy December!! 18 days until Christmas!!
Love ya lots,
Erika

*Christmas*

It is officially December, so Christmas is officially close enough for the normal person to celebrate. (As opposed to un-normal, like department store people, and fashion designers.) Part of me is thrilled at this, and is planning what gifts to give, how to decorate, and whether or not to make eggnog. Another part is pretty out of sorts. I suppose this is understandable, it being on average over eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Still, so many of my home traditions seem to have made it to my little South American corner of the world. Some make sense, but some just may surprise you.
The sixteenth of November began as a normal Sunday. I dressed, got a ride to church, then sat down and pulled out my little green hymnbook. I found the assigned page, and sat back to wait for the meeting to start. After the introductions, the chorister stood up and the congregation launched into a Spanish rendition of ''Joy to the World.'' I was not expecting that in the least! For me, Thanksgiving was always the start of the Christmas celebration. Before that last Thursday in November however, Christmas was only to be mentioned in passing. Sure, you could whistle Jingle Bells under your breath, but we never had a group as large as a church congregation singing ''Silent Night'' until after Thanksgiving! I was shocked, to be sure. After the song, I asked a girl why we were singing Christmas songs so early, and she told me that they always sing them, even in August! I guess starting the Christmas celebration after Thanksgiving makes no sense to people who don’t celebrate the United States Thanksgiving.
Not soon after, the billboards and storefronts started gearing up. Thirty foot signs depict Santa quenching his thirst with a Coke, and plastic Christmas trees squat in every available grocery store corner. Cotton snow and paper snowflakes are stuck to windows, and holiday getaways are being advertised in the newspapers. There are even Santas with white beards holding children on their laps at the entrances of grocery stores. The Christmas spirit is definitely growing as we begin the last December of 2008.
You’re probably seeing much of the same things if you’re in the States. The only difference is that they seem to fit so much better there to me. I break out in a sweat just looking at the poor man in a fuzzy red suit standing out in the full sunshine while the rest of the world is wearing shorts. The plastic pines look alien next to the ever-green mangos and palms. I love the spirit associated with these traditional decorations, but my body and brain are so confused by the contrasts. If I were to choose a Christmas tree from my yard, I would decorate the lemon tree. I would paint Papa Noel in swim trucks and a white tank top. I would have a Christmas pool party and retape the song so it sang ‘’I’m dreaming of a tan Christmas.’’ All of this is me not adjusting to my environment. Shame on me. I came with preconceptions; I couldn’t help it. I thought my Christmas would be insanely different, and now that so much appears the same, I’m just plain out of whack.
There are some differences, thank goodness. My mother says she doesn’t know any Christmas carols. The majority of the celebrating is done on Christmas Eve. Presents are opened after the midnight mass of Christmas Eve, then for Christmas itself, people are said to sleep and relax. Those are all different concepts to me, and I’m thankful for them. If things were too much like home, I might open up to the ever-knocking homesickness. By keeping my distance from what I’m used to, I can enjoy my new experiences. Perhaps it’s slightly twisted logic, but it seems to be working. I’m meshing my two worlds into one colorful hammock of reds and greens and tinsels and pine boughs. When Christmas arrives, I will be content to swing in my two worlds, and love both of them. The majority of my holidays are still based around family--that won't change. There will still be presents and jokes and food. Even some of the superficial is the same.
It’s December, so go celebrate. Whatever you're doing this holiday season, I hope you're enjoying it. It’s a time to be happy. So please, please be happy. Happy Holidays.

*Buen Provecho: Eat Well*

It’s Thanksgiving, so your mind is probably on which silverware to use, who is going to win the game, and whether or not you have enough flour for the thrice rising rolls and your grandmother’s pumpkin clove pie. After all, what is Thanksgiving about, except for food? You can trace ancestors back to the Mayflower, and say ‘’I’m thankful for…’’ all you want, but in the end, it’s all based around the table. Today the exchange students are recreating our own little Thanksgiving feast, which, if I’m not mistaken, will have all the edible necessities, plus a few innovations. I’m thinking mango pie. In memory of this great holiday, I’m going to give you a different perspective on food: the Cruceño viewpoint, menu, and general flavors I’ve come to associate with Santa Cruz.
Let’s begin with breakfast. In my home, it’s always the same. My mother has papaya with puffed quinoa (say keen-wa. It’s a native grain, popular in soups, salads, or puffed with sweetening.) It’s all drizzled over in honey. My father was quite the advocate for salteñas, but for health reasons has had to give them up. Poor man. Salteñas are delicious. They’re similar to chicken or beef pot pies, but are cooked in a crescent shaped pastry crust. My brother goes for Corn Flakes, but mixes Nestle chocolate mix into the milk. I’ll eat just about anything, but prefer some fresh fruit with French bread or a cheese empanada. Empanadas are similar to salteñas, but are more typically filled with cheese, corn, or meat. ‘’Pizza’’ empanadas have a tomato sauce, cheese, meat, and spice filling. Only once have I had eggs for breakfast, and my family laughs at me when I make pancakes. As a general rule, breakfast is light, simple, and short.
Lunch, in comparison, is the big meal of the day. Papi comes home from work, Eduardo and I are picked up from school, and the whole family gathers around the table for our noon meal. There is always a variety of food for lunch, but I can almost always predict the meal. It’s simple: there will always be rice, some kind of meat, usually a salad, and another form of carbohydrates. In fact, it’s not unusual to have rice, pasta, and yuca (a fibrous root that often takes the place of potatoes) in the same meal. When I first arrived, most of the food struck me as bland, but overly salted. There is never pepper or hot sauce on the table, but always plenty of salt. It took a very long time to get used to seasoning a salad with olive oil and salt. In the last few weeks I’ve grown accustomed to the salt, and even enjoy it. Because of the heat, I’m always a bit…dewy with sweat, so the salt is good to balance out my insides. Thankfully, lunch is almost always accompanied with fresh fruit juice.
Around five o’clock, we have tea. This is not a family affair, nor absolutely necessary, but it’s very common all the same. We break out the traditional empanadas, cuñapes (almost like a cheese roll, but better,) and the ever present French bread. I’m not sure if the love of pan Frances is a Bolivian thing, or just my family. My parents are big instant coffee drinkers, though my mom is quick to interchange that with Trimate: a tea made of chamomile, coca, and anis. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, the drinking of hot beverages when it’s ninety degrees out, but it works for them. When with my grandmother, I’ll take a hot chocolate when they take their coffees, and it’s not quite as horrible as it sounds.
Dinner is usually an informal occasion. You pretty much show up when you want to, eat what you want to, and then clear your place. It’s usually very light: rice with a salad for example, though we have gone out for burgers or fried chicken.
As you can see, the diet is pretty monotonous. I love it, but there is little day to day variety. Still, food is such a broad topic, I’m sure you’re going to see more entries on it. Really, I usually adore every bite, and hope you can taste a little just in my words.

Ramble

Hi Ya'll,
Here's to you: I'm trying to write my weekly entry (little late--sorry!!!) and am finding it incredibly difficult. To put off the inevitable, I'm just writing now, and hoping that by rambling I'll awaken that silly English side of me. And it's kinda not working. Crapola. I realized what a wall I've hit when I tried to write the word ''colonization'' but it came out ''conolization.'' I used spell check to get the correct form, then for the next minute or two, stared at it and said it over and over, because honest-to-goodness, I had forgotten how to say it. Daaang...
Hmm...que más?
Oh, how about this:
I've been in Bolivia for three months today!!! Woo-hoo!!! And kind of sad in the same breath, because that means I have only 8 months left, más or menos. What's especially uncanny, is that in prep for Bolivia, especially at Shussout, I heard that Thanksgiving was the hardest time for exchangers, and now I'm living it and...
it's not that hard. Maybe it's just because it's not actually Thanksgiving yet, but I'm not feeling the sickening waves of homesickness and utter wretchedness that I'd heard about. I love and miss you all, but I'm not wallowing in grief. Sorry.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, what in the world am I going to do with it? I'm destined for an evening at my YEO's house with a bunch of other (and probably moody) exchangers. They're not that homesick either, I'm a-thinking, but Thanksgiving in S.C. is pretty disappointing for quite a few of us. Long story short: Sarah (http://www.boliviablog.braveblog.com) went to Hades and back (oh, just finished The Odyessey!) to get a group of us exchangers on a rough and dirty tour of the Noel-Kempff National Park, part of the Amazon. We were set to leave today and jungle-ize for 8 days (including travel time.) Everything was set: the tour guides, the chaperone, Rotary support...from some Rotarians. Last week we went to Rotary to present the almost-watertight plan, and after a lot of explaning, got some support and some acceptance. Then Sarah went to our YEO and somewhere in the conversation, despite our precautions, parental permission, and already having made the first payment, our YEO vetoed the whole trip, using Thanksgiving as an excuse. Yeah, she didn't want us to miss our Thanksgiving to the Amazon. Needless to say, the group as a whole had some pretty bad energy after that. I probably took it the best, being young and prone to flexibility, ha ha, or maybe just a little more scared of getting Malaria than everyone else. Still, the thought of sitting down to an amiable meal with the woman who took away the adventurer's dream is pretty hard to swallow. So happy Thanksgiving! I'm still looking forward to cooking and eating and talking in English, but I'm also very curious to see how it's going to play out.
Change of subjects:
Last night I went to Espiritu Santo's promocion graduacion party. Holy cow, and what a prom it was. You know, I was wondering what it'd be like to miss my Junior Prom, but I think this sufficed. I got an official invitation, wore a dress, the whole enchilada. And it was pretty dang fun. I really loved the Desfila. I don't know the word in English. It's when all of the seniors walk down this long read carpet. Their names are announced and everyone takes pictures and applaudes. Really, it was cool. And the decorations and gowns and hairstyles of the room and girls within were incredible. No offense, SHS, but Espiritu Santo's gotcha beat. Ooh, tangent on dresses: Since I have an extra $320 laying around from my lack of Amazon trip (merg.) should I get a dress made? Chelan and Brodie got their dresses handmade for them for this ''prom.'' One was $50 and the other $100. That's more than I've ever spent on a dress, but maybe it's worth it, being able to design my own dress and make it fit me perfectly. Should I do it? Both of their dresses could have easily been displayed on David's Bridal for on the high side of $200--or more. So should I? As nice as it is to think that I have all of my summer job money, and all of my money in general for this year, I do have to have a life after this, and that life will include college. But $100 for a handmade-for-me dress. Should I?
Okay, well, I think it's time I close this ramble, and pray that I can pull off this entry, soon. But my brain is full of cotton right now. And my bugbites of absurd proportions are bothering me, and I'm wondering if my internal-clock is normal enough for me to be able to go to bed in an hour or two and actually sleep. Lately that sleep thing has been pretty hard for me. I blame in on dance! Ha ha, I'm loving 3 hours of my 4.5-hour-a-day dance classes, but they're wiping me out! I finish tango every night but Sunday, I think, at 8:30, and by the time the movil (cab) gets me home, it's after 9. I'm so tired from all of the work, I eat, change, and crash on my bed, hoping for a good HBO movie while I brush my teeth. Then for whatever reason, I can't sleep! I'm soo exhausted though! Take the other day--Thursday? for example. I can't remember why it was so late, but my light was off by one, I was very much awake until at least 2, then I don't know when, but whenever my sister came home from working the night shift her relatively quiet footsteps woke me up (wasn't in a deep sleep) then I was in the fairly awake category again at 6am! I laid in bed wondering what to do, and at 6:45 got up to walk around the yard. My dad was up so I went inside and ate some pineapple, then went back to my room and managed to sleep from 8 till 10, when a phone call woke me up. Argh! That night I slept beautifully, but the night after I was again tossing and turning until at 3am I decided, if nothing else would, CNN in English would put me to sleep. Anyway, you see why I can't decide if I'll be able to sleep today. Oh, and even better, I've already slept a lot today, so though I'm tired, I'm betting it won't happen. Yeah, last night my parents had a party until 5am. I got home from the prom party at about a quarter to 3 (took forever and ever to get a cab!) and went to bed pretty much immediately. My alarm was set for 7:30 so I'd be up in time to prep for church. And up I got, and prepped, and walked over to the house to get some breakfast before my mom or dad drove me to church. Except they had had a party until 5am, and were still asleep. Even better, the house was still locked up, so no breakfast for me! There's a wicker sofa outside right now, because of the party, so I lay down, hoping they'd wake up in time to get me at least to Sunday school, but there was no sound from inside, and I fell asleep outside. I woke up sweaty, and decided to wait in my room. And Mama woke me up at 11:30, saying it was time to go to lunch. Yeah. Lame, I know. Then at the Resort after lunch, I fell asleep in the hammock. Then after the Resort back at home, I slept for almost another two hours. So will I be able to sleep tonight? I doubt it.
Anyway, I have to go. Mama wants the comp, and you'll be getting that promised post tomorrow I suppose.
Loves and kisses,
Erika

*The Storm that Made me Smart*.....though smart may be too grand a word.

‘’I see a dinosaur!’’
‘’I see a horse. How do you say horse in English?’’
‘’Horse. I see a pearl necklace.’’
‘’Pretty. I see a plastic bag!’’ and my nine year old cousin, Maria Jose, pointed up. Sure enough, a black plastic bag was being pushed across the ever-changing sky. In about five minutes the heavens had gone from lightly cloud covered, like a typical Southeast Alaskan day, to a cotton-candy mixer spinning black sugar. Maria Jose and I saw the clouds on the horizon as we played at handstands and cartwheels in the grass at the pool complex my family frequents. She suggested I take pictures, so we grabbed my camera and climbed the stairs to the still-hot tile balcony—one of my favorite places at the resort. The view it offers is incredible. Straight ahead is the red tile roof of a changing room, and from there silhouettes of giant palm and flowery trees and buildings of every kind extend to the horizon. Then, to the right, you get a view of the pool, and its occupants. The other week, the balcony became a spy-base to check out the busload of Evangelical gringos. The left of the balcony shows trees and trees and trees. We laid back and stared up at the roiling mess of clouds until lighting flashed and thunder grumbled, and I became acutely aware of our position; the balcony made us some of the tallest objects in the area. I didn’t want to test my powers of lightening resistance, so we descended.
We returned to our family gathered in the familiar corner, and Maria Jose was whisked away by an aunt. Meanwhile, the rain decided it was tired of those fat, black clouds and decided to mix in the swimming pool instead. One minute occasional heavy drops splashed the cement and mango leaves, the next, it was a downpour. As soon as Mama nodded her permission, I was running across the resort to the grassy area next to the pool and restaurant. I stretched my ballet muscles and leaped across my green stage to an orchestra of thunder, lighting, and cars honking out in the road. My Olympic preparations began as I cartwheeled and backbended in the wet. I was completely soaked before I lay out on the basketball court. I couldn’t lay still for long though, because rain kept dropping in my nose and eyes. I felt like those, is it turkeys? who, when it rains, tilt their heads up until they drown in it. I loved it though.
The rain was still going strong after ten minutes, but I was a little more calm and skipped back to the overhang where my family still sat. Mama and Abuelita saw me and laughed, but insisted as soon as I came in from the rain that I shower and put on something dry. It seems that adults all over the world, except in Southeast Alaska, are sure that you’ll catch your death of a cold if you play in the rain and don’t dry off after. That wisdom is shared here at least. I laughed, and let them find me a towel and a dress, and while rinsing and drying off, I realized something. All my life I believed something about myself: that I was destined for a hot, dry place, where humidity and rain were only words found in books. I was wrong.
I don’t know if it was only in these last few months, or during the years of squishing in my shoes in Alaska, or the summer thunderstorms of Utah, or even back to my sticky, sweaty, wet birthplace of Japan, but somewhere in my lifetime, I became addicted to the wet. I rather convincingly told myself and others that my future was in Utah, if only because it was dry, and I loved dry heat. That’s not a lie; I do love low humidity, but I was wrong in saying that I hated it altogether. I, in fact, have no issue with humidity at all, so long as I have lots of clean, light weight clothes, and a cold shower everyday. I saw what my future could be like while dancing in that storm. I could live somewhere wet, and hot, and green. I never wanted to live in Hawaii because I thought it’d be too humid, but hey, I can handle that now. A whole other atmosphere has opened up to me, all because I danced in a rainstorm in Bolivia. Here’s the truth: I can be happy anywhere now. Alaska is cool, and sometimes I hate it, but I could be happy there. I could make do in Egypt. If my future were in England, I think I’d do just fine. I’m not limiting myself to just one climate now. I am versatile and strong and brave enough to handle all of them. Even if I can’t handle all of them, most of them are fantastic, and I love that knowledge. It’s amazing what you can learn from dancing in a rainstorm. I highly suggest you try it, you might learn something. Be careful though, if you’re not of the Southeast Alaskan breed, you may just catch your death of a cold if you don’t dry off after.

*Novelty*

The following is a continuation on Bolivian beauty, fashion, and general social lives of…us.

When Emily offered to take me to get my hair cut for the equivalent of twenty US dollars, I was a little shocked. That’s expensive! However, knowing her mother’s fashion connections (she’s the woman who got us into the Yanbal beauty thingy) and that the hair cutter person routinely cuts hair for models, I thought it was worth it. Perhaps there’s a flaw in my logic, but if he cuts hair for models, then he could cut my hair like a model’s, and I can pretend to look like a model. All that for only twenty US dollars! With that perspective how could I say no?
The following Saturday we were driven to the salon. Emily, Leah, and I were assigned a wash, cut, and style and were seated on a couch between robed women waiting for their highlights to cook, or getting their toenails buffed. We sat there on that couch and realized that this was the most professional haircut we were probably going to get. Ever. Everywhere, glamorous employees in uniforms and stilettos directed women to this stylist, that tanning bed, or that makeup station. The employees all wore white shirts and black slacks, and the majority of the patrons were dressed in neutrals, blacks and whites. I felt overly conspicuous in my blue shirt and green capris, and just plain gross in my sweaty ponytail. Even worse, Emily and Leah were quickly taken away to the shampoo station, and I was left to Spanish fashion magazines and employees asking questions in Spanish. Leah is the tongue in a situation like this: her Spanish is best, so I made do with hand signs and awkward yes or no questions.
Perhaps half an hour later I was finally guided to the shampoo station. My ponytail was wrestled out and with nary a word to me, thank heavens, a long spray of cool water washed over my scalp. I knew this place would be good, but as soon as the first drop of water pelted me, I knew it would be really, really good. Can you guess why? Because the water was cool. It felt like the water racing down a slide at Raging Waters when you first lay back after a half hour baking in the sun and munching curly fries. It was rejuvenating in the crazy Bolivian heat. Even better, the woman washing my hair didn’t ask if it was the right temperature. She knew. With all of her professional mind reading, or possibly just not caring, she knew that I needed a cold wash. Her strong fingers worked through my thick tangle, and that scalp ache associated with a pony tail disappeared.
Later, with a towel turban, I was left again on the couch to await the cut. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, after rereading Cosmos from 2006 I was led to the cutting chair. He, the hair cutter, strode down the hall, all business, and started fingering my hair. ‘’Do you speak Spanish?’’ he asked me in English. I answered that yes, I speak a little Spanish, and he directed the next two sentences to me in English. Actually, it was only one sentence: ‘’Do you like your hair long?’’ I answered yes, but my bangs are a disaster. That was all. He tilted my head down, combed my hair over my eyes and attacked me with a spray bottle of water, and a hand full of condition. I could only watch as two and three inch pieces of my hair fell onto my black cape. In the space of about three minutes my hair was thinned. I wasn’t expecting this, as just about every stylist I’ve ever gone to has told me that thick hair is a gift, and she didn’t want to ruin it with layer. I was layered, I was given more sweeping bangs, and I was led out to the couch. I had taken five minutes of the master’s time, and came out with different hair.
We were all supposed to get our hair styled as well, but after a half hour of waiting with no word from stylists, even when we asked, we paid and left. Really, our hair was almost dry anyway.
What is the difference between my hair cut there, and the ones I grew up with, in my bath room, or someone’s basement-gone-salon? Honestly, I think it was only the employees’ I-don’t-care attitude. For the first time I was able to say, ''Do what you think will look best.’’ Wait, I didn’t even say it. He just did that. Anywhere else, the cutter tells me she’s worried that I won’t like it. So while I enjoyed getting my hair cut very much, I think I enjoyed it solely for the novelty: I’m getting a very professional haircut, instead of just a normal professional haircut. It also helped that I was getting it in Bolivia, where everything’s a novelty.

*Cover Girl!*

In sixth grade, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party. Along with the customary RSVP request, the invitation asked for movie input and listed several old and new titles. No one was surprised when the DVD player began reading The Lizzie McGuire Movie. In fact, we were pretty much thrilled. For months afterward we’d quote it in the halls, and sing the songs walking down the street. ‘’Have you ever seen such a beautiful night? I can almost kiss the stars for shining so bright…’’ We wanted to go to Italy and be mistaken for a famous singer! We wanted to have a gorgeous partner to ride around with on motorcycles. I’m pretty sure that more than one of us would’ve jumped at the chance to model an inflatable igloo like Hillary Duff’s character. In fact, we’d have jumped at the chance to just watch something as glamorous as a fashion show. And jump is exactly what I did. Without further adieu, here is the story of my début into the Bolivian fashion scene, accented by haha, The Lizzie McGuire Movie’s Soundtrack.

‘’Wake up in the morning, looking a little rough…’’
When I was invited to a contest to find the most beautiful woman of all Latin American countries, I was more than a little excited. It was hosted by Yanbal, a huge South American makeup company. Lucky for me, one of my fellow exchange student’s host moms has a great position with Yanbal, and was able to get seats for her gringa daughter and three friends at the show. Exciting!!! Except, oh my gosh, what would I wear? Really, this was a hard question. After I finally picked my dress and heels, there was the problem What to do with my hair? I’ve always had straight hair, but no matter the layers or sweeping bangs, it’s impossible to get it to lay straight. Well, with little time, and littler makeup, my friends told me to go with it down. Hair and dress were taken care of, but my face was still a little paint-free. Bolivians are beautiful, and like to paint themselves up if it can in enhance that beauty. One coat of mascara simply wouldn’t do it if I wanted to fit in with this crowd, especially with a bunch of beauty queens. Sharing a mirror with my friend’s mother was a bit nerve-wracking. Her entire job is makeup! What if I was doing it wrong? Apparently I wasn’t, and soon the five of us left.

‘’Wet your lips, and smile to the camera…’’
Upon entering the hotel in which the event was being hosted, we were amazed and a little nervous to walk down the long red carpet. Our fearless, professional leader hustled us along. What’s another model or fifty to her after all? She introduced us to some…people. I’m not exactly sure who, and then she left us on a couch. She sat at the other couch and was eventually joined by other pros. It took a moment of sitting quietly to realize that there were only a few such couches in the room. The rest of the room was dedicated mainly to the cat walk, with a table for the judges, and some stands for the millions of paparazzi. The room slowly filled, and with the low colored lighting and live soft jazz music, Spanish of course, it took on the atmosphere of a cool coffee house. An atmosphere that immediately dissipated as spotlights lit up the run way. We were only minutes from the show!
It was then that the paparazzi decided that four gringa girls sharing a couch anticipating the show were the perfect opportunity to test their cameras. Over and over we were asked to smile, sit closer, and write our names onto pads of paper. One reporter made the mistake of trying to learn our names by having us say them, but as he ran into the unspellable names of the United States, France, and Germany, he quickly gave that idea up and pulled out a pen. It’s curious to be photo-ed at a beauty contest. You know that if you make the paper, your forehead will be shiny and your dress a little wrinkled from sitting. You know you’ll be sharing a page with the beauty queen, and in comparison you feel like an eleven year old with her first zit. It’s still a lot of fun though, and seeing your face in the Sociales (social pages) is a very, very cool experience.
Soon enough the show began, and beautiful women sauntered down the catwalk, turned, pouted, and smiled for the cameras. I loved watching their feet, if only because the five inch heels were so gaudy and, yes, gorgeous. I love shoes, and got several good pictures of these ones, though I can’t imagine wearing them for any longer than your average beauty show. I see foot problems in their future. I didn’t see much more of their future than that though. The whole show, including announcing Cuba as the winner, took little more than half an hour. I enjoyed every minute of it, but it sure was a short occasion.
Afterwards the press crowded Cuba, and we were left to talk amongst ourselves on the couch. The live music started up again, and small trays of food were brought around. I sampled what tasted like a McNugget on a stick. Between the food and drinks, I talked to a college student sitting next to me. It was a very strange conversation: a poor hybrid of Spanish and English. Such is my life now.
Soon after taking pictures with Her Royal Highness herself, we left. It was only nine thirty or so. Evidence of our being there showed up in El Mundo, a local newspaper, two days later. Yes, our foreheads were shiny and our dresses were wrinkled, but you could tell we were having a great time. That is possible in and out of the movies.


Note: I am not going to site these songs. Please don’t report me for plagiarism. If you’re really that curious, Google them yourselves.

Oh, and stay tuned for the next part of the Fashionista in Bolivia saga: The Hair. It actually reminded me a lot of The Princess Diaries, but I don’t think I’ll quote in that one. XOXO

Eenglish/Inglesh lengueg...I theenk

Oh dear. It's happening. I'm forgetting how to speak English. Sure, I still know a basic sentance (or is it sentence? I think it's sentence. I'm starting over.) Sure, I still know a basic sentence structure with the subject, predicate, etc. and so forth, but I'm losing some other things. Those bigs words I pull out for essays and to show off are sliding away and away till I can no longer see them. The other day I was trying to think of a big word, it's starts with an ''a,'' and I think I was thinking about my legs too. I stopped trying to remember it, and a few hours later it came to me: atrophy.
The spelling is going too. I didn't spell sentence with an ''a'' to make a point. Honest to goodness, that was an accident. Earlier this week I was sketching a Before and After scene. One of my classmates leaned over and without a word about my drawing abilities, told me ''Befor'' had an ''e'' at the end of it. Holy Macaroni! Do you see my problem? I've also mistaken ''genious'' for ''genius'' and ''clase'' for ''class'' in the last little edad (ha ha, age in Spanish.)
Sentences are coming out very strangly also. In my last assignment, here in the blog, about heat, I spent a very long time cursing my brain for forgetting. There is a sentence, I'm not saying which, that held my frustration for quite a long time because it just wouldn't flow! In my angry...oops...I meant anger, I hit the desk and said rather loudly ''¡No puedo hablar en ingles! ¡No puedo hacer mi tarea para mi clase de ingles en Alaska porque no recuerdo ingles!''
My grumbly grey stormcloud lightened a bit, and got a freakin platinum lining: I didn't have to pause once, or think at all about my tirade (is that a word? It sounds like English) in Spanish. Everyday conversations are still a pain, and incomprehensible, but when anger apparently improves my Spanish. Who'da thunk it?
Crap. That sentence made no sense at all. I meant: Everyday conversations are still a pain, and incomprehensible, but apparently anger improves my Spanish.


PS I'm purposely not editing this so you can see how nasty my language is becoming. I realize, Ms. Christianson, that the quality of my essays are probably decreasing because I can't speak English anymore. I sincerly hope this won't take my credit away, because I really want to graduate on time.
And thank goodness I took the SATs and ACTs before I came here. If my language declination (is that a word?) continues in its curent, currant, current, (crap) trend, I can see my scores dropping. Ack. What the freak, I don't really care now. But I betcha a hundred Bs I will care when I'm a senior.

*Hot*

What is the definition of ‘’hot?’’ My dictionary says ‘'caliente.’’ In this case, I think a Webster’s College Dictionary would serve me better than my Spanish to English one. Well, I’m the author here, so I’m going to define hot. Hot: (as defined by the Wilcox World Dictionary) 1. adj. the description used for a boy with looks, charisma, and that extra ‘’sparkle.’’ 2. the temperature of Santa Cruz, Bolivia.
I thought I understood heat. Six years in Utah and various triple-digit summers after can do that to a girl. The said girl can become cocky. ‘’I love the heat,’’ she’ll say. ‘’I never burn,’’ she’ll say. ‘’I’ve danced in studios without air conditioning,’’ she’ll say. She thinks that a few eighty degree Fahrenheit days with humidity and a few more one hundred degree days without have prepared her for over one hundred degrees with humidity. This girl was very, very wrong.

There was a little town,
It’s colors green and brown
Full of adults and little kids.
And when it was hot
It was very, very hot.
And when it was hot,
It was humid.

Forgive the forced rhymes and focus instead on the meaning. You Sitkans know what I mean when I say seventy-five with humidity can kill your average born-and-bred South-East Alaskan. You Utahns know what I mean when I say one hundred and dry is perfect only for the swimming pools and snow cones. You Bolivians know what I mean when I say both afore mentioned groups are wimps to even think they know hot.
This is hot: Hot is laying on your bed in the smallest clothing you own, watching TV, and glancing down to see rivulets of sweat slide down your chest. Hot is changing your shirt three times a day in hopes of keeping away the smell of sweat. Hot is sleeping in just your underwear. Hot is showering twice a day, just to not stick to your chair in school. Hot is sweating in places you didn’t know it was possible to sweat: calves, forearms, toes (while wearing sandals.)
Bolivians take hot a little differently. For example, in Alaska, on a ‘’hot’’ day, we’d break out the salad, or sandwiches. We wouldn’t actually cook anything because the temperature was warm enough outside to want to put more heat inside. Here, my family, or at least our helper maid person, Aira (I’m not sure what her actual title is) believes in hot meals, even at noon thirty, when water left outside in a water bottle is a comfortable shower temperature. My parents still take their coffee or tea hot, and I always, ALWAYS, see people in jeans downtown. This is unnatural to me. I believe that man was made to react to certain conditions in nature. When it’s cold, put more clothes on and drink hot soup. When it’s hot, find the nearest swimming pool and order a lemonade. I find it slightly oxymoronic to sit in the shade outside in shorts and sandals, and drink Toddy (my favorite brand of coco mix that yes, I drank outside today in the heat.)
Although I often feel like I’m drowning in boiling water, I usually enjoy the climate here. My brain is enjoying the rest. Getting ready for school is a breeze because I never have look for a sweater, dig for a hat, or wonder which scarf will bring my outfit to the next level of coolness, while keeping me warm. Perhaps the biggest hassle is deciding which outfit will keep me the coolest while still being appropriate for the social situation. For example, I would gladly run around in my booty shorts with spandex underneath, but that looks a little dorky, and unprofessional in the migration office when I’m trying to renew my visa. Eventually I think I’m going to become dreadfully homesick for snow, and cold rain, but for now, Santa Cruz is still wonderful, and very, very hot.

Question

Hello my pretties.
I have a dilemma. I have no idea what to write for this week's assignment. Thus, I am taking requests. Please reply with something you want me to write a nice long essay type thing about, k?
Gracias,
Eri

*Breathing Books*

There is something to be said about fresh air after a long period of stale, smoky, over-breathed, and over-filtered oxygen. You hear it all the time, ‘’That was a breath of fresh air.’’ ‘’Her honesty was certainly a breath of fresh air.’’ ‘’Seeing him was like coming up for air after years under water.’’ Good, crisp air is a cure for nausea, dizziness, headache, nose ache (being a habitual recipient of nosebleeds, I’d know,) and countless mental maladies. The feeling of breathing clear air is so wonderful that it is now as much a metaphor as an actual action. With this introduction, I can easily take one of two trails in today’s entry: the literal, and the metaphorical. I’m choosing the second because finally, after a month of breathing backseat Volkswagen without AC air, I stepped outside; I read a novel.
If you weren’t aware of my situation, namely Bolivia, this wouldn’t surprise you. I am, or was, a certifiable bookworm. Books were my food. In truth, I probably read more than ate. Since coming here however, I’ve read only three and a half books in English. I brought three books with me: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (a comical account of the original ‘’dumb blonde,’’) Beauty (a comfort book; my favorite retelling of ‘’Beauty and the Beast,’’) and The Garden of Eden (the half that I couldn’t finish.) I tried to pace myself with these; even so, they were finished within the first two weeks. This is how I turned to another form of entertainment: television.
It began innocently enough… Oh, I wonder how many channels there are. Oh, it’s Legally Blonde in Spanish! …then morphed into something else… Oh, dinner time already? But I just got back from school! Oh, I just watched three shows and can’t remember the plot to any of them! My rapid addiction was understandable I suppose. I was a TV innocent, once content to watch a movie on the weekend or a re-run of M*A*S*H* on a Thursday night. Moving into a house with six televisions and cable really broadsided me and glued me to the tube. I realized how wrong this was after watching five shows in one night, switching channels during commercial breaks so I could watch Monk and Friends in the same time slot. Disgusting, right? It was time for a change!
In my Spanish class populated by fellow exchange students, I mentioned my need of books. Hallelujah and Thank the Heavens, one girl agreed with me! Even better, she had brought a couple of books in English and we arranged a trade. I leant her Beauty in exchange for My Sister’s Keeper and Kaffir Boy. I started with My Sister’s Keeper that afternoon, right after my Spanish class. It was beautiful. I found another Jodi Picoult fan in South America! In my excitement, I couldn’t pace myself; I finished My Sister’s Keeper the next day. The book, like most of Picoult’s, was fantastic, but even better was the feeling of reading again. I still watched one of my favorite shows, but I read during the commercial breaks. An hour or two later I turned on the TV again, but found my favorite detective show, Crossing Jordan, wasn’t nearly as gripping, colorful, or emotionally attached to me as was Anna’s court case for not being her sister’s keeper. When this thought floated through my head a minute into the show, I turned it off and read for an hour or two more.
Curiously enough, it’s been two days since I read the novel, and I still haven’t begun Kaffir Boy. I browsed through a handful of short stories provided by my English teacher, but my need for a novel seems to have been satisfied for the time being. I never thought that would happen to me in one hundred thousand years, but look at that. People change I guess. Not to say that I’m not still a written-word addict, because I am, but I no longer feel naked without a page between my fingers. I think it is because I live so much in my notebooks and journals that I’m too busy drawing or writing my own life, to read about others’. But have no fear; the bookish Erika you all know and hopefully love will probably return to that position after her good healthy dose of South America. The air is different here, it’s true, but I can still breathe. I’ve acclimated.


Mentioned Works and Shows in Order of Appearance

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
By Anita Loos.

Beauty
By Robin McKinley

The Garden of Eden
By Ernest Hemingway

Legally Blonde (film)
I’m not sure who the director is, but Reese Witherspoon leads.

M*A*S*H* (TV)
Old TV show that you should really watch a season or two of.


Monk (TV)
On the Hallmark Channel.

Friends (TV)
On the WB.

My Sister’s Keeper
By Jodi Picoult

Kaffir Boy
By Mark Mathabane

Crossing Jordan (TV)
On the Hallmark Channel.

sorry hun, I'm just moody

I realize that the post below is a bit more harsh than the others. I apologize, and beg that you don't take generalizations to heart. For example, I said all adults don't try to understand me. I have found a Brazilian friend with two of the cutest little boys I've ever seen. She talked with me for almost two hours straight, and it was wonderful.
So yes, sorry. I'm trying not to complain, but these last two days have been...trying. No specific reason. I'm just emo. :)
XOXO

*Your Yusuke*

Long ago, and in the far off land of Utah, I had a special friend. He was big, strong, and played with me all the time. He let me put barrettes in his hair, to the point where there were more barrettes than hair. He took my sister and me to the movies. His name was Yusuke. He was going to college in Utah, but spent the occasional weekend with my family. We met him years before, in Japan. He was the greatest. I loved playing games, and attacking him, and annoying him to no end, I’m sure. There was one activity however, that I loved especially. You see, I was convinced that I could teach him English, never mind that he already spoke it. I decided, probably as an impetuous seven year old, that we’d have story time, so he could practice. I knew that I was doing him a huge favor, making him read to me book after picture book. He was the willing (or at least he appeared to be willing) pupil. Now here I am in a foreign country, going to high school. I would love to be someone’s Yusuke.
Of all the people I’ve met that don’t speak English, it’s the children who are willing to put the effort into understanding, and helping me understand. The majority of adults pass me over to a translator, or worse, find me a seat and a drink, then ignore me. Only the children have patience with my slow, sorry excuse for a language. Patience has never been a virtue associated with kids, but somehow these youngsters are curious enough that they can put up with my constantly shrugging shoulders and raised eyebrows. I think I’m their new toy. A week or two ago, one of my young friends brought out a Furbie. This thing was about as old as her, and though it didn’t work, she still liked it. The enticing aspect of Furbies is that they learn. If you tell it to them enough, they’ll learn to say your name, or any swear word you’d like. I am these kids’ Furbie. I eat on command, play on command, sing on command, and learn on command. I just wish they’d command me to read.
I’ve been told to read aloud in Spanish over and over. Trying that alone in my bedroom at eleven at night is a little disconcerting. I want someone to read to. I want a crazy little girl or boy to teach me Spanish, and how to read, and maybe even play soccer. For the record, this is a big deal, because I’m terrible at sports. I’m in a bit of a rut at the moment. My language has improved tremendously. It’s not so much that I can speak more, just that I understand at least twice as much as I used to. My problem is that I can’t speak more. Well, that’s a lie. But I can’t speak as much as I think I would be able to if I were to practice more. I am floja (lazy) though, and after an exhausting day at school, it’s all I can do to write a blog or journal entry, grab a bite to eat, then crash on my bed in front of the TV. Even worse, it’s English TV.
So the question of the night: can I be your Yusuke? Can I read stories to you? Will you correct my pronunciation and phrasing? Please be patient with my slow speed. Let me read aloud, because my Spanish is terrible, and I need all the help I can get. Sometimes I can’t even try. Take today, for instance. In the store, my mother asked me something. I don’t know what, and I told her so. She said ‘’Why don’t you understand?’’ I answered, ‘’Because I don’t speak Spanish.’’ Not the best of answers, but I was tired, had just had a terrible day, and was looking forward to a night of this: staying home, because my lack of understanding cost me an evening out. With this in mind, give me a chance! Talk to me. Slowly and precisely. Let me read. Maybe even let me participate in class. I honestly wouldn’t mind a little tinsey bit of homework. When it comes down to it, I’m here to learn. It’s a pain in the butt for you to speak slowly and simply enough for me to understand, but believe me, it’s even worse for me. Let me be your Yusuke. If you’re young, this will be easy. If you’re over the age of eleven, I pity you.

*Quinceañera--Sweet Fifteen*

Six and a half months ago, I became that age coveted by children throughout the United States: sixteen. After years of fighting to be the teenager, the sixteen year old in games of dress up, I finally was one. The age was exciting, but my party was a lot more low-key. In fact, the most memorable part was sitting in the kitchen with a few of my closest girlies, soaking our feet, and reading from First Kiss (and Tell). I ignored the stereotypes. I didn’t get a car. I didn’t even try for my license. Heaven forbid I put the time and energy into a party when I was too busy just trying to pass math. (Which by the way, I didn’t get my A-. I’m still bitter about that, Mr. Sparrowgrove.) Turning sixteen was just another birthday. An exciting one, (Yay! I can date boys! *insert eye roll please*) but still just a birthday. Not everyone sees their Sweet Sixteen like this though. Well, maybe in South America, because down here, we’re all about Sweet Fifteens.
Last Saturday, I went to a Quinceañera, or Sweet Fifteen birthday party. It was incredible. The hours of preparation it took to get me there, was a pretty good indication that this was going to be a huge party. My preparations started two days before, when my mom pulled out some of my older sister’s dresses for me to try on. Dresses that could easily be from any prom magazine. I however, have a completely different build from my very slender, shorter sister. Luckily, I have a giant family in Santa Cruz, and many cousins and aunts with many beautiful dresses and bodies more similar to my own. I must have tried on at least seven dresses before deciding on the one. By then, it was the day of the quince, and, with only hours to go, I showered, scrubbed, exfoliated and moisturized every last inch of me. I swear, since coming here, my feet have never been so clean. I gave myself a French manicure that actually didn’t look too bad, and painted my toenails a pretty pink. My hair was an absolute flop. For unknown reasons the front curled, but the back refused to relinquish its straight silky texture. Blast.
The ride there was the most nerve-wracking experience since my first debate sophomore year, when I was just about sick. My mom laughed and reassured me all would be fine. I’d have friends there, boys and girls. I was pretty. I had my cell phone. She’d come to pick me up at one in the morning. She’s very good at reassuring. I was still anxious about walking in alone. It was a big club, and lots of guys in suits outside, probably passing around a cigarette. Scary! Again, prepared as always, she dialed a number on her cell and a minute later, I had a friend outside, ready to escort me into the building. Thank heavens for Mama.
Then inside. Oh my freaking goodness. Where to start? Music was blasting, and on the dance floor kids were rocking out in short shiny gowns, and dark suits and ties. Along the walls were a dozen tables, where similarly dresses adults sat and gossiped over cups of coffee and chocolates. One wall was entirely devoted to food. There were mini empanadas, salteñas, and these strange little hamburgers. One table had a chocolate fountain with skewers for dousing strawberries and cookies in liquid goodness. All of the tables, in the negative space between dishes, were dotted with confetti and chocolates. A disco ball was spinning, as were multi colored lights. Looking up, a second story walkway was home to photographers and parents. A giant chandelier hung from the ceiling. The room was elegant. The moldings and framework spoke of older days, but the decorations brought in a much more modern flair.
I greeted the birthday girl and her family. Of course they looked wonderful. Her curls bounced happily under a tiara. After making the rounds, I sat and watched the dancing for a bit. A lot of the kids were younger than me, fourteen or fifteen, but there were some my age sitting around the edges. This is when Folklorico really comes in handy. No, not because I danced it out on that incredible dance floor! I was thankful for Folklorico because of the people I met through it. I walked out to dance near a girl in my dance group. Unbeknownst to me, that was quite the faux pas. I learned later in the evening, you only dance with a partner, never in a circle with just a group of friends. Again, my Folklorico ties saved me, as a fellow dancer left his seated friends and asked me to dance.
More and more people arrived as the night progressed. I changed partners three times, pleading exhaustion when I wanted to sit down and find a new partner. One of these times I was in the bathroom and saw a halo around my big toe, in blood! I was having so much fun, I didn’t notice the cut until it dried. That was the nasty part of the evening.
Around eleven thirty, many of the guests disappeared. Their absence stopped the others from dancing. We stood around the edges, nibbling food, and talking. I had no idea what was going on. Then the DJ changed the music to something soft and slow, and started to read from a paper. The Spanish confused me, but as my friend walked his sister down the staircase, pausing for pictures, I understood. It was like that moment in Cinderella. The men escort their partners down an elegant staircase and are announced like royalty. They walk the perimeter of the dance floor then wait for the next couple. This couple cleared another thing up for me. She, like the first girl, was in a metallic silver dress, he in a silver tie. These were the close friends of the birthday girl walking down the stairs, like bridesmaids. A dozen or so couples descended the stairs, and then the music changed again. There she was, the sweet fifteen princess, on the arm of her father. She had changed into a floor-length, poofy ball gown. They stopped for pictures, then walked the floor, stopping in front. Her mother, brother, and sister joined them. They were given drinks, I’m not sure of the kind. Her family spoke, she spoke. The music drifted into an acoustic ‘’My Heart Will Go On.’’ They set their glasses aside, and father and daughter began to dance. After a moment, her brother and sister joined them on the floor. He cut in, and danced with his sister, while his father danced with his younger daughter. A minute later, another couple cut in, then another, until all of the chosen men danced with the princess.
Later, regular dancing resumed, and she changed back into her short party dress. I left at 1:30am, but was told that they continued until three. More could be said about this incredible quinceañera, but really, that was the defining moment. I felt so privileged to watch this right of passage. The family looked so proud for their daughter, their sister. I admit, it was the family element that got to me. Their family made me think of my own, and of my other home, and that was bittersweet. Still, I was so happy to go. This was her coveted age, and she was nice enough to share it with me.

unexpected crazies

So I was just reading some of Josh's posts on Facebook. That kid has it figured out. I mean, the part about not really knowing what's going on, but somehow knowing we'll come through.
Believe you me, there are some things here that I never expected to happen. I didn't dream I'd be going to a dinner less than a month in to say goodbye to a fellow exchange student. I don't blame her in the least, but it scares me just a little. She's going home ASAP...what if I get to that point? I guess I know that I won't, but the possibility's out there, and it makes me question myself.
I also didn't expect to be bookless. How silly is that? I could just ask my mom to take me to a library, but for whatever reason, I haven't yet. And so, in these long days of no school, I'm watching TV, and studying. How very much unlike me, to watch so much TV. And most of it isn't even in Spanish! Yes, so I'm a little disappointed in myself, but on the whole, I'm just staying alive here.
Not that if I weren't watching TV I wouldn't be alive. No, I've very alive. Just sometimes, I want to do something.
Last year, Fernando ended almost every conversation with ''Call me. Let's do something.'' I think I know what he was feeling. It was so easy in Alaska to sit home and and just hang, with myself. But here, myself is so confused that I NEED to be with other people to feel normal.
Other things I didn't expect: well, this ''situation'' for one. Don't get me wrong, I'm not scared for my safety, but my perspectives are changing so much because of the fighting and news headlines and death counts (in Pando! Not where I am!)
Then my Spanish...ha ha, I don't know what I was thinking about Spanish. I think I'm doing pretty well now, but I can't help but think What If. What if my friends talked to me in Spanish, instead of English? What if I didn't watch any English TV? What if I wrote in my journal in Spanish instead of English?
I know this is a little more angsty than usual. Please don't freak on me, I'm not depressed or anything like that. Just thought you should know a little.
Anyway, I'm off to that goodbye dinner.
Much love,
I am yours,
Erika

*Smell, and Smile!*

Rain on a hot sidewalk. Cinnamon in the streets. Coconut scented dogs. Believe it or not, some people take these scents for granted in their daily lives. For example, I never see my Bolivian friends pause for a moment to realize that their dog smells like a dessert and their sheets like air, not Downy. So why is it such a big deal for me? I’m sure you’ve heard that when one sense is taken away, the others are heightened. It’s also true that when one’s situation becomes so completely opposite, the senses explode. Well, my situation has definitely changed, and my nose is having a blast…usually… trying to discern each new scent.
I’ll start with people. The Cruceños* are very fashion conscious people. We produce more beauty queens than all of the other Bolivian cities. There are hair salons on almost every corner, and almost all of my female friends carry their Victoria’s Secret* lip-gloss at all times. Image, however, is not enough. They have to smell good. Most girls bring a bottle of body spray to school and spritz it on between classes, or just when they’re bored. And the boys…aah, the boys. Do you remember sixth grade, when the boys first discovered Axe*? They’d spray it everywhere. Entire hallways reeked of the stuff. As they matured (age wise only, for the most part) their colognes morphed: a little more musk here, something slightly spicy there. Even so, they all still smell a little bit of that Axe-iness that I first came to associate with guys. Here, the same thing happened. I don’t know what the original scent was, or how it’s changed, but the guys all have that general yummy guy cologne smell. It’s just not Axe; it’s different. Probably what Axe and its cousins would smell like if they were born in South America.
Now, from the people, to the streets. The street perspective is important here, since the smells are completely different if you’re in the car, or out. Due to the heat, I usually ride with my window down. Something about the speed, or maybe it’s the elevation, wipes out all scents but dust and exhaust. I hate the exhaust, but when a smelly micro* isn’t in front of me, which is usually, the dust is kind of nice. It smells baked, like dried grass, and hot leaves. The feeling it brings is so warm, though that may just be the sun on my arm.
Being in the middle of the roads, with the people, is what really smells good. Yesterday I went to a little town called Cotoca. We walked from the outskirts to the center of town. Thirty seconds into our walk, Lauren, a fellow exchange student, said, ‘’I smell cinnamon!’’ It was true. The air was edible, though no food vendors were in sight. We continued until we were in the heart of the market. There, food is everywhere, so of course our noses feasted. Mine got a little confused because while passing an Arroz Con Leche* stand I saw a couple cuts of meat hanging on hooks in the open air. When we got to the actual cafeteria, it was even crazier. To get your food, you simply sit down at one of the long tables. Various vendors call the names of their food, and you yell what you want. Everything is cooked then and there. From my seat at a table, I saw corn and cheese cakes frying, meat ka-bobs turning, and soup boiling. Underneath all the food scents was the horsy-dirt smell that is everywhere. Speaking of horses, as we walked to leave Cotoca, the most interesting aroma permeated the air. I thought it was something akin to horse manure. Melissa swore it was pot. Dalton could smell onions. We’re thinking the horse ate pot and onions, and nature took her course. Stranger things have happened, right?
Besides the obvious, little things catch my nose (pardon the phrase.) Sun dried laundry, for one. Who would think that such a neutral scent could be so appealing? Then there is Pelusa*, my dog. He gets baths with human shampoo, hence the coconut. The bathrooms all have their own unique scent also. Surprisingly, it’s not disgusting. I thought throwing used toilet paper away would make bathrooms reek, but they smell like regular bathrooms, for better or worse. There’s more: the wood supporting part of the stage in my moment of backstage nerves, my hands after petting a non-coconutty dog, the salon where I got my first ever manicure. It’s these scents that will remind me of Bolivia after I leave. Studies show memory is strongly connected to scents, so I’m hoping that someday after this adventure, I’ll smell something familiar, and relive tons of memories. After all, my senses have been strengthened, and I’m praying my memory along with them.

*Helpful vocabulary:
Crucenños: Santa Cruz-ians
Victoria's Secret: Popular chain store, famous for its lingerie
Axe: Overused men's cologne...It smells pretty good.
micro: Micro-bus. When I first arrived I thought they were just buses for huge familis. No, they are one of the main forms of public transportation. They have terrible exhaust systems.
Arroz con Leche: Literally translated means ''Rice with Milk.'' Like a rice pudding.
Pelusa: Literally translated, it's ''fluff'' or ''lint.'' It's also the name of my little white poodle. I'm guessing it's the Spanish version of ''Fluffy.''

Tarea from Sitka and DANCE

Hey All,
To those who don't know, I am working for an English credit while here. Every post with asterisks around the title are going to be graded by my English teacher, Ms. Christianson. (Btw, Hi, Ms. Christianson!) I'll be posting one of these entries every week...if there are no computer difficulties.

On a different note, I'm still dancing!!!!!
On Monday I performed with my folklorico group for three different TV stations. And one of them INTERVIEWED ME. Me, on TV. Speaking English. EEEeeekkk... Ximena, one of my classmates, translated the questions from Spanish to English, then my reply from English back to Spanish. And then, blast it, I was made to look a fool in front of everyone. He asked me to dance! I had no idea what do, until my partner, thank heavens, saved me by basicing until we were deemed boring. And not a moment too soon.

Sadly, we didn't win the competition. Oh well, it was great fun anyway. And our pictures made the newspaper...Wait a minute, MY PICTURE made the paper. I was sitting on Fernando's lap, being quite the flirt (coqueta)and they snapped a shot! Still haven't gotten comfortable with putting pix up, but you will see it someday. Because frankly, I'm a babe. Okay, okay, maybe that's going a bit too far, but it was a pretty sweet shot.

Today we went to a university to perform for some function. And let me tell you, this was a very VERY interesting show. The audience was great. There were tons of college guys! Ha ha, I think guys learn to whistle here at a very young age. But I discovered a problem the second I stepped on stage. We were dancing in complete sunlight. The stage was completely carpeted in red. After eight counts my feet were burning. We danced and smiled the best we could, but it hurt terribly. One girl even left the stage, still smiling, to dance on the grass. After a long series of basics, and turns, all on the stage of fire, we got to jump to the grass. Hallelujah. Somehow I didn't realize my partner wasn't there until I reached for him, and he wasn't there. I basiced through eight counts of partners until I could get another partner to save me. From there things went smoothly, until twenty counts later. My favorite part of the dance comes half way through. In it, four guys form a circle and grasp wrists. The girls sit on the links and are lifted above the men to smile and wave at everyone. But somehow we were a couple short. It was a small circle. Then another partner completely spaced a fight scene, where Paula and I fight over him. Later on he was on the opposite side of the field. I had to flirt across a whole freakin field of grass!
Up until that point I thought it could get no worse. It was a ton of fun, but so many mistakes! Well, it got worse. Remember the stage of fire? Yeah, I can't walk normally now, and my blisters are throbbing. All of the girls are suffering. Really, a red carpeted stage, when it's 28-30 degrees out! (Celcius. That's roughly 88 Fahrenheit. Very roughly.)

On the bright side, because there is always a bright side in sunny Santa Cruz, there was some fighting near my school, so it was cancelled for the rest of the day, as was my Spanish class! This is a different world, but if you're smart, you'll be fine, and you'll get to skip school. With the whole school, and hang at a friend's house.

I'm hoping to do just that after I shower and bandage my feet and wash off this blasted stage makeup. So this is it for now.

TKM (short for Te Quiero Mucho...or I love you a lot)
Eri

*Rules of the Road*

Sophomore year: Erika, are you going to get your license? Erika, you’re going to drive home. Now, Erika, this car won’t go anywhere until you take the wheel. Now! It’s less than a mile. Drive home…Woah! Erika, slow down, slow down! No, to the left! Inside the lines. Turn faster. The brake is on the…!*
And thus went my driving lessons in Sitka, the whole three times I tried. Obviously, they were painful experiences. Even so, unskilled as I was, I understood the basics: stay inside the speed limits, watch for pedestrians, light your turn signal a telephone pole away from your turning point.
I’m beginning to redefine my definition of ´´basics,’’ mostly because none of these apply in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia. In fact, the only rules I’ve noticed have been less than unorthodox in my culture shocked brain. It’s a very different, very exciting culture and I´m trying to learn as much and as quickly as possible. To do just that, I’ve compiled a list of the South American rules of the road.

1. Lock doors at intersections. Whether this is to discourage robbers, or beggars, I do not know. Maybe it’s only to deny the boys washing windows at stoplights a comfortable seat.
2. If traffic slows unnecessarily, every car has a built in communicator to ask the other cars, ´´What the heck is going on? ´´ This device is called a horn, and is used more liberally the closer to the center of town (and the heart of traffic) you get.
3. Your truck isn’t full until there are three people in the cab and five in the bed, sitting on stacks of wood. I’ve seen people sitting on the rims of the backs while driving. If I tried it, I think I would be scared to death. I’d also probably fall to my death.
4. Absolutely no driving until you’re eighteen years of age! This is an actual law, but like the Pirates´ Code, is more of a guideline. My friend’s fifteen year old brother is a regular driver. He also regularly carries cash to tip the cops who don’t catch him.
5. Like the age limit, the street lines are also a guideline, especially if you’re a motorcyclist. Intersections hold the most obvious examples of this. What would normally be a three way road becomes four when a motorcycle weaves through the stopped cars and waits with the first of the line to go when the light changes.

There are other rules that I’ve yet to put into words, but they are very much out there. In fact, I doubt most of them have been written. Who would write them when this country is constantly in a state of flux? Contrast between worlds is everywhere. Beauty queens walk the same streets as the women begging on the streets. ‘’Señorita, Señor, por favor…´´ Sometimes the cultures mix just a little when la Señorita drops a few Bolivianos into the other’s upturned hand. Horse drawn carts compete with the cars and buses for road space. Jiffy Peanut Butter is in the same store as las empanadas and los guineas. I, an Alaskan Mormon girl, am going to a Bolivian Catholic school and learning to say the Rosary.
Bolivia is changing, a lot. In fact, today half of school was cancelled because of fighting. Despite these changes, I think the Rules of the Road are here to stay. It’s more exciting that way.


*The author has taken some liberties with quotations of her mother. Mom, please don’t take offense.

Dance dance dance!!!!!!!

Raise your hands if you've ever seen a show by the New Archangel Dancers. If yes, then you know what a character dance is. If no, then you should go see one before the season ends.

A character dance tells a story. Now I'm going to tell you one.

Once upon a time, on a beautiful spring Sunday morning, a group of lovely young women walk home from church to their house that is being frantically cleaned by their butler/manservant. In a few short minutes, a party will be held with many handsome gentlemen in attendance. And what is fun, but a good flirtation? The girls retire to their rooms to clean up and gossip, and the men enter below. The flirty young server brings 'round drinks to the men playing cards. Drinks and cards alike are abandoned as the girls descend the staircase. They look so delicate, that the men are awed and start seranading them on las guitarras. The mother enters the room and greets everyone. She is a great lady, of course, and commands the respect of everyone. Meanwhile, house work must continue, and the maid checks the bread in the oven. Even she, however, cannot resist the call of the music, and joins in with the other girls to dance. All girls are swept off their feet and dance with the men. They ''basic'' ( don't know what it's called really) and jump into the arms of their men, and toss kisses and smiles like candy at a parade. The drama picks up when the mens' eyes wander off their ladies. Really, in a situation like that, what else can be done but slap them? (the men of course.) The women fight valiently to regain their beaux, and in a great whirl, succeed.

That was my evening in a nutshell. And it was incredible! Really, a week and a half of hardcore (every school day) practice, then to be throw onto a stage in front of a million people with lights and music and dancing! It was the most fun I've had since coming here. Since I can remember!
The story was simplified a bit. I was the bread girl, though why a bread girl would wear purple satin, I don't know. And instead of one guy, I had four! One for nineteen counts of basics; one for leaping into his arms and being spun, being lifted with four others girls in a circle, basic-ing, kissing, and slapping; one for fighting over with another girl, and flirting outrangeously; and one for ''kissing'' behind his hat in the end pose.

Oh, and the costumes! Like I said, I was in something akin to purple satin. It's very formfitting down to the tops of my thighs, then a triple ruffle with pink and yellow ribbon goes from there in an assymetrical line. The ruffles are also along the neckline. We wore no shoes.

Getting my hair done for it was quite the party. No sarcasm. Sahsha and I went to the salon where the women washed our hair and braided it from the right side to the left and letting the extension hang over our shoulder. Ribbon was braided in for Sahsha, but I forgot mine and got it before the show. Our hair was finished with glitter hair spray! I love that so much. We shone. And we also got our nails done! My first professional manicure cost 40 Bolivianos...and with an exchange rate of 7 Bs to 1 US dollar, that's quite the deal! I'm toying with the idea of getting a manicure every other week, possible more, just because I'm in the beauty capital of Bolivia and can afford it. Speaking of affording, my total evening cost 120 Bs. That's for the hair, nails, and nude colored underware for under my costume. A little under $20 total.

Then back to one of Sahsha's houses for makeup. Her cousin dolled me up with tons of purple eyeshadow, and tons of blush (I'm too white dang it!) All of the girls do their own makeup, and somehow we all look great.

I can't go through all of this fashion detailing without mentioning the guys. Our men wore white shirts and pants, brown belts and sandals, and straw hats. And I do believe I have never seen hotter guys than those when they were onstage bursting with energy. I just may be in love. :)

What more to say? I will never forget my first South American performance. Oh, and if we did well, we compete again on Sunday (only downside in the whole situation. Only that one.) and if we do incredibly, then onto Brazil!!!! But I'm not counting chickens yet, since they've yet to hatch. Even then, I might not be able to go because of all of the legal crap I'd have to go through. But the idea of it all!

As always, I love this country. I love the people, and my friends, and my new life. Already it is my two week anniversary of coming here! And I am in love with it all.

Take care,
much loves,
Eri

Words, words, words. I'm so sick of words!

Another quick quote:

''And never underestimate the importance of BODY LANGUAGE!!!'' Who said it? Hint, from a movie.

And it's true. As quickly as my Spanish improves and my English deteriorates, my sign language improves. It's amazing the concepts you can...shoot, forgot the word...you can...you can...make others understand (not what I was looking for, but it works) by pointing, waving your hands madly in the air, and saying ''Sí,'' ''No,'' and ''No sé.''

In fact, I´m learning a lot about language in general.

Por ejemplo:



When you're in an environment when only one language is being heard, it's difficult to switch. When I was writing a few days ago, I tried to remember a Japanese word and it was so so difficult! My brain, for the last week, has been wired hardcore only to Spanish and English. Trying to recall another completely foreign language is surprisingly hard.

On the same vein, when English is around me, or even the option of English, it's easy to give in and speak English. The radio plays a lot of popular English music. You have no idea how many times I've heard the Jones Brother's top single ''Burning Up.'' But when it's playing and mi mama is speaking to me, I have a more difficult time calling up the Spanish words I need. And I'm lazy. I'll admit it here, though I told Salazar otherwise. I'm lazy because when we're eating dinner and I'm trying to get a point across and it's not working, I tell me brother in English, then he translates.

Then phone calls. Wow, I love talking on the phone in Spanish. Not. Today I was hung up on. I called Paola's cell. When someone answered I said ''Habla Erika'' just like I was supposed to. I mean, this is her phone. Who else would answer? Ha ha, well, not her. Rapid Spanish shot through the phone lines at me, and I understood nothing. Seconds later...click. Dead. A minute later Paola called back and explained that it was her mother.

On the bright side, I'm getting better at speaking with my parents. I've had several full (though broken) conversations with with progressively less No Entiendos. Go me!!!! Er...and my parents for learning Spanglish. I feel bad that we have to resort to it.
The other night my dad said something, then I said something, they after a second of looking at me questionally said, ''Come. Here.'' Ugh! It'd be so less painful for them if I could just learn to freakin talk!

There's my rag on language for you. I think my experience would be completely different if I wasn't in a bilingual school, but I'm learning.

Bolivia is wonderful, the family and friends are wonderful, and the fresh food is to die for.
You are all wonderful too and I love you very much.
Many kisses,
Eri

P.S. Comment with the names of both quotes' movies and you get a virtual hug.

Besar: to kiss....My Definition:to greet

Hello all, and welcome to my blog. I´m here in Bolivia, and am loving it!!!!!!! But there are some things you might want to know before you die of missing me and come visit:
The number one most obvious thing for me...how to greet.
I´m sure you´ve all seen the movies where when they meet someone, they kiss cheeks. For whatever reason, I never thought of how that would apply to me. But believe me, it does. When I got off the plane my new family all kissed me on the cheek. And I thought ''Okay.'' It wasn´t that unusual. It felt natural to lean in like that.
Then to a family birthday party. I still don´t know the names of everyone, but I have kissed them all.
And thus the stories continue...at my new school, to the boy behind me in Mass (yes, I went to Mass) everyone. And depending on who the person is dictates the kiss. For example, all of the women and most of the men actually had a pucker to my right cheek, but a few just pressed their cheek to mine. And one particular abuela (grandmother) kissed me full out on both cheeks.
It makes me wonder why the US has such an aversion to kissing in greeting. At what point in our lives did it become uncomfortable to kiss anyone besides family and significant others. No entiendo.

And that´s it. I´m here. I´m safe. I´m in school, and have some great friends. My family is fantastic, and the wildlife is pretty great. While sitting in the pool yesterday, some parrots flew overhead. Except for the poverty downtown on the streets...''Por favor señorita...'' and general political unrest, and that one of my friends got mugged awhile ago, this place is heaven. I already love it.

So, hasta luego.

Chau.