Routine Immigration

Can you believe this bridge dates back to 100 BC!? Most of Ponte Pietra was blown up in WWII and then rebuilt with original materials. Kind of amazing when you think about it (or walk on it, which I do a few times a week b/c it leads up to a great lookout point).

Well, life here is starting to feel kind of normal. I have classes to teach, places to go, people to see (sometimes)...Having somewhat of a routine feels good. After over a year of not working, I can now finally tell the difference between a Saturday and a Tuesday. I can now say "TGIF!" (not that I'd want to). And pretty soon I'll receive an actual paycheck! 


For the first time in my adult life, I have a job that doesn't require an alarm clock. I get to wake up when my body decides it's time to rise & shine. Long gone are the days of having to drudgingly crawl out of bed to start my coffee pot and get to work by a certain ungodly hour (only to find my vice principal waiting at the gate to tell me I'm five minutes late). I'm on a different time schedule now. I'd like to call it my Italian time schedule. It works for me.

Morning Friends

The longest part of my new morning routine is waiting in line for bread at the best bakery in town (which is only five doors away!). It often takes twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, where I always end up feeling tongue-tied and overwhelmed by the choices. The overly serious woman who works there wears a sequined hat everyday, maybe to offset her demeanor...and when she's ready she sternly says "Prego!" and I just say "pane" and point to one of the ten different types of bread...and then "brioche" and point to one of the ten different types of brioches...and then I sometimes point to something else, like the zucchini & cheese pizza encased in flaky puff pastry. My ordering skills are slowly improving and pretty soon I might be able to go in there and actually pronounce the specific names of the bread and pastries. Now, that's a goal! 

Routines make me feel comfortable and give me a sense of belonging when there might otherwise be none. They provide a sense of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. It's strange to live in a city where I don't quite fit in with the tourists, but where I certainly don't fit in with the locals either. I'm just kind of on my own, trying to understand the logistics of a new home, while at the same time trying to keep myself happy. And a routine is part of what makes me happy.

But talking about pastry choices and new morning routines becomes super ridiculous when one steps out of their "Me, Me, Me Bubble." I left my bubble last week while waiting in the immigration department of the police station (the dreaded questura). While hovering outside of my bubble, I realized how difficult it is for most people who move here to work and live and survive in a new country. Like, really survive. For most of them (I presume) it's not just about happiness and comfort and routines. It's about providing for families and creating a new life. 


When I arrived at the police station I was surprised to find 200 foreigners already lined up along the street outside of the building. About 150 more people lined up behind me. The gates opened at 8am and then one-by-one, we were herded into one of two very small rooms. Babies, kids, elderly folks, women, men...all from around the world. And then there was me...the only person from North America, quite possibly the Western Hemisphere. Most were from Algeria, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, India, Libya, Tunisia, China, and the Ukraine. It made for fantastic people watching, but it was also sad because there we all were, waiting for our numbers to be called so we could learn the fate of our futures. Would we be granted permission to stay and live here legally? And I felt like I was the only one of us who didn't really care one way or the other. I knew I'd be fine either way. The looks of exhaustion on those faces made me realize (once again) how easy life is for me. Many of these applicants had obviously been there before and knew the system very well, almost like the immigration department had become part of their new routine in Italy. While some left looking devastated, others left looking like they had just received the best news of their life. 


When my number was finally called to go in the back "interrogation" room (five hours after I arrived!), the stern man opened my passport and instead of questioning me, he flashed a big smile and said "U.S.A.!!!!" and then "California!!!!" and then "Hollywood!!!!" and that was the moment I knew I'd get my permission to stay. Then I left the building to start my afternoon routine and return to my bubble. 

Bike Riding

"Life is like riding a bicycle - in order to keep your balance, 
you must keep moving."

~Albert Einstein

There's an Italian expression, "Hai voluto la bicicletta? Adesso pedala!", to describe someone who has finally obtained their goal, but who then feels overwhelmed. It means,  "You wanted the bicycle? Now pedal!"  I had a dream to live in Italy and I made it happen. I got a job, I obtained my visa, jumped on a redeye flight to Milan, took a train to Verona, but then when I woke up the next morning in a new place,  it was suddenly all too real. I had one of those "Oh, crap!!" moments. Moving someplace foreign has rattled my confidence and made me second guess my decision making skills. (Not just the decision to move here, but practically every decision I've made for the last twenty years!) I think this is normal, though. Right?


Finding a place to live, figuring out how to get from point A to point B (and then back), communicating the most basic words, and just transitioning into a new way of living has been challenging. Even the simplest things can seem overwhelming, like where to eat lunch; how to buy a bus ticket; when to safely cross the street.  I've been feeling tired, overly sentimental, a little lonely, and allergic to almost everything. Apparently, these are all signs of culture shock (even the allergies!). It's seriously strange because it's not like this is my first time here. But I guess this is my first time really, really on my own in Italy.


Turns out, a visa isn't enough to live here. I must obtain a permesso di sioggiorno (a permit to stay), which according to Italian law, must be filed within eight days of arriving. It's actually a very confusing process due to all the logistics involved, but I'm almost over that hump (I think).  Finding a place to live was possibly the most difficult task, but I serendipitously stumbled upon a super cute & cozy apartment that has a sublease for the same amount of time as my visa. It's in a perfect location, just a ten minute walk to the center of Verona and just a couple blocks from a 14th century castle.


The next big obstacle is transportation. I'd like to buy a little scooter to get around town, but the search for one seems daunting...and riding one seems a little dangerous. I've always been a terrible bike rider. I didn't even learn how to ride one until I was embarrassingly too old. And now I've moved to a city where the main mode of transportation is by bicycle or scooter. There's some irony here. I just hope I can stay balanced while I pedal my way through this new place.

The neighborhood castle

One of the best things about living in Verona is being able to travel to another
country for the weekend...like Munich, Germany for Oktoberfest!

It might seem like I don't want to be here, but that's not the case at all. I'm just freakishly introspective. I feel privileged to have created change in my life...and proud of myself for overcoming my own fears to make this happen. And more grateful than ever.


p.s. My couch pulls out into a bed. Visitors welcome!

Stomachache

For months, I’ve had an aching feeling in my stomach about this whole moving to Italy thing. People always say "listen to your gut" but it's not as easy as it seems! Maybe my reluctance about moving to Italy has more to do with nerves than "my gut" or maybe it has to do with laziness, since finding an apartment, buying a scooter and maneuvering through the English-teaching niche seems like such an effort. Or maybe this aching feeling really is my gut telling me not to go. I have no idea. But aside from that feeling, there have been a few other things that are making me wonder if moving to Italy (albeit temporarily) is the right choice. 


The mean lady at the Italian Consulate who made me cry during my visa application appointment is one of those things.  It took me six weeks to get this appointment, which ended up lasting no more than ten minutes. I was so nervous about missing it that I flew home early from my family-time in Massachusetts because I knew Hurricane Irene would cause my flight to be cancelled. I drove up to Los Angeles with ALL the necessary requirements and paperwork. I arrived on time, opened the consulate office door, and there she was...Signora Sourpuss sitting there behind her glass partition and giving me the evil eye. It went downhill from there. Call me sensitive, but I really think her tone was borderline abusive. And maybe because I had just learned that my grandmother had passed away, I didn't have my invisible mean lady shield activated. I was sad and tired and simply could not handle Signora Sourpuss's vexatious ways. So after she chewed me up and spit me out, I started to cry in the middle of the consulate office. In front of everyone. Uncontrollably. I've since learned that tears are quite common in that office, and so are denials for visas. So what I thought was a slam dunk quickly turned into a crapshoot. The next day I resubmitted my application with the extra information she requested and now it's just a waiting game (a very long, anxiety-packed waiting game). 


I've spent most of my recent days in San Diego sorting through all my stuff and downsizing into a smaller storage unit. The concept of a rented storage unit is so bizarre, but sometimes necessary for someone like me who has made the choice to live out of bags for awhile. I've spent $1, 340 in the last year to store my stuff. That's insane!!!  As of today, I finally succeeded in dividing my things into two equal groups, one to keep and one to discard, which feels great...but the sorting process really got me thinking. Seeing my photos and fondue pot and my refrigerator magnets has me aching for a place to call home. I want to nest. But of course this is a normal feeling when one's life is up in the air and lacking stability. So I'm trying to stay objective. 


And most of all, the death of my grandmother has me reflecting more than usual about life choices. Reggae Mama was my icon for adventure and independence, but she was also very grounded and knew how to balance travel and family. So what would she do? She'd go to Italy, I'm pretty sure. And if given the chance, I will too. I think. 


Then, yesterday, I saw my super intuitive friend Amanda, who in a non sequitur sort of way while we were talking about fresh squeezed juice said, "You don't want to move to Italy, do you?" I assured her that she was wrong because I do want to move there, but she could feel my doubt and tasked me with doing some soul searching (one of my favorite hobbies). So..."What do I want? Like really, really want? I’m supposed to leave for Italy in two days, which obviously isn't happening since I don't have my visa (& they have my passport). But before I reschedule my flight, I'd like to know for sure that I'm going. My job starts on the 21st and I have business cards for my side tutoring business...but I need to prepare myself for Plan B, just in case. If Signora Sourpuss grants me my visa, I'll jump with joy onto that airplane and into a new life in Verona. If I don't get my visa, I'll join the 14 million other unemployed Americans here, but for some reason that doesn't seem so bad.  Hopefully I'll know by tomorrow!

Will I get to use my new business cards?????

Update:
The visa arrived two days later!!!!!! So I'm packing my suitcase and heading to Italy!

The End (which is always the beginning)

I spent the last three weeks in the Italian countryside analyzing the meaning of life. OK, not completely...I also spent my time eating, drinking, laughing, meeting new friends...and searchng for a job. And I'm happy to report that I found one: A teaching position that does not involve hours of preparation or recovery...A teaching job that allows me to simply show up, work, and then leave. The concept seems so outrageous to me! I won't get into all the details now, but just know that I'll be teaching English in Verona starting this September. Verona, by the way, is breathtakingly beautiful...not too big, not too small...and is only a hop, skip & a jump away from my support system in Olfino.


My first week in Olfino intentionally coincided with my father's biannual visit to his grandfather's homeland. My father is responsible for making my connection to Olfino possible....as a child, my grandmother would talk about this magical place, but my father is the person who actually brought me here eight years ago to experience it for myself. Since then, he's helped me maneuver around the area and better understand our ties to this little village. When he first brought me here, he told me that it would be my duty to stay connected with this little hamlet of Oflino in the years to come. My pleasure. :) During this trip, he made my job hunt in Verona so much easier...not sure how I would have managed it without him.

My dad with the seafood pasta at
Gino's in Olfino...delicious!




Beginning of an amazing meal at 
the Gozzi farmhouse 
(aka winery, aka cantina, aka vineyard)



Amabile is 95 and has visited Milan's Duomo
almost every day of her adult life.
She likes to recite prayers to me in Italian.

 

One night a week they have free from working at their restaurant
...and who do they take out to dinner? Me!!! I felt very lucky.

 

Regina & Maria were my neighbors in Olfino. I spent quite a bit of time with them,
pretending like I understood what they were saying to me. Maria (right) has alzheimer's and
Regina, about 20 years her senior, is constantly correcting her.

 

View through the kitchen window
of the Monzambano apartment

When my father went home, I moved two miles down the road to Monzambano. My grandmother's cousin, Luigina, lived in a beautiful apartment directly across from the Monzambano church. I remember my grandmother telling me stories of this town, of this apartment and of Luigina, who traveled the world as a seamstress for the opera. I had the pleasure of meeting Luigina a few times. She passed away over a year ago and since then, her apartment has sat practically untouched. Her sister offered it to me, since I needed to travel to Verona a few times that week and Monzambano has public transportation (a bus that comes twice a day!!!). When I went to look at the inside of the apartment with my father, we had just learned of the death of my grandmother's brother, Bruce, an incredibly strong & family oriented man who had very special ties to the Monzambano area. The first picture I saw when we entered the apartment was of my grandmother, who passed away six years ago. The second picture was of my Uncle Bruce with Luigina. And there I was, moving into Luigina's space, surrounded by her memories and her things...and pictures of loved ones who have passed on. In some ways it was really nice to stay in her home, but it was also sad and at times lonely. Items Luigina collected from her world travels were placed all over her apartment, which reminded me of her independence...She never married (although I hear she had many suitors)...and I can't help but wonder if my destiny will be similar.
  

Not sure if I would have made it
through this trip without Mery Sun...
translator, singer, chauffeur, friend.

 

Birra Team with beautiful Marta & handsome Omar

 My last weekend was spent "working" the beer tent at Olfino's biggest festival of the year, Sagra del Polastrel. At first I thought this "chicken festival" was quirky and cute....but while there I realized it's actually a very meaningful event for the people who live here. Olfino and the neighboring village collaboratively put it on...and it is quite a production...four nights of amazing food, music, reunions, pride and friendship. I felt very lucky to be a small part of it. I also loved all the attention I received as the "Americana" who came all the way to Olfino just for the festival. :)

I think that sometimes we need to explore, fulfill dreams, travel, search & reflect in order to realize what we've had all along. I'm at the point now where I can go in just about any direction I want. Having so many options feels amazing, but also a little scary. How does one choose? What is most important in life? New experiences & new friends in Italy? Or family & familiarity in San Diego? I think the answer is neither. A balance between the two is necessary for me to be happiest. Life is too short to not live out your dreams...but there is a fine line between fulfillment & loss. If we're too busy making our dreams come true, we miss out on time and memories with our loved ones.

Speaking of...I just learned that the health of my Grandma Mary ("Reggae Mama") has taken a turn for the worse. So instead of San Diego, I am on my way to Boston to see her. One year ago, my grandmother's 87th birthday celebration was the kick-off to "My Year of Me" and now, I'll be with her as I end my journey. Beginnings & Endings are always intertwined. 





 

Teaching (as a gerund)

So the other day I became internationally certified to teach English as a second/foreign language. Go ahead, ask me anything about grammar...gerunds, past participles, conditionals, any of the 12 verb tenses...oh wait, 13 with the "going to" form...I got it. I know it. And I'm ready to teach it.  But for some reason, even though this has been a longtime goal of mine, I don't feel accomplished or excited about passing the course. All I know is my "year of me" is about over, which means...Reality. Also, I just realized that a certificate is a certificate...and it really doesn't matter how well you do, as long as you get your stupid certificate. Four weeks in Florence without seeing the Statue of David because lesson plans are more important...was...a...mistake. But oh well.


Another taste of reality: I recently sent my resignation to my school district. This means I am "officially" unemployed...which, during these tough economic times, means I am "unoffically" crazy. Part of me can't believe I just quit my job, and part of me can't believe I did that job in the first place. I'm completely at peace with my decision, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous about embarking into the unknown. I have some tentative plans to look for jobs teaching English, but I'm still uncertain about what I really, really, really want to do next.


Last night, in honor of our "graduation", Florence threw an enormous fireworks show over the Arno River. Coincidentally, it was also a huge holiday celebrating Saint John the Baptist. My roomie Roslyn and I hiked up the hill with our new friend Donald to watch the show from the steps of San Miniato al Monte. Beforehand, we had homeade pasta at Zeb's and then bought some wine to bring up to the churchsteps for the show. Only in Italy does the grocerystore clerk have a wine opener handy. It was a great way to celebrate the end of classes and the beginning of our next steps, whatever they may be.

Our celebratory fireworks show, in honor of us.

"Prisoners" in the Piazza

I just encountered the most culturally powerful moment of my time in Italy. It left such an impression on me that I feel compelled to share it with you. Unfortunately, I left my camera at home…so here goes my attempt at descriptive writing:

Set up in front of the Basilica of Santa Croce were bleachers surrounding a temporary arena. My classmate, Grace, told me that there is a special event tonight:  a sporting match with prisoners who fight one another….without any rules.  Apparently, her roommate went to last year’s event and saw one of the prisoner’s eyeballs pop out.  After a few hours of studying at the café, I had forgotten about tonight’s event…but on my walk home I heard a slow drumbeat coming from the other side of town. The closer I walked to my apartment, the louder the rhythmic drums became. As I approached Piazza Della Repubblica, there was a large gathering of people watching a parade of men walking to the slow beat of the drums. Men of all ages, but who seemed serious, almost solemn. My mind was focused on maneuvering through the crowd to get home, but when I entered the piazza I realized that this parade was something quite unique. Hundreds and hundreds of men (thousands, probably) were marching to that slow drumbeat, which was still in the distance…but getting louder every second.  They were dressed in ancient looking costumes with bright colors, stripes, tights, feathers galore, knickers, billowy sleeves, helmets or puffy hats, sashes, emblems, frilly collars, leather belts, and boots or buckled shoes. Oh, and sometimes swords.

Then the gladiators appeared…and I got the goose bumps.  A group of 40 or so men, all in matching athletic outfits, walked past me (some within an arm’s distance!). These were some of the strongest, fiercest men I’ve ever seen in my life. Their presence and energy were overwhelmingly powerful. Some were definitely disheveled, but many others were glistening, chiseled, statue-like figures (with tattoos) who had me in a trance. They walked to that slow beat of the drums….stood as tall as physically possible…and did not crack one single grin. Until…the woman next to me ran up to one of the men, hugged him, and handed him (his?) baby. Which made me cry.

Three more groups of prisoners proceeded, each “team” in different colored uniforms. Then came the drummers (finally!)...hundreds of them.  In the distance I saw flags flying up into the air – way above the crowd, which turned out to be propelled by the most masculine flag throwers in the world. Picture baton throwing, but with flags that occassionally look like they will land in the crowd. (Turns out, this is an important practice in Italy that dates back to Medieval Times.) OK, are you ready for the parade's finale? Eight people dressed in black hooded robes, carting an antique gurney. I'm hoping they were just symbolic.


*******It has been about fours hours since I wrote the above entry. Turns out, 1) The men are not prisoners....they're atheletes. 2) They are playing football (with minimal rules). 3) It's doubtful that an eyeball popped out last year. 4) This blog entry should be renamed "Perception of Prisoners in the Piazza"...because perception is a funny, funny thing.  
Here's a link if you want to check out more info and pictures of Calcio Storico Fiorentino.

You Know You're in Italy When...

Small children are familiar with Gucci and Prada.
You eat gelato everyday...usually twice.
Men wear scarves in the summer.
Veganism is nonexistent.
You can be fined for pouring wine incorrectly. (Not really, but it wouldn't surprise me.)
Octogenarians have a better fashion sense than you.
Conversations about food are meticulously detailed and last hours.
People drink espresso or wine at any time of the day.
Every town has its own signature pasta.
There's no such thing as a slow lane on the autostrada (or anywhere).
David's dingaling is a daily sight.
Being tan seems more important than the chance of skin cancer.
People get into heated debates about the correct wine to choose for each course.
There is a castle, an ancient statue, an art museum or a vineyard around the corner.
You are living "la dolce vita."

Back in the U.S.A.!!!! (for a week)

My last San Miguel sunrise...This was the view from my bed each morning. 

Now that my time in Mexico is over, my dad said I needed to write another blog entry...a sort of closure I guess, so here goes...


San Miguel de Allende is a very unique place. I went from loving it to hating it to loving it even more. It makes a great first impression...but then you start to question why it seems so wonderful. It can be crowded, hot, expensive, touristy and just a little too magical. I didn't expect to find so many fancy restaurants, boutique hotels and rich white people in the middle of Mexico. But that's my fault. I had expectations. Maybe I hadn't chosen the best place to learn Spanish since so many people in San Miguel speak English, but I had certainly landed in a beautiful town overflowing with historical and religious importance. I really loved my time there...and it made me appreciate Mexico in a new light. 


In my opinion, most of us live our lives in the U.S. without thinking much about our bordering country to the south...even here in San Diego, a 30 minute drive from the border, we often seem to forget Mexico plays an enormous role in our lives. The news does a great job reminding us that Mexico is there, but only with violent stories that fill us with fear.  I found the opposite to be true in Mexico. America was always at the forefront of news stories, advertisements and even conversations.  America played a large role in everyone's lives...and they knew it. Our economy has a huge impact on the jobs (or lack thereof) in Mexico. And everyone I met had a story about a loved one who had been swallowed-up by the USA. I understand better than ever why so many Mexicans choose to leave their families, friends, homes and culture to take a chance on life up here. It's fascinating, really, because the quality of life in many ways is so much better in their country...but the illusion of the American Dream is too strong of a force. And I get it. There are so many more opportunities to make money in our country than in Mexico. Even the 'bottom of the totem pole' jobs make loads more than the potential daily wage there. Years after a man settles into a new life in the USA, after the "coyote" fee is paid off and enough money has been sent home, if he returns to his family...Things are different. Often times, wives have moved on. Children have grown up. And his culture is no longer as familiar as it once was. (I know this is a generalization...just go along with it.)


I will perceive news stories about illegal immigrants from Mexico in a different way now. When I hear about migrants found dead in the desert, packed into a van like sardines, or being hurt in altercations with border agents or testosterone filled vigilantes, I'll wonder about the desperation behind the event. Each person has a story, a family and a dream. Not a dream to strike it rich...but to make just enough money to send home so relatives can live a better life.


The best part of learning Spanish is being able to talk to people who previously would have been outside my communication zone. It's such a great feeling. Even though I'm only a beginner with the Spanish language, I feel as though I learned more during my time in Mexico than in all my previous semesters of Spanish combined. Cognates are my favorite things in the world! And they will hopefully help me pick up the Italian language during my next (& final!) adventure in this crazy year of me. 


I learned an important lesson on my last day in Mexico: Triple check your travel itinerary. I got up at 3:30am to catch my shuttle to the airport, which was supposed to pick me up between 3:45-4:00am. At 4:30am it still hadn't arrived and I was starting to really worry because I didn't have a plan B. Marta, my teacher, and her husband, Leandro, were up in the middle of the night waiting with me (because they are the nicest people in North America). She called a driver who got out of bed and arrived by 4:45am to pick me up. My flight was at 6:50am and the airport was well over an hour away. He dropped me off at 6am and 20 minutes later I finally made it to the check-in counter, where the ticket agent looked at me like I was crazy. Turns out, I wasn't late at all...I was a whole day early! Luckily there were a few extra seats on the plane and I was able to make it back to San Diego in time for lunch at Souplantation. 


It's about time to decide what I'll do post-Italy, but I just can't bring myself to make a concrete decision (commitment issues, some might say). Once my yearlong sabbatical is over, I still have a contract teaching in the Juvenile Court & Community Schools here in San Diego. I'd be crazy not to return because it's an amazing school district and teaching jobs are practically impossible to come by in this current economy. I can't help but wonder, though, what other options are out there. Life is full of surprises.

Me, Yo, Mi

Well, believe it or not, this whole “me, me, me” thing is actually starting to get a little old. As mentioned before, I’ve been napping, cooking, hooping, taking pictures and practicing my Spanish (which is getting better with each week!!)…but I definitely could not live like this forever. I don’t feel like I’m contributing anything to the world (except I do flash my big, gummy smile to almost everyone I pass on the street, especially to Señor Negativo, which is surely spreading happiness!). My final two weeks in this beautiful part of Mexico will be dedicated only to Spanish, which means now (ahorrita) is the best time to fill you in on my top ten San Miguel de Allende highlights (in no particular order):

1) Huitlacoche - AKA corn smut, this fungus is an amazingly delicate and delicious seasonal food native to this area of Mexico. I'm sure it can be found in the USA too, but it's different here...and I would return just to be reunited with it. Tacos Don Felix serves huitlacoche in a variety of ways and also has the three best waiters in all of San Miguel: Emilio is ten and adorable, Lalo is 20-something and as guapo as physically possible, and Felix, the owner, has a heart that radiates kindness. Between the servers and the food, this might just be my favorite restaurant in the world. 

Emilio explaining the dessert choices

Huitlacoche quesadillas

I'm going to miss La Reina de Jugo when I leave!

2) Jugo - I've also discovered a new love for fresh squeezed juice. My appreciation for juice might be directly tied to the woman down the street who sells it. I love her. She is older, extremely sedentary, constantly in good spirits, has a contagious laugh, and almost always holding a fly swatter. I felt a little weird taking her picture (even though I've become one of her best customers), but I captured her in this photo of the juice & honey.

La Parrocchia on the Friday of Sorrows

3) Semana Santa - Possibly the most exciting part of my stay here was experiencing the week(s) leading up to Easter. It put Catholicism into a whole new light for me. From what I understand, San Miguel de Allende celebrates this time of the year like no other place on Earth. The events were beautiful and strange and magical...and included a 12 mile midnight pilgrimage to carry a miraculous statue from one church to another (a tradition that started in 1812), a reenactment of Jesus's last hours (including a real crown of thorns and blood), temporary and unbelievable murals of flower petals covering the streets, altars galore dedicated to the Virgin Mary (most of which were inside people's homes!), fireworks, fantastically shaped palm fronds, food symbolizing the tears of Our Lady of Sorrows, real tears, colorful decorations everywhere, and exploding paper-maché dolls that represent Judas. Easter will never be the same.  

Jesus, made of flower petals in the middle of the night...It was trampled soon after I took this photo.

Palm Sunday in the Parrocchia

Perhaps the most kid-friendly altar during a day dedicated to the Virgin of Sorrows

Getting ready to blow up evil effigies symbolizing Judas on Easter
(mostly witches, devils and political figures)

Overlooking Guanajuato

4) Guanajuato - An old mining town about two hours away, it is also the birthplace of Diego Rivera and now known mostly for its large university population. I loved it. But I love San Miguel de Allende more. 


5) Atotonilco - My first visit here was lovely, but during my second visit I realized the deep religious and cultural importance of this church. Aside from its beauty, it has a really interesting history and is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I won't get into the details (mostly because I can't remember them right now)...but click on the link if you're interested. It's a special place, regardless of religion. 

6) Marta & Leandro - Perhaps the nicest people I've ever met. Marta is a teacher at my school, which is owned by her sister, and she & her husband Leandro live in the apartment across from my mansion. My life is better for having met them. Not only is she a wonderful teacher, but she is also a kind, funny, wise, and very artistic woman. And Leandro is a perfect match for her. 

This is an AWFUL picture of us
having sheep for breakfast.
That's right, I said 'sheep for breakfast'.

7) Shopping - But not any shopping...I LOVE all the handmade items here, from jewelry to embroidered clothes, to purses made of candy wrappers, to pottery, to pewter everything, to baskets, to dolls, to tapestries. They are all amazing and beautiful and half the price than at home. 

Cucurrucucu Paloma

8) Mariachi Music - I have a new love and appreciation for mariachi performers. They no longer make me uncomfortable while I'm eating. I welcome their presence, enjoy their company, am moved by their music, and am in awe of their talent. 


9) Plaza de Toros - This is only being added because it was a once in a lifetime sort of event...and something I NEVER thought I'd see because it goes against all my morals. That said, I went. Just like I ate sheep. I'm different when I travel. The "bullfight" was interesting in an anthropological sort of way, but it was also unsurprisingly disturbing and sad. I wasn't just sad for the bull, though...I was bothered by the many men who partake in this sort of work for a living - many of whom are risking their lives for the sake of entertainment. The horses are also terrified to be in that ring and chased by a bull. There is definitely an ancient, Roman feeling to it all...No me gusta. But I'm glad I went.

And the people cheered......and the bull died...and Mr. Pink did the walk of pride. Bravo. 

I don't get it. 

10) Visitors!!!!! Not one, but FIVE, of my favorite people came to visit ME!

Rachelle!!!

Natcho!!!

My mom, Chuck & Mary Lou
(my mom's best friend since childhood)
They love to line up in order of height.

In two weeks I will be back "home"... Only for one week, though, and then it's off to the next (& final) adventure of this wacky "Year of Me".

Reponer

OK, I totally get why people love it here. The San Miguel fairy has definitely sprinkled her magical dust on me. However, like most places, it's a town of the 'haves' and 'have nots'...There are so many foreigners here, including lots of fancy folks from Mexico City (especially on the weekends)...and on the surface, it looks like everyone is together...but in reality, people here seem to lead very separate lives. The "extraneros" and locals don't really seem to merge, except superficially (there are exceptions, I presume). Different groups of people lead their parallel lives, occasionally converging in the market, the jardin, restaurant or bar...but then everyone goes back to their own space at the end of the day. I guess when you have racial, socioeconomic and cultural differences, segregation is natural...and maybe this is a microcosm for the whole world.  That said, if I'm still single in twenty-five years (God forbid), this colorful San Miguel de Allende bubble might be a fabulous place for me to live! 

I've looked into lots of different ways to volunteer here...but I've decided volunteering (AKA "helping others") is not for me. And that's OK. Instead, I'm going to take naps, cook, hula hoop, read (fiction!!!), walk & wander, talk to random people (often in spanish!), drink my new favorite beer (and freshly squeezed juice; not at the same time), study spanish, take pictures, watch the sunset (& sometimes the sunrise), explore outside of "centro" San Miguel,  and learn how to make nichos (a folk art from this area). And I don't need your permission. :)

Hooping on my terrace at sunset 

Too comfortable. ¿Es posible?

That's my room on the 2nd story.
That's my hooping deck up top. 

Something about my plan to study Spanish in Guatemala just wasn't sitting right with me. Even though my flight was purchased and my school chosen, I had some major hesitations about going there.  Then one morning last month I immediately knew that instead of Guatemala, I should go to the Mexican state of Guanajuato. Same initial sound; same syllable count; different country. After a few conversations and coincidences, I narrowed my plan to the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende, which is beyond beautiful and far fancier than I had expected. It's somewhat of an upscale utopian society...filled with bright colors, blooming flowers, yoga studios, boutique hotels, expensive restaurants, Buddhist ex-pats, poetry readings, and artists of all kinds. It's a Disneyland for American hippies in their sixties and seventies. I keep seeing women who remind me of myself in thirty years...wearing long skirts, comfortable sandals, folkart purses and handcrafted jewelry. It's kind of freaking me out.

I don't regret choosing to come to San Miguel, but I am feeling slightly disappointed about being in such an Americanized town. (There's even a Starbucks here!!!!) Someone reminded me last night, though, that these next two months are what I make of it. I can choose to stay in my comfort zone by hanging out at the ex-pat places, speaking in English and floating on the surface of this town...or I can choose to dive deeper into immersion. We tend to gravitate toward what feels familiar and it's up to me whether or not I leave that safety net. Only time will tell. 

Sunset from a fancy deck at a fancy home with fancy people while eating fancy cheese.

Guinness on St Patrick's Day with Connie

On my first day here I somehow got completely lost while walking around town and consequently will never again underestimate the importance of a map. Since then, I've gotten the lay of the land and now have the basics: the market, the bank, the post office, the bar. Speaking of bars, my trip to this town's only Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day turned out to be very strange (in a bad way), so my classmate took me to her favorite hangout spot, La Adelita, which has now become a favorite of mine too. Coincidentally, this bar has a taco shop right next door that serves food reminiscent of late night TJ street vendors. Delicious & cheap.

And they get a day off from school for this!

Connie & I convinced our Spanish teachers to take us to see the primavera parade, which is a way to welcome springtime with all the preschoolers in town. It's quite a big deal. The parade is also a way to spread the importance of needing clean drinking water and protecting the environment (through the use of fairytale costumes?). This was 1) a reminder for me not to drink the water here and 2) shocking that even the residents can't drink their own water. How horrible! Not only is buying bottled water expensive, but this must also be creating an insane amount of trash!


I met a local couple yesterday who suggested that I attend the Gran Charreada today. Trusting their advice, I found my way to the rodeo arena just outside of town. I couldn't believe that with all the thousands of tourists in San Miguel, I'm the only one that went to the event this afternoon! I loved being surrounded by so many vaqueros and also enjoyed the fancy horse tricks, but wasn't so into the lassoing, kicking and tail pulling. In fact, I found it all a little disturbing. I know that when immersed in other cultures, one should lose a sense of judgement when it comes to differences. However, animal cruelty shouldn't be tolerated anywhere. The part that saddened me the most was the "steer tailing," which is when the horse rider (charro) chases a steer and then yanks the steer's tail, wraps it around his boot and knocks the animal into the ground.  A few of these steers couldn't move afterward. They did similar things to horses, but used ropes to lasso either the front or hind legs so that the horse loses its balance and crashes to the ground. The show could have been just as exciting and entertaining without the unnecessary cruelty and it bothered me that I was a participant in it all...especially when an animal made eye contact with me in a moment of pain (at least it did in my mind).

OK, I get it. You're manly. 

The chalk lines are muy importante! 

Cutest charro

example of steer tailing (before)

It couldn't stand up (after)