A month won't be long enough to know

A friend recently told me I could do anything, because I was a "strong, independent woman". Now, while I know a lot of you are nodding in agreement with that statement, I'll be honest and tell you that I responded to that notion with the idea that it's usually interpreted to mean "doesn't need anyone". Are you still nodding?

My original plan was to be in Panama for the entire month of November, with the idea that after a month, I'll know whether this place feels right. To know that this is where I might belong. The plan to stay all month still stands, but I've changed my mind as to whether that amount of time will be enough for me to make a definitive decision. It's hard to have to start from nothing and make that kind of decision.

I had to disappear for a moment there. These first two weeks have been a bit of a struggle, not knowing what to do or where to go, but I think, mainly, that I had no one to turn to. Having no friends is lonely.

And so each day crawled by a little slower. I stayed up late watching Spanish episodes of Law and Order. I woke up late because I went to bed late. I wondered what I’d do today. Again. There were days I never left the house, as much as I tried to talk myself into at least walking around the block to get outside. But sometimes your inner depression forces its mighty chokehold upon your will, and so more tv it was. I haven’t had cable tv in over ten years.

I find myself having to cook for...myself. When I used to work in restaurants, I would often come home late, throw on a pot of water and a bag of Korean saimin, slices of Spam or frozen sausage, some kim chee, and an egg at the very end. When my case of saimin ran out, I would usually have to steal part of my mom’s stash because the stores were always closed before I got to work and were still closed by the time I got off.

And not to make excuses, but I never made myself anything that took longer than 10 minutes. I'm too tired and too lazy to care about cooking for myself properly. I don't get hungry while working, and tend not to eat at the restaurant either. So despite popular belief that everyone who works in restaurants must eat really well at home, it’s just not true. We don't cook like we do there. We don’t have time.

Except that now, I have lots of time. So I’m cutting my own fish, and butchering whole chickens, and buying fresh fruits and making my own juices from them. Things I used to do for the restaurant and never for myself. It’s a little weird. I’m sure it tastes fine, but it’s probably not as good as it could be, because I have no one to share my food with. There’s no one to cook for. This goes against every reason why I cook. This is not how I was meant to cook.

Please don't misunderstand me, though. Things are not terrible. I have begun to make friends. I am right between the end of rainy season and summer, which means the weather (for me) is perfect. I am beginning to feel like I live here. And any man who tells me I’m “the most beautiful thing he’s seen all day” is going to get the smile that a man who’s hissing at me will not. But most importantly, I am learning about maybe who I really am, or what it is I want, or need. Moral of the story? I really can do anything.

Reflections on Nicaragua...and finally, Panama

Sitting on Jason’s balcony overlooking the Pacific shoreline is every ex-pat’s dream – warm, gentle waves rolling onto miles of beachfront and lush greenness everywhere. This is the life, I want to think. This is paradise.

Except that for me, I’m not looking for paradise. I come from an island that IS considered paradise. If that’s all I needed, I wouldn’t have left. I’ve barely been here a week, and already I feel like I’ve been here a month. Everything about Nicaragua feels the same to me, because nothing really changes. It feels like home, and my nomadic heart doesn’t want to be at home.

I visited my Mechapa host family. Whoa. Things here have changed. My host brothers, who were 11 (Erick), 14 (Helmin), and 16 (Jasser) at the time, are all now 8 years older, which means they’re all grown up now. It’s kind of weird to see boys I used to watch in school parades and run to waterfalls and play dominoes with…as men.

After some initial awkwardness – and a plate of rice, beans, and fried chicken that I ate by myself at the table while everyone else watched – we got over it. They showed me new additions to the house. They told me about their job, or college classes, or lack of a girlfriend, how their dad was getting fat, how their mom was about to qualify for a green card. And how I look taller and skinnier than before. Maybe even prettier. And younger.

Yep. Although I mercilessly teased them about showing game with those last few comments, I was actually kinda proud. My brothers have learned how to woo a woman.

Still, nothing really changes. Taxis still take the long way, buses are still full,we still haggle over a few cents just to get the upper hand. We cram onto the sidewalk to share the corner of shade, and we all walk on the streets because the sidewalks are full.

But maybe I’ve changed. I’m more confident walking the streets these days. I still get the same stares, the same catcalls, and the same “Oye, chinita, chinita!” that once frustrated me so. But I’m not as bothered by it as before. Perhaps I came better equipped mentally, or had already created expectations of it happening. I still fume on the inside, but can now shake my head and laugh it off.

Or maybe I’m finally growing up.

Crossed the border into Costa Rica. Was forced to stay in San Jose overnight. They advertised having cable. This is the cable I watched the Giants win the World Series on. Got repeatedly either locked out of my room, or locked in the hotel-house thing. Meh. Costa Rica gets the big X. Never really ever considered it anyway.

20 bus hours later, I've finally arrived. I’m staying in a town called Las Cumbres, about 20 minutes outside of Panama City. I don’t know anyone down here. I have no jobs or fairs or festivals lined up. I don’t really know the culture, or food, or history. Hell, I've only seen the Canal once. I’m a little nervous, to be honest, starting absolutely from scratch in a foreign place in a city I don’t know with almost nothing in my possession – all based on a happy, comforting, being-alive sensation I had 6 years ago when I visited after having finished Peace Corps.

I guess I’ve come back to see if what I felt was right. Maybe I'm home?

see more pictures of Nicaragua/Costa Rica/my room in Panama

Maryland/DC/back to Nicaragua: the Nica Ag “Dirty 30” reunion tour

This was the name of our Peace Corps group, signifying the 30th volunteer group in Nicaragua, assigned to the agricultural sector. I just missed Mateo by a day when I was in Boston – he flew out to Oregon the night before but New baby+Medical Residency=Forgiven. I’ll try to catch him again later.

Pedro and I were in the same training town of Mechapa during our introductory 2002 year. For three months, we learned and laughed and struggled together, attempting to teach at the elementary school, being frustrated, and ultimately, getting in trouble together. Or several times, if you include the rest of our volunteer service. That’s why we’re still friends.

Eight years later, he still lives and works in Nicaragua, except that right now he’s in DC visiting his mom with Gabi (fiancée) and Ella (daughter), and decides that since PA is “only” 3.5 hours away, he’d make the beautiful autumnal drive out to come see me. Research indicates that the flight out of DC to Managua is hundreds of dollars cheaper than flying out of State College, so I join him for the road trip back and spend the weekend in Bowie, Maryland, where his mom lives.

Weather is BEAUTIFUL right now, warm and breezy, the best autumn I could’ve hoped for in my attempts to avoid winter. And I finally got to meet Ella. Pedro’s been sending us pictures since she was born, but kids are always way cooler in person, and 3 ½ yr old Ella loves her princess dress, the color purple, is energetic, sassy, and loved taking pictures with my camera . “She’s pretty cute. I think we’ll keep her,” Pedro says.

Gabi wanted to go apple picking, so we went to Rock Hill Orchard in Mount Airy, where we decided the Stayman variety was our favorite. A tractor-pulled hay ride later and we were picking pumpkins. The next day we were on the red brick roads of historic Annapolis, a blend of quaint community and Naval Academy. At night, we went to Irish Times bar, where we drank pitchers of Yuengling beer, watched the Giants beat the Phillies to get to the World Series, and then turned my head to the other tv to watch the UH football team kill Utah St on ESPN. Sometimes life is real good to me.

see more DC/MD pictures here

In the northern Nicaraguan city of Esteli, I stayed with Rodney and his

Emergency Response Services for Latin America (ERSLA), the non-profit developmental agency he founded in conjunction with the firefighters of Bend, Oregon. It’s funny, listening to him explain the difficulties of securing enough funds, writing grants, pitching projects, and the struggles of developmental work. As selfish as it is for me to say, I realized awhile back that I’m not meant to be non-profit. And as much as I believe in the good of development work, I can’t deal with the frustrations involved and personally would need a social venture with more accountability. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the work of others, and if you want to get involved, check it out and contact him at rodney.mc@ersla.org.

Nola was an environmental volunteer from 2001, and she just never left. She still lives in the same community, working with the same schools, and has the same live wire energy as always. She continues to work with deaf kids and Spanish sign language, which may soon be filmed for a documentary.

Jason was my nearest site mate, and probably most famous for ranting in a widely distributed email to an anonymous tattletale to “suck his left nut”. For reasons we’ll leave untold, but again, trouble. That’s why we’re all still friends. He lives in San Juan del Sur, and is always quick to spot hot business potential. Over the years he’s offered me generous opportunities to get involved…but I’m yet to be convinced that Nicaragua is where I want to be. His son Jabu is the only kid of all my friends that I’ve met before, and so he stars in the show-and-tell video of reggaeton dance.

Also, those of you who know us will be thrilled to learn that Trueno is still alive, as are my three cats. Pictures later (and you know I took many!) More on being back in Nicaragua in the next post. I'm starting my way down to Panama now...

Central Pennsylvania, Sep-Oct 2010

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I guess I'm a "Global Foodie" now...

...which is better than being "Oh, so you're doing an eat, pray, love?"

Back in August, when I was still in San Francisco, I was helping out a non-profit kitchen incubator program called La Cocina with their second annual Street Food Festival. As you can imagine, there were cameramen, newspapers, and journalists galore. This is also how I met Hapa Ramen, and managed to get mentioned in an article featuring the various businesses that La Cocina houses: http://missionlocal.org/2010/10/la-cocina-a-neighborhood-food-laboratory/

You can also read The New York Times article about what kitchen incubators are and how La Cocina is one of the nation's leading examples.

In the meanwhile, Ginger’s still threatening to lock me up in her basement as she feigns patience and support of this journey, anxiously glaring at my attempts to plan the next few steps, much of which involves running around the east coast a bit before heading back down to Central America. And then, inevitably, all roads right now seem to be leading back to San Francisco for the end of the year. Both of my sisters will be in town for the holidays, and the ramen boys have offered me a holiday stint, along with the potential of my parents coming up if the rest of us are there as well. So I guess that’s where I’ll be if you’re looking for me in these coming months. But, as you are fond of hearing me say by now, plans can always change…

Boston and other reunions

I visited Melissa and her 2 1/2 year old son Jimmy in Boston just for a weekend when I realized that I was kind of doing a little high school reunion tour during my travels. I didn't go to any of the formally planned ones (what is it, 5 yrs? 10?) but that doesn't mean I'm not interested in what's going on. Of course, because I'm not on Facebook (I know, I know) I was meeting boyfriends and husbands and babies and children for the first time.

Jimmy's one of the older kids in the group, and I measure that by the number of words he has in his vocabulary, which are 3 million. This is one talkative boy. I've included a clip of us waiting at the train station, where he's keeping us updated on the status of the train. The other pictures are from Aug-Sep, where I met up with Sonja, Misty, Kelly and Melyssa somewhere in California.

I also realize that I'm very fortunate to have so many friends who openly trust me with their kids, as I usually shower them with a very no-nonsense sort of unabashed aunty love.

Best thing I've heard so far? From Melyssa T's son Marley: "I love you all day."

see more impromptu reunion pics here

New York, pt.2 September 2010

I find myself to be a confident woman in New York. I am assertive, throw flirty glances, and find myself striding assuredly with a smile for everyone.

I came to New York City determined to look and act like a city girl. I packed only 3 pairs of shoes: cute heels, leather boots, and non-skid work shoes. No slippers, and you know I love my slippers. But honestly, I don’t know how these city girls do it. A full day in heels and I’m ready to cut my feet off. Did I mention that I have flat, wide feet? These heels don't allow for swelling. And then the next full day in boots. Ugh. The skin is being polished off of my scrunched up pinky toe, exposing raw flesh and causing shoe chafing, making me walk slower in hopes that the rubbing will be less painful. Guys, whenever you think some chick in heels is walking by "seductively", it’s probably because her feet hurt. A lot. I swear it.

I came to work the International Chefs Congress, a solid lineup of famous people demonstrating famous things and sharing some of their famous philosophies. I was the lead kitchen volunteer, which basically means I had to coordinate all the ingredients, supplies, and equipment that the various chefs and presenters would need to do their segment. It’s nice to be recognized for working hard and doing your job well, and I got a lot of personal thank yous which gives me such internal satisfaction. I had fun, most definitely, but you know I love running the kitchen. My defining moment, of course, was hearing Suzanne Goin (God, I love her) talk about the balance between chef and mother and wife and boss, and how you’re always going to let someone down. Those are her exact words. She said you’re always going to miss a soccer practice, or not be able to cook at a friend’s wedding, or something, and that’s just part of the deal you accepted.

Is this industry still for me? Hell yes.

All this she was explaining as she was doing a cooking demo of pork confit, chorizo cornbread stuffing, and cavolo nero. I love her style, I love her philosophy, I love the way she carries herself and her carefree, sassy yet confident demeanor. My kitchen partner asked why I don’t try working for her if I love her so much, which made me stop and think. Why don’t I? It’s never even crossed my mind. But I think I’ve already put her on too high a pedestal bordering on semi-idolatry. I would create an equally idealistic view of what working for her would be like. What if it doesn’t measure up to my expectations? I don’t want to lustily crave what might not exist because I’m starstruck; it would be a crushing blow to all of the illusions I’ve created for myself. So in this particular case, I think I’m better off with my dreams intact.

After I got my cookbook autographed, that is. After all, I still love her.

The last time I was in New York was ten years ago as a sophomore in college, when Manhattan was the biggest city I’d ever been in. I remember being frustrated by the crowds, blinded by big lights, and simply overstimulated by all of the attitude and energy that is the big city. After 2 weeks, I was done. New York City was not for me.

Now that I look back on it, I think it’s more accurate to say that Manhattan is not for me. I’m staying in the outer borough of Sunnyside in Queens, which is what I would call a legit neighborhood. I have easy access into the city by bus, train, or subway, and feel normal walking around, eating out, and doing laundry like a regular person. I’ve been treated fairly well by everyone, and generally have only encountered nice, helpful people. As long as I don’t have to live in the city city, I heart New York. I think I heart it a lot.

People of note: Shauna is doing her medical residency out here, and I was lucky enough to be in town at that same time as her sister Christa and boyfriend Ben, both in from Paris, their dad Paul from Hawaii, and the now-husband Matey (who was just the boyfriend when I first met him). Valentina (one of Soaf’s classmates from Stanford) squeezed me into Brooklyn, and gotta love Mark (my ICC partner-in-crime and drinking buddy). I couldn’t be a happier girl with life right now. Things seem to be going so right.

see more New York City/ICC pictures here