Breaking up with Boston, or It's Not You It's Me

I've decided that this move away from Boston is a bit like a tortured break up. Not the happy, fulfilled kind where both parties come away from the relationship knowing they were good for one another and ready to move on. Not even the kind where both parties end the relationship full of resentment and anger. No, it's what I suspect may be the worst kind: where both parties understand that they still love each other but that their dreams are leading them away from each other for now.

I wrote here recently about trusting in your dreams to direct you, even if those dreams have gone "stale" (as a friend of mine here put it recently). In that line, I've been imagining Boston and I as a couple of would-be doctors or lawyers who always wanted to go law school or to medical school but happened, inconveniently, to fall wildly in love. Boston and I carried briefcases around when we were 3 or tried to take our parents' temperature when we were 7. Boston spent weekends studying case law for mock trial in high school, while I took a college-level epidemiology course instead of joining swim team or the drama club.

In the days before my departure we were so in love that I was compelled to ask myself: well, wouldn't being a registered nurse or PA be just as nice? I could stay here with Boston and still work with patients. Boston could go to law school and I could join a private practice, giving flu shots and writing prescriptions... But really, if I was willing to give all that up, why couldn't Boston just go into social work while I went to medical school and achieved my dream? Boston and I had a lot of impassioned fights about this.

In the end, though, no one compromised. In a turn of events perhaps surprising to no one, Boston stayed steadfast on the east coast. It was I who got on the plane. Boston and I said our tearful goodbyes. We promised to keep in touch, but we knew things would never be the same. And I don't know if I can speak for Boston, but I for one wondered if I would ever love that way again.

In-flight Entertainment

Airports in the middle of the night are strange. You stumble off this rumbling machine into a pile of glass and metal that looks an awful lot like the pile of glass and metal you left. Your mouth is dry and tastes off. You feel hazy, half in a dream, unsure of where you are. You're in a new place, but it doesn't feel like a new place. It doesn't feel like the old place either. It's an odd in-between.

It's especially strange if the airport is in Iceland at the end of the summer. It's 5:30 in the morning and bright like it's 10. You're surrounded by people whose chatter sounds like singing. Everything smells like herring. So you take your bag and wander through the halls to a bathroom, then make your way to a service desk to ask about changing from window to aisle.

A slight man with close-shaved head stands in front of you speaking with a familiar accent. He doesn't have a boarding pass and needs one to get to London for work. The clerk steps away from the desk for a moment and he asks you if you're going to London. No, you say: Berlin, then Spain.

He smiles. As his accent suggested, he is from Zaragoza. You brace for the obvious question and the pitying answer. Oh, Palencia? But why? I'm sorry. It will be interesting for you, but it's such a small city.

You are mentally putting on your "no, this year will be wonderful" armor. He asks the usual clarifying question. "Palencia! With a P? Not Valencia?"

No. Not Valencia. Except:

He breaks into a grin. His face lights up. "Now that is the real Spain! Palencia is beautiful! I mean, really. Have you ever wanted to live across from a Romanesque Cathedral? Now you can! Just make sure it's the kind that stops chiming between 12 am and 8 am... they usually do these days."

He takes a breath. "Oh, you're from Boston? I guess you're used to living near the sea. Well, this is different, but you still have the river. Very beautiful! Anyway, Zaragoza is inland, too. You'll see -- the people! They're so nice, so friendly. Maybe not as open as those in the south, but they are loyal, kind, and respectful. Good friends. My mother grew up in Soria, and I can tell you: inland people were wheat farmers for a long time. They are used to hard work, and they respect education."

The clerk returns. You listen to them discuss the boarding pass for a moment, then turn to leave. From the receding desk you hear him introduce himself.

"Good luck in Palencia! I am Jose Major Domo! E-mail me if you need anything." He gives his e-mail address.

A few minutes later, you board another plane, one step closer. A little bit less in a haze; a little bit more at ease. On the flight, the Icelandic women are wide awake, chattering, buying duty-free items, joking with the flight attendant. It's like a giant, strange party in the sky. It's like it's already mid-morning, instead of 3 am by your biological clock. It's like they don't know what you're heading toward.

Lucky/Stupid

Well, hello there. Fancy meeting you here.

It's been awhile, and the time stamp on the last entry here is solid proof. I stuck in one place for quite a bit-- following my stint in Mexico I got a job at a small, cozy private ESL school and settled into an exceedingly lovely life for the next 16 months. I really hit this one out of the park, I must say: a fascinating gig as a reporter for the Chinese/English bilingual newspaper the Sampan; an incredibly fulfilling internship at NPR affiliate WBUR; a fun-filled routine packed with pub trivia, folk dancing, karaoke, and lectures; a fantastically-located apartment stocked with goofy roommates; and a group of friends who often felt more like family. It may have been "only" a few months, but I put down roots during that time. Or maybe I should say roots upon roots-- I bonded in an adult way with a city that I've known and loved (and that has known me) since childhood. I have been excited, stimulated, fulfilled, loved. Many everyday bumps (and a few not-so-everyday ones) aside, it has been one of the best periods of my life.

Which leads me to the next thought: why in the world would I leave!?

For leave I have: on Thursday, September 15 at 3:30 PM I boarded a plane that took me in a rather circuitous route to Berlin, Germany. Following a four-day layover, another plane took me to Madrid, after which a bus ferried me to Palencia (pop. 75, 000), the small Castilla y Leon city in Spain that will be home for the next 10 months.

In the run up to my departure I crammed as much wonder into my days as I could. I organized bowling trips and group dinners; took river cruises to cement the layout of my beloved city in my mind’s eye; and overloaded myself with Asian cuisine and diner fare, two varieties I did not expect to be offered regularly in my new home. And every night after tiring myself out dancing, listening to live music, or spending blissful time with friends, I would wonder to myself: what am I doing, leaving? Am I making a terrible mistake?

One thing I’ve realized as I’ve adjusted to the beginnings of adulthood is that the singular dream is a myth. Sure, some of us have one thing we wish for that hangs on tenaciously as we mature, but dreams transform as we do, molded to fit the new selves we’re growing into. I always dreamed of being a writer, but that dream has been refined and altered from author and illustrator to travel writer to journalist, and back. And in just the same way, when I returned home from my trip around the world, I had a new dream to join the old ones. I had adored my nomadic existence, but I wanted to know a foreign life from the other side. I wanted a home away, cozy bakeries that I frequented for bread, a coffee shop whose barmen knew my name, a Sunday morning market routine. The pull of understanding life so thoroughly in another place was remarkably strong.

And so I applied to the Spanish Language Assistant program, run by the Spanish Ministry of Education, which brings Canadian and American citizens to Spain to help teach English in public schools. I wrote and re-wrote an essay, put all my documents together, got a recommendation from my boss, sent everything into the embassy, and waited.

But of course part of the point here is that life doesn't stand still, and by the time I was accepted to the program in March my dreams had changed. I was deeply ensconced in my new life, busy drinking cheap beer in little bars in my neighborhood, trying new foods in the countless ethnic restaurants surrounding my apartment, writing a series of articles on Chinese life in Boston's Charlestown neighborhood, and pitching stories about Sudanese politics or dolphin communication at my radio internship. As far as I was concerned, I was living my dream. Spain seemed very far away, in all senses of the phrase.

But, I thought, what do I know about what comes next? I feared that this supremely fulfilling life might be just a brief phase, a period of pretend that would be followed by the confusion, general unsteadiness, and angst most of my friends were experiencing. And hadn’t I always wanted to learn Spanish, to live in Europe? Hadn’t my 2009 self dreamed of siestas, salsa, and sweet, hot espresso in tiny silver cups? I accepted the position, although with trepidation.

The summer wore on, bringing with it details of the year to come (and increased anxieties which may well be discussed later in this blog.) I finally found rhythm and confidence at my internship, I spent more and more time with a close-knit circle of friends, I joined a Zumba class and went dancing, I attended barbecues and went on dates. And I thought: what’s better than this? What person in his or her right mind would voluntarily give this up?

In the weeks before my departure a lot of people I love and respect took time to tell me how brave they thought I was being to leave and try all this newness. They told me that they admired me greatly; some even admitted to feeling jealous. I thanked them and felt the warmth of mutual affection spread through my chest, but some part of me was also thinking: “Am I being brave, or am I being stupid?” And also: “I don’t want to be brave. I want to stay here.”

I wish I could tell you the exact moment when I realized I was half-blind, but I think it was more of a gradual realization. Nevertheless, here it is: really, for me “lucky” and “stupid” are two sides of the same coin. I’m lucky to have enjoyed that life which, for a few short months, was so perfect for who I was and what I needed. And I’m incredibly lucky to have a chance to leave that life and try out a dream I once had, even if it’s not the dream that most recently spoke to me the strongest--many people who cherish this dream will never realize it, and it's easy to forget that. But even with those opportunities, I think perhaps you need to be stupid about risk taking and going out of your comfort zone in order to accept the lucky circumstances offered to you.

Ultimately, I don’t deny the fear that comes with “stupid”—fear that things will never be the same (they won’t); fear that I might lose people I love (I might.) But I can also see the incredible luck I have in tasting this life for a year. I can make room for both sides of the coin at once; I can stand it on its edge. With that perspective comes a new question I have to ponder: if I follow a dream that once belonged to a person that was once me, what does that mean? Should you trust your dreams to know you better than you know yourself? I am either stupid enough or lucky enough to have a chance to find out. Maybe both.

Regresando

It's that time again-- I finished my six weeks in Mexico, and I'm en route back to the US. Boy do I have a lot of awesome stories to share with you guys. From the Equinoccio celebrations of Guachimontones to the Easter processions of San Miguel Allende to the creepy, fascinating mummies of Guanajuato. So stay tuned.

The Finish Line

Well, it's official: I did it. As of this morning at 1 PM I have a fancy certificate to tell the world that I Am A Teacher. Of course, for me the mental change happened awhile back (see blog entry from two weeks ago), but the world tends to need a piece of paper as proof-- and now I have it.

I leave Guadalajara tomorrow morning at 9 AM, for a long-weekend jaunt to Puerto Vallarta, on the coast, where I plan on a healthy dose of sun, sea, sand, and hopefully snorkeling. On Monday evening I will take a night bus to Guanajuato, a traditional central-Mexican town and UNESCO world heritage site. In Guanajuato and its neighbor, San Miguel Allende, I am excited to explore winding cobbled streets and experience semana santa (holy week) in a state famous for its beautiful Easter ceremonies.

I'll be back to the city for a day or so before my flight home April 7, but the truth is that my real time in Guadalajara is finished. The comforting routine of walking up Calle La Noche to catch the 629 bus is finished after tomorrow morning: no more barking dogs or old women sweeping dead leaves and fallen flowers off the street. No more ducking next door for a mollete (toasted bread with frijoles and cheese) or a Coke Zero during 11 am break. No more discovering new bars on Juarez or watching the old timers dance salsa in Expiatorio Explanada or explaining grammar points to 10 bored teenagers. Guadalajara has put its claws in me without my permission. I have to imagine I'll be back.

This city has given me so much, after all. After my trip this year I was hungry to make a start in a new place and experience the opposite of the nomadic existenced I lived in 2009. Guadalajara has given me a taste of this, enough to confirm the suspicions I harbored that I could easily fall in love with everyday routines thousands of miles from home. And as I've written here before, this city has made me a teacher. The woman who writes her name in neat letters on a white board and then launches into a spiel on the present unreal will always be a part of me, wherever I go.

It's given me something else as well. Just as quickly as I Became A Teacher, I suddenly find myself a functional trilingual. Not that my Spanish is perfect, or even close to complete in any way, shape, or form. I still can't speak well in the past tense; I still only understand between 65 and 90% of what is said to me. But for the past 10 years of my life I have been someone who speaks two languages, and this week I found myself ably ordering tickets, discussing world events with my host family, and chatting with strangers a bus stops. I can't pretend to be bilingual anymore. The shift to thinking of myself as trilingual means foward growth and change, something not always easy to come by when you're an unemployed 20-something. And I have Guadalajara to thank.

...or hardly working?

Who would have thought that a one-month 140-hour intensive training course would be hard? Well, me, for one, but I didn't imagine it would take up quite this much of my time. I spend from 9 until 7 at school every day and sometimes (when I have to prepare for exams or write essays) for awhile after. This week is the culmination of all that work, and that means there's a new big task due every day. And that means very little blogging time for yours truly!

In other words: check back soon, I have lots of amazing things to tell you about my Equinox celebration (which included amazing wild boar tacos and dancing with Aztecs next to ancient pyramids at sunset.) But the time for that is, alas, not yet. I have a mess of essays, applications, lesson plans, and tests to deal with.

Si, soy yo.

I was running late for school when I first heard that phrase. In my regular life I often run late, anyway. But throw in the profound inconsistency of the Guadalajara bus system (only in this city you can start out 20 minutes early and STILL arrive at school 15 minutes late) and everything goes to hell.

That means that on the lucky days where taxis are available, I sometimes take one. In this case, I had given up on the 629 bus ever appearing and hopped into a cab waiting in the seething traffic that backs up to my shady street every morning. The cabbie eyed my white skin, immediately claimed that his meter was out of order, and demanded 70 pesos (about $5.50) for the ride. (Maybe I should be fairer to him: maybe he was the type to try to fleece everyone.) I may have only been living in this city for 2 weeks, but veteran of the broken transport system that I was even I knew that the cost should only be 40 pesos. I told him this; he offered 60. Forty, I said, or I'll find another cab.

Which is how I found myself standing in front a long line of honking automobiles approximately 100 meters from where I'd started. I'd just turned to walk toward the city when I heard, "Senorita!" A second cabbie was leaning out his window, a young woman in the backseat. He explained that this woman was heading somewhere close by: would I like to hop in, and he would take me wherever I'd wanted after we dropped off our primary cargo?

We wheeled through the city, dodging stop signs and weaving through stop lights, all the while keeping up a brisk patter of Mexican slang I could only vaguely understand. At one point, in the midst of all the chaos, the cabbie's cell phone rang. "Bueno!" he said, in the typical Jaliscan greeting. "Si, soy yo."

The phrase, which means "Yes, I am me," quickly struck my fancy. Of course, taken in the same answering-phone context, the American "This is he/she" is no less odd or nonsensical. But regardless of the usage, I liked "Si, soy yo" immediately. In Anthropology, there's much talk of language having the power to shape an individual's world view. In this particular instance, I thought, the cabbie was reconfirming, and recreating, his identity every time he answered the phone.

At the intersection of Madero and Enrique Martinez I paid my 40 pesos and hopped out, scampering into class a mere 13 minutes late. I probably wouldn't have given the whole thing much further thought, but for two reasons:

1) "Si, soy yo" is a common telephone greeting here in Guadalajara, and once I started hearing it I couldn't stop.
2) Soon after I encountered my own incidence of language/identity dynamics

I should say that I've never aspired to be a teacher. From a young age writing was everything I wanted, although once I got to college Anthropology joined my interests, jostling with my older career ambitions for space. I've always loved the English language, and all the things I can do with it, but teaching never called to me. It wasn't until I spent last year almost exclusively with people speaking English as a second, third, or fourth language-- and until much of my discussions with those people centered on the quirks and mysteries of my mother tongue-- that I thought I might enjoy making a job out of it.

I arrived in Guadalajara with writing tutor experience but nothing else. I'd never made a lesson plan. I knew nothing about learning methodology. I'd taught people things before, for sure, but had never gone beyond. I had never pictured myself in a classroom. I had never graded an exam.

Much has been said about the moment a med student becomes a doctor. Is it when he/she dons a white coat for the first time? A first patient? A first death? All I know is that on my first day in the classroom I introduced myself. In classic school style, I wrote my name on the board in clear print. "My name is Ms. Greenberg," I said. And as I said it, my decade and a half of public school education kicked in. Giving yourself a new name is a powerful thing, especially a name with such strong connotations. "My name is Ms. Greenberg" was all it took: just like that, I was a teacher.

Nothing changed, really; or rather, nothing was there that hadn't been before. In the coming hours of practice teaching I found enthusiasm and humor to temper grammar mechanics. I experienced a sweet satisfaction in seeing dawning comprehension on the faces of students who moments ago did not understand the difference between "might" and "will" or simple past and past participle tenses. I wasn't a new person, but I was something I hadn't been before. The words, the style of address so unique to schooling, were that powerful.

A few days later I was out for drinks with some classmates from my training program. Lesson planning was seeming less alien. I wasn't getting jittery before teaching so much anymore. As we toasted with Coronas, I corrected somebody's grammar, and we all laughed. "I can't help it," I said without thinking, "I'm a teacher!"

Si, soy yo...