Week 8. Still put-puttin through here in Itaugua, Paraguay. I don’t know when I will stop counting the weeks, or if I will stop counting; but I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of counting a year lately. 52 weeks, more or less, is what this year is composed of for us. 52 weeks of Spanish speaking, empanada and chipa eating, sweaty, music blasting, sweeping, nanduti forming moments. If anything RENT has taught me, it has shown me the many-a-ways one can count a year. Some ideas of ways you can measure a year: 525,600 minutes, in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee, in inches, in miles, in laughter, in stride, in love; just to name a few that miraculously popped in my head. (copyright RENT, duh) But seriously, I have been measuring my life in terms of one year increments for as long as I can remember. Kindergarten-one year, 1st grade-one year, 2nd grade, all the way to 12th grade; one year older, one year wiser, one year with more challenging work than the last. Then it was time for my beloved Scranton years. Freshmen year: measured in new friends, new experiences, new service opportunities, changes in home, and changes in perception. Sophomore year: purple shirts, walks to an antique house on top of a hill, tears on a plan to Italy, Italian speaking moments, Italian drunken moments, and some cultural awareness. Junior year: starting with some disappointing counts but then chockfull of uncountable laughs, bright characters (Debbie included), and some 21st birthdays, and some Mexican spirits that would forever change my life. Senior year: priceless. We’ll count that one in Genny Lights, smiles, and heart bangs. Then after some heartbreak and long hugs goodbye, it was on to my initial GSV year. A year measured by growth; spiritually, mentally, physically, emotionally, socially, all of the ally’s. And now, to count in terms of one more year, here I am living out my 23rd year of life in Paraguay. What?
I don’t fully know how I will look back on this year of my life but there are different ways I count my time here. On paper, I’m counting in terms of weeks. 8 weeks down, so many more to go. In the hard moments, I’m counting in terms of moments I’m missing from my life back home, moments I could be involved in but I’m not, and overall moments that make me ‘feel some type a way.’ In the good moments, life here is uncountable. Walks next to bright colorful flowers, Spanish conversations (that I more or less understand, but I am getting better! Ojala), silly, loud, sometimes obnoxious laughs with Jess, kind hearted people that surround us here, cumbia beats that are a-pumpin in the streets, and the overall pride and genuine nature of the people in Paraguay. So with all of that, why are there hard moments you ask? Because it is a year. Because I am human. Because I am still learning.
Maybe it’s the AP Calculus nerd in me, maybe it’s the North American, maybe it’s me being human. I think my conscious mind wants to stop and ‘smell the roses’, but my unconscious mind is still jotting down numbers. If I wanted to I could count today in about 8 adjustments to my pony tail, hearing the words chipa about 5 times, carrying 1 mil Guarani, selling 2 hilos of thread to 1 artisana, having ‘profe’ been called out about 20 times in English class today (who would have thought that uncle and aunt were such hard words to learn?), 1 one hour siesta, about 8 sips of terere, 2 catcalls (an unusual low), 15 pages of a new book read, 1 glance down an entire isle of about 25 different types of mayonnaise, a family of 4 on 1 Moto and so one and so on. There will be thousands of more ponytail adjustments, chipa calling, Guarani carrying, hilo selling, profe hearing, napping, sipping, degrading, reading, looking, observing moments here. Tell that to the mathematician in my brain. One at a time. One foot in front of the other. One year.
Through all of the counting, there have been unforgettable fun moments in these past few weeks, moments that are starting to make up this loca, weird, special year. Moments that allow my brain to shut off the calculator inside and just be. Some helpful people in this cause have been the retired sisters that we have been staying with. The San Jose Sisters, are nothing short of characters. So gentle. So kind. So compassionate. So characterliscious. I feel like I’m living back in dorm life but replace young, college, spirited girls with older, religious, spirited in a different way Sisters of the Good Shepherd. A snidbit into life with these gems- I had a toe nail infection problem back in Astoria, and thought it was better after a doctor prescribed me some meds and the pain went away. But that little booger came back and the sisters were not happy. After treating the toe with my own home remedy I like to call ‘ignore it and it will heal itself’, it was kind of out of control. One night, the sisters called a neighbor and asked her to come over and remove the infected nail part. It was not pretty. I’ll spare you the gross details, but as painful as it was for me; it seemed to be a night at the comedy show for everyone else around. I had one sister telling me they were going to cut my toe off, one sister trying to get me to breath, Jess recording the whole thing, and a four year old singing happy birthday to herself behind me. Ended the night with a nice pedicure and I am happy to report we are back to normal and I do not feel like I am walking with a shark biting my toe off anymore. Count a year in laughs, sisters, and infected toe nails-check.
Melissa went home. Her one year experience is over and she is on to another year, this time with easy access to buffalo wings, reeses, and even LOGO channel if she so wishes. Speaking of my rainbow friends, Jess and I have visited the gayborhood of Paraguay. It is no NYC. It is something though. We got some information on some hot spots, and even saw some fierce men in drag yesterday. A year without Rupaul; but I can still count this one in cheap wigs, sashaying hips, and dark lipliner. Hey gurl hey.
In summation, a year is a year is a year. We count years in the only ways we know. We count them in heartbreaks, in connections, in moments. We count them through pictures, emails, wall posts, and blogs. We count because we were taught how, because we feel it’s the only way. So I continue to count my life in one year increments, and continue to count this year in feelings, journal entries, Skype dates, reflections, cookies, nanduti and so much more. Cheers to a year unknown to me, to you and to all those parts of us that we are still trying to figure out.
Just love,
Krystina
P.S: Shout out to RENT. Seasons change. Seasons come and go. Seasons represent a measurement of time, a feeling in the air. Seasons of love my friends.
How about love? Measure in love. Seasons of love.
In truths that she learned or in times that he cried.
Celebrate and remember a year in life of friends.
You’ve got to remember the love.
No day but today.
P.P.S- We have a new Spanish teacher named Vivi. Spanish is improving. She is a rockstar. Her smoke breaks and bright yellow shirts make me feel at home. To Vivi!
P.P.P.S- Jess’s blog has more detailed stories as only she can tell so well. Check her and her bad self out. www.jsimo.blogspot.com
P.P.P.P.S- What do all these letters mean anyway?
P.P.P.P.P.S- Love Rihanna’s new We Found Love. Makes me feel all sort of goodness.
LOVE
ReplyDeleteHi Krystina, I really enjoy reading your stories. Ouch! to the toe nail. and wishing you love from all up here. Aunt Anna.
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