I'm starting this post from the concrete rooftop of my "homestay". It's 6:30 am, and I have about forty-five minutes to scribble out my thoughts before Carmen calls us to the table for breakfast.
I'm so tired. How am I so tired? I blearily rub my sleep swollen eyes, squinting at the red shingled rooftops in front of me. I went to bed at ten thirty last night and woke up at six. That's plenty of sleep. So why do I feel like an old-ass car trying to get started on a winter morning?
No sé.
The air outside is fresh, with just a hint of breeze. I'm sitting on a typical, uncomfortable patio chair, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket and with my knees drawn into my chest for warmth. Birds chirp, buses rumble, motorcycles buzz, and tuk-tuks bounce along down the cobbled roads. The random dog barks and I could swear I just heard a turkey gobble.
Volcán de Agua towers in front of me, placidly, serenely. Like the wise old abuelo of this colorful, colonial city, with fluffy clouds bearding his stately blue profile
To my right, Fuego erupts. Like the trouble-making, showoff of a hotheaded teenager he is.
Bourget. This is probably a sign that you're lonely and missing being a part of a community. You are creating a family of volcanoes. Anthropomorphism at its finest.
I like these kinds of rooftops. Rooftops wherein you can look around and try to imagine the lives of neighbors through their laundry.
Yup. Lonely. Anthropomorphizing volcanoes and analyzing the laundry of complete strangers.
...
There are places for people like you.
I've settled into somewhat of a routine during the last few days. Light filters in through my blurred window at about five thirty, so I rouse myself from bed and pull my macbook onto my lap. I study Duolingo and review flashcards and journal until breakfast is served at seven fifteen. My four housemates skip off to class (skipping may or may not be the correct term) at about seven forty-five, and I return to my room to continue my studies.
I hate reflexives. How I hate them. Holy bananas. And I will probably never know when to use the simple past versus the imperfect past.
Blurgh.
But hey, at least I know enough Spanish to know the things at which I suck. That's encouraging.
I hop into the shower at about nine, hankering for my old volcano view, but loving the water pressure and the less finicky knobs.
At about ten o'clock, I shoulder my strawberry daybag and stroll towards city center. And as Antigua is a city that wakes up very late indeed, I still have most of the cobbled streets to myself.
I order a coffee at one of my two favorite cafes and give myself a couple of hours wherein I do not study. I write my blog (oh hey) and I imagine some rainbows (Aimee code for "planning"). I give myself these hours to process my nuts life and dream about the things to come.
So, if I start off in Paris, I can probably spend a couple weeks in France. See some new cities and eat an inhuman amount of cheese. Then I can spend the month of November in Spain, then two weeks in Portugal, then I can hop on a plane to Germany to visit all my German buddies. From Germany to Bulgaria, Bulgaria to Greece, Greece to Israel...
I close my laptop at around noon, gently folding up my dreams and stowing them away until the next day. I pay for my coffee, then walk back to my "homestay," buzzing with caffeine and still floating a bit in all my dreams.
Lunch is served at twelve thirty, so I scarf down my meal quickly and then scamper off to Spanish at one.
It's been good for me to be back in school and it's been wonderful to have school be my main focus.
How did I do it at the Forest? Study three hours a day and then head back up the hill to work space holding shifts and to teach yoga to hordes of unruly Israelis?
The first two and a half hours of class are always interesting and funny. We share stories about our lives, I make jokes, and my teacher laughs at my jokes (my teacher is a remarkably nice lady). Yesterday, I told her that my skin was so smooth because I put coconut oil mixed with frankincense on it every day. She asked what frankincense was, so I explained (in Spanish, mind you), the story of "Los Tres Hombres Muy Inteligentes."
I told her that since I wear frankincense, "tengo la aroma de Jesus."
At one point, we were discussing our feet. And I took off my shoes to show my teacher that all my toes are the same size.
"Mis pies son muy anchos. Como pequeñas barcas. Es posible para mi caminar encima del agua como Jesus."
(my feet are very wide. Like little boats. It's possible for me to walk on the water like Jesus)
By about three thirty, my forehead begins to pound.
This is what it feels like to REALLY listen. Listening is fucking WORK.
By about three forty-five, my poor, befuddled brain feels like it will commence leaking out of my ears at any moment.
YOU WANTED THIS, BOURGET. YOU PAID MONEY FOR THIS. AND YOU WILL HAVE A GOOD ATTITUDE AND KEEP TRYING AND STUFF. BLUUURRRRGGGGHHHH.
My teacher works me through some grammar (not my strong suit. I'm better at the heretical Jesus jokes). When four thirty finally rolls around, I feel like I need a) someone to carry me home, b) a nap, c) probably an entire bottle of wine.
You... wanted... this...
Once home, I chat with my housemates and struggle through some homework until dinner is served at seven thirty. I wish I could make myself a cup of coffee or some hot chocolate in the meanwhile, but the kitchen looks like this when Carmen is out:
Yup. This is why I won't be coming back to this apartment. One of the many reasons, anyway. I wanted a homestay. The kitchen is the heart of the home. And they put up fucking bars so we can't get in when Carmen isn't here. WTF?
So I grab a cup of water and trot up the stairs to my room, the house quiet and empty.
It's just one week. And things could definitely be worse. And it's probably good for you to have this brief pause, this week of introspection, before you go on your whirlwind adventure with Cathy and John and then live in an actual homestay for seven weeks. With kids and chaos and stuff.
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