I'm Getting My Money's Worth (and you are, too)

Is there always a crisis at the half-way point?  So many movies have been made about the now infamous male mid-life crisis that you'd have to be crazy, just absolutely crazy, to doubt its existence.  In spite of the fact that a young blonde bombshell always seems to solve the moviestar-male mid-life crisis, she really does nothing for me in times of crisis, though I must admit that I have never actually saught the help of a blonde bombshell, so who am I to talk? 


Peru and I recently celebrated our 5 month anniversary, and noted then that we were beginning the second half of our limited time together.  The first half was generally successful; I would describe it as being marked by ingenuity and creativity in spite of a shifting game-plan, a somewhat reluctant doggedness, a patience that often surprised even me, and a delighted discovery of this new homeland.  Sounds like paradise, and indeed it was, though as often happens to me, and maybe to you (?) I started to get beaten down by the roadblocks (of the literal and figurative kind), the roundabouts (literal and figurative), and the long, meaningless detours (literal and figurative).  I found myself saying things that I had only ever heard the high school version of myself utter immaturely and inconsiderately in times of supreme frustration: "Are you serious??" "Gawd!" "Really?"  "Ughhhh I hate this place."  I was disappointed in myself for being so disapproving of a different culture simply because it wasn't what I was used to.  I had become the "better-than-thou" character that I hate, and I was making a mental list (and referring to it more often than I't like to admit) of all the things I absolutely. could. not. stand.


It was as if I were running a marathon, got to mile 13 and decided resolutely that I could not, would not, did not want to continue.  Because I don't look quite as Peruvian as I could if I underwent serious plastic surgery, I attract a lot of attention when I am walking around, and during these months of frustration, I'd hear what sounded like a cat call, and my insides would revolt, sparks would shoot out of my eyes (figuratively) and I would contort my face into something so ugly that I'm sure it is burned into their memory forever.  One day, about two weeks ago, I recieved the typical "ay, muñeca, eres preciosa" (oh, doll baby, you're precious) and to my surprise, I kept walking, smiled to myself, and thought "I'm glad you think so!"  My drastically different response to my reality of life in Peru convinced me that perhaps it wasn't yet time to through in the towel, and sit the rest out,  but that, just as I would in a marathon, I was getting my second wind.


I am smiling more, chuckling at the peculiarities that just two weeks ago made me grit my teeth,  and once again becoming involved in my own life.  There are a number of things that have contributed to my change of heart.  I am planning a Two-Week English Immersion Camp for professors at the pedagogical institutes, working at a high school in Miraflores (the neighborhood where I am living) on Tuesday afternoons, and teaching a different high school just outside of Lima all day Thursday and Friday.  I am taking yoga classes, going to the gym, eating balanced (though sometimes somewhat haphazard) meals, and augmenting my friends group.  Because I am paying for this gym and yoga membership myself, I am doing everything I can to get my money's worth!  I joined last week and am proud to report that I have already been four times! 


And you, dear American tax-paying citizen, are getting your money's worth, too.  I am busy working to improve English in the teachers' colleges and at local high schools so that our Peruvian counterparts have access to at least a fraction of the English-speaking world and can work with us to create a more welcoming, just, forward-thinking world.  So, thank you for believing in me (and I'll try not to suffer from any more mid-grant bouts of paralyzing frustration).

Facing My Past

A number, and I mean a real number of things have happened since my last entry.  Given that it was months ago now, I should hope that something has happened!  Let's talk title first.  When I was in Ayacucho for the Semana Santa (Easter), I shared one perfect day with three friends.  It seemed that no matter what we did or where we went we were in the right place at exactly the right time.  It occurred to me then that "may you always be in the right place at the right time" is a truly magical thing to wish upon someone.  If I were a talented poet, or had a way with words that left readers breathless, I would elaborate: may the coincidences that comprise your life seem always meaningful, and may your lifelong sum of opportunity costs be far less appealing than your lifelong sum of memories and experiences lived.  Maybe that made perfect sense, maybe it didn't but you get the idea, right? For all of my loved ones: may you always find yourself in the right place at exactly the right time.


You must be thinking that I'm referring to a different entry, the title of this one is "Facing My Past".  "Patience," as my father says with an almost malicious glint in his smiling eyes, "is a virtue."  At the end of my last post, I was preparing a trip to Buenos Aires, and I was terrified.  What might I encounter when I re-enter my past?  As the title suggests, I was "facing my past."  Much to my delighted surprise, being back in Buenos Aires was more wonderful than I anticipated or could even have hoped.  The city continues to hold some enchantment over me: when I'm there I feel life more dramatically, more deeply.  I reconnected with all the most important people in my Buenos Aires life, and revisited old haunts.  It was a stange sensation indeed walking down streets that used to be mine but all of a sudden were just those of a traveller passing through.  I ate cheese, rode the subway, visited the first home and the second home, shopped and tango danced.  I missed Argentine Argentine Tango.  I even went to a milonga (a tango dancing establishement) and had a wonderful time.  For as much trouble as the Argentine culture gave me last time, I found that I understood it much better, and even delighted in it.  It's much, much easier being blonde in Argentina.  Each time I leave Buenos Aires, I leave with the distinct sensation that I have unfinished business.  Long story short, facing my past was a pleasure, and one I'd gladly do again.


And that is when it occurred to me that I hope to always have a life that I am proud of, and would be happy to revisit.  Surely this is a lofty goal because everybody has challenging days, taxing months, and strenuous years, but wouldn't it be an absolute luxury to be able to say, "It was a tough day/month/year, and even though I would probably do things differently had I them to do again, I wouldn't change a thing.  My past is part of who I am, and I'd gladly face it again (and hell probably like it better and be better prepared for it the second time around)." Here, too, a way with words would be advantageous.


Enough funny business, let's get down to brass tacks, folks.  Had a great time in Buenos Aires.  Got back to Lima, and a few days later, my Dad (capital D for added importance) got to Lima!  Signed up for a gym class to deal with a little problem that is getting bigger (women will certainly know what I mean).  My Mom (capital M for added importance) got to Lima a few days later! Slept in the middle of my two parents (just to remember what the good ole' days were like, and I quickly realized that I was too big and the bed too small to return comfortably to the good ole' days).  My Erik (a pronoun that requires a capital, My for added importance and parallelism) got to Lima a few days later.  We took a three hour city tour that included a trip to the catacombs.  I have now spent a total of FOUR HOURS in the catacombs surrounded by decomposing bones... Too many??  In regards to my wonderful and indeed abundant company at the moment, I believe my Dad said it best: "Well, Catherine, the big three have descended on you."  


So, Mom, Dad, Erik... It is so wonderful having you here in Lima.  Feels like home.  That's not to say that it hasn't been an adjustment.  It has.  But a tolerable, preferable, and desireable one.


Tonight I start taking a Chinese class.  I must get back to dancing.  I'm happier dancing.  I am also going to start teaching class once-a-week in a nearby middle school.  Can't wait.  I really can't wait to be back in the classroom.  Erik is taking Spanish classes and I am so excited to hear about what he is learning, and just sit on the edge of my seat waiting for him to ask me a question so that I can re-experience albeit for one moment the teacher-student interaction and the unsurpassable (is that even a word) "Aha" moment.  Erik thinks it's weird and, I suspect, tries to get all of his questions answered at school.  But, lucky for me, a few crop up when he does his homework.


My mother was in the right place just in the nick of time: I am working on a grant proposal to provide better resources for the pedagogical institutes, and I was in so far over my head that I was on the verge of drowning.  As she always does, Mom scooped me up, dried me off, sat me down, and weeded through the nuts and bolts of grant-writing with me as we worked on what I had done to-date.  Its coming along.  But I sometimes feel like I'm wandering around in blizzerd-like weather and I walk down one path as far as possible, the wind changes, the path disappears, and the path I'd just walked on ceases to be pertinent, relevant, useful, or needed.  But, the sun'll come out tomorrow, and I'm bettin' my bottom-dollar that it will...


Thanks for tuning in to today's most recent addition, and until next time, may you find yourself in the right place at the right time, and may your past be one you are capable of and (occasionally) glad to revisit.

Not Exactly What I Expected/That Sinking Feeling In My Stomach

But what is, really?  Heather (a fellow Fulbrighter that is researching maternal health in Peru) and I were about to participate in the absolute height of civilized, conscientious, thoughtful, and selfless world, and ... watch Sex and the City 2.  I know, I know.  Some things die hard.  I was preparing for a night of fine dining and fine entertainment when Heather sent me a text message to inform me that she had purchased a copy of the movie and we could watch it on my computer at her place, or mine.  We were excited to hear the whimsical voice of Carrie, the sultry voice of Samantha, Charlotte's somewhat high-pitched musings on societal norms, and Miranda's cynical reactions to whichever one of life's obstacles found her that day.  You can imagine our HORROR and downright unwillingness to watch the movie when we realized that it had been dubbed.  We quickly decided that it would be just impossible! to watch a dubbed version of Sex and the City.  We decided instead to watch "The Backup Plan" with Jennifer Lopez.  This movie was also dubbed and subtitled, but dubbed in Russian and subtitled in Spanish.  This modern language mash-up made the movie quite memorable indeed.  Not exactly what I expected.


I threw myself a birthday party anticipating the sinking feeling I would have in my stomach if my birthday came and went without any acknowledgement.  See the invitation below.  You were cordially invited.

When I am State-side, I find myself feeling more or less indifferent to country music, but the moment I set foot on foreign soil, it becomes my favorite of the musical genres and I can't get enough of it.  So, in honor of my heritage and Colorado in the Spring I had a "Wild West" Birthday Party.  Among the invited were the group of foreigners (mostly other Fulbrighters or housemates) that I have met, a random assortment of my colleagues (all female with one exception and very Peruvian), and an even more random assortment of the men I have met in Lima.  That sounds very sketchy, but many were friends of friends invited to even out the male:female ratio.  I spent two full days in the kitchen preparing slow-cooked beef tacos, fish tacos, mounds of salad and more onions marinated in red wine vinegar than I will ever be able to finish.  The party would have made Mom and Dad proud: everything was ready for action and the food was set out buffet-style when the guests arrived (appealing to the excellent hostess sensibilities of my mother) and each guest was obliged to wear a name-tag (appealing to my father's uncanny ability to see a name and remember its face for eternity).  I taught a group of men and then women one of the country line dances I knew, and a number of different times I was asked to serve one of my guests a fish or beef taco because the concept of serving one's self at a party is foreign here.  Not exactly what I expected.


In preparing for the party, I bought three cans of black beans and three cans of whole kernel corn for a famous Matt salad.  I got home, had the cilantro chopped up, and realized (with a sinking feeling in my stomach) that I did not have a can-opener, it was too late to go to the store, and I needed to prepare the salad that night.  I walked up to my room, found my toolkit, dug out my hammer and nails, and destroyed the top of the can.  Not exactly what I expected.


One of my favorite things about being in a foreign country is that I do things I would never normally do, like open a can with a hammer and nail and like: attempt to fix sink plumbing when water is oozing out from the sink cabinet.  After the party, and therefore after the culmination of lots of kitchen action, the sink started leaking.  So, a fellow housemate and I devoted two hours to "fixing" it, to no avail, I'm sorry to report.  In the States, I would have called a 24-hour plumbing service and waited patiently for their arrival, but without knowing how to say "plumber" in Spanish, and not the slightest idea about how to convey that the plumbing under the kitchen sink was leaking, I decided to try my hand.  I would probably have been better at jousting.  Not exactly how I expected the party to end.


On Sunday, I leave for Buenos Aires for a Fulbright seminar and I have had a sinking feeling in my stomach now for a few days.  In many ways, there is a before and an after my trip to Buenos Aires.  I was completely entranced by and in love with Buenos Aires, but life for me was exceptionally difficult during my time there.  I am expecting to wrestle with this same discrepant way of perceiving Buenos Aires in my upcoming trip, and so naturally I am excited for, but dreading, but eagerly awaiting, but avoiding preparation for the upcoming adventure.  Hopefully it's nothing like I'm expecting.

I'd Like to be Very Important Someday

I believe the title says it all, would you agree?  Well, perhaps not all of it.  I was hoping to catch you up before I jumped ahead to the next best thing, but I imagine that a belated blog is the opportunity cost of a busy life.  I'd rather it be this way, however, than the other way around.


I'll pick up where I left off (as best I can).  Shortly after the dog party, Erik came to visit me (for those of you that don't know Erik, well, who am I kidding, I'm fairly certain that everyone knows Erik) for a few days before my trip to Contamana (google it, nothing will come up for you either) and before his graduation from Wesleyan University where he majored in Mathematics and Computer Science, with Honors in Mathematics because of his beautifully written, albeit esoteric and unintelligible, thesis.  We ate well, laughed a lot, and enjoyed acting our lives out in front of the backdrop of Lima, Peru.  He has since graduated from college. 


This entry will feel a lot like the end of a movie where there is a frozen snapshot of a main or minor character and a one-liner about his/her life after the end of the movie.  Enjoy the joining of genres, as I'm sure it won't be an isolated incident.

At 4:05 A.M. on Tuesday 11, 2010, my trip to Contamana began.  Bleary-eyed and grumpy, I arrived at the Lima airport to fly to Pucallpa.  We arrived in Pucallpa at 6:00 A.M. and waited another two hours for the prop plane to prepare for its departure to Contamana.  Piled into the six-seater (pilot included), my two colleagues and I held hands and hoped for the best.  Thirty minutes later, we arrived in Contamana--a town so far removed that the roads were dirt, the transportation was mototaxi, the roofs were thatched and the only foreigner they had ever seen was I.  We slept the rest of the day.

The next morning, we made our way in mototaxi (pictured above) to the Pedagogical Institute.  There were 60 English students and one professor who taught three sections.  As far as I can tell, he taught himself English with the movies, books, and magazines available to him, and within his context, his progress was indeed commendable.  There was, as there is everywhere, room for improvement, so he and I worked for the rest of the afternoon on various teaching techniques.


On Thursday, I taught two model classes.  After all this time working at the Ministry, I had forgotten how much I love being in the classroom.  After the first hour-and-a-half class, I said "Ya, terminamos (Alright, we're done)," and the students sat there motionless, waiting.  After the second hour-and-a-half class, I once again said "Ya, terminamos," and the students rushed me asking me this question and that question.  In the afternoon, I once again worked one-on-one with the professor.

On Friday, I continued to work with the professor, and much to my shagrin, I began to grow weary of being in Contamana.  The artisans followed us from place to place, pleading that we buy at least one, two, three, a million things.  The Internet connection was so slow that my inbox wouldn't load, and I had lost my phone and long since abandoned all hope of being reunited with it.  The professor and I did some really excellent work, I set foot in the famous Amazon rainforest (see pictures below), and the people were lovely, but I was ready to be back on the grid.  Finally on Saturday we began our trip back to Lima.  It consisted of a great deal of hurrying to wait, a prop plane, and a real plane.  In conclusion, it ended just as ridiculously as it had begun: at 1:30 in the morning on Sunday, May 16, 2010. 

(notice the SIZE of that SPIDER!)

(we almost kissed...)

(holding hands with a MONKEY!)

(a WONDERFUL picture, wouldn't you agree?)

That very same Sunday morning at 9:05, Megan came to visit me (for those of you that don't know Megan, well, who am I kidding, I'm fairly certain that everyone knows Megan) for a few days to accompany me on my trip to Huaraz (google it, it was beautiful) after her competition at the PanAms in Quito, Ecuador where she competed in kumite and fell just short of the podium.  We, too, ate well, laughed a lot, and enjoyed acting our lives out in front of the backdrop of Lima, and Huaraz, Peru. She has since returned to Denver.

The trip to Huaraz started that Tuesday morning and consisted of an 8-hour bus ride, three-and-a-half days of classroom observation and workshops led by Sandra Anderson (an English specialist from the Fulbright office) and me, and a number of logistical nightmares that were worked out in due time. 

The photo above and the following one are snapshots of me giving a model class in Huaraz.  In that same room, there were English I students and English VII students.  As you can imagine, it was quite difficult to balance a class with beginning and advanced students.  Fortunately, everybody played along.  This trip, I was getting over a cold and wrestling with PINK EYE (which I'm still getting over).  This workshop was, therefore, a personal growth opportunity for me.  For as long as I can remember, I have carefully painted my face when giving a presentation of leading a group of people.  I was thoroughly convinced that long, luscious eyelashes were the source of my power.  I was delighted, therefore, that the model class went well, despite the somewhat obvious lack of mascara.  Perhaps my power comes from within.

This trip, like the previous one to Contamana, ended like it had begun: a bus ride that got back into Lima at 5:00 A.M. on Saturday, May 22.  Megan and I took a nap, and started the day once again at 10:00 A.M.  We went to the catacombs (which I had visited with Erik, but which were just as eerie the second time around), the Cathedral (pictured below and made almost entirely of WOOD), where our guide was aptly named Jesus, a delicious lunch, a walk on the beach, an even better dinner, and a rushed trip to the milonga where I dance tango on Saturday nights.  Her plane left Sunday morning at 5:00 A.M., so we took a cat nap and proceeded to hop into a taxi and say a tearful goodbye to each other.

I slept from 7:00 A.M. on and off throughout the day, and am finally back to my normal schedule and enjoying the tranquility of a daily routine.  I must admit, however that without visitors I find myself thinking, "where have my friends gone?" 


Talking about the tranquility of my daily life, I thought it appropriate to picture my house (finally).  It's lovely, isn't it?  My room is the one in the upper right hand corner (I have a little balcony!)  Soon I will take pictures of all of my living quarters, and give you a proper introduction.


Lance Armstrong would be proud, for it has been a true "Tour de Force."


Let's get back to this entry's title, and my most recent life dream: "I'd like to be very important some day."  Yesterday morning I had a meeting at the American embassy and it was my first time on American soil abroad.  It was quite a process entering the building, and after taking my cell phone, my iPod, my hand sanitizer, my lip balm, my USB, my inhaler, my lip gloss, an assortment of American quarters that "seemed suspicious", and my jacket (everything EXCEPT my KUBOTAN i.e., the only real weapon I had with me) they gave me the "you may enter the Embassy" green light.  Walking through the halls of the building that Peruvians somewhat disdainfully refer to as "the bunker," I felt pretty darn powerful.  I was behind yards and yards of bulletproof walls, magnetized windows, and was sure that my every move was being monitored.  I wish I could say that I always determine my self-worth from within...  But I felt important walking down those halls: exceptional, exclusive, enigmatic.


Mind you, that's not the only time I've felt important, but the surroundings (though I hate to admit it) certainly added to the exclusivity of it all as there were scores of Peruvians eagerly awaiting admission as I walked right in.  To be sure, I feel important working with the professors at the Pedagogical Institutes, I feel important helping my colleagues with their English.  It's not my self-worth that I'm wrestling with, but rather the best way to create a life that is important and meaningful.  Is it behind closed doors in a carefully guarded building?  Is is in the most rural parts of a foreign country working one-on-one?  Is it in the basement of the National Museum?  I suppose that's the real question: in front of what backdrop do I want my life to take place?  And, like most soul-searching, philosophical, life-journey questions are eternal and have yet to be answered even hundreds of years after Hamlet first uttered the words "To be, or not to be," my own question will end in a similar fashion, with a ?

Finding My Way/Out of Context

There are a number of people in the world (probably you, if you're reading this) that know me through and through.  Many have seen me grow up and know all about my awkward stage, my sad stage, my ________stage, my _________stage (the blank lines refer to observable stages in my life that I didn't even know I had!)... I take great solace in the fact that there are people in my life that, even if I start to forget who I am, can steer me in the right directions.  They know me at my core, have traced at least part of my trajectory, and can act as my compass when I am lost. 


While I mean lost geographically, figuratively, spiritually etc., I'd like to recall two more literal events.  I went to college in Ohio, and one day early in my college career, I was driving back from the airport, and found myself misplaced on any number of rural roads.  Since I hadn't lived there more than a year, my sensory perception of rural America was not up to par, and each two-lane road looked the same as the next.  As such, I had turned prematurely.  My dear father called just at the right time (to talk about something else, I'm sure) and I cheered, "Oh, Dad!  I'm lost, can you help me figure out how to get back to school?" Patiently, he followed my progress from Google Maps, and sure enough, I found my way back to school.  Just two days ago, I received another phone call at just the right moment.  I was to be at a dog's birthday party at 2:30.  It was within walking distance, so I copied down the directions and set a course for the park.  After an hour of walking around in circles? squares? triangles? the absolute wrong direction? my mother called me (to talk about something else, I'm sure) and I cheered, "Oh, Mom!  I'm lost, can you help me figure out how to get to the park on the corner of ____________ and ___________?"  Patiently, she found me and directed me from thousands of miles away.  I arrived at the party late, but fashionably so.  While these two examples are literal geographical confusions, I can remember many times in my life when I've lost track of who I am, who I want to be, where I came from or where I'm going, and it is always a great relief and a great joy to have many people in my life that can set me straight. 


During my semester in China in 2007, I came to the terrifying realization that I was the only one in my current circle of friends that was in China and I would have to define my own self in China, and carry that experience back to the States with me all on my own.  I did the best I could.  Now, since I find myself in Lima for a more extended period of time, this same theme and worry reveals itself in a slightly different way.  I have a number of friends here (still countable on 1 hand, unfortunately) from the States and from Peru, and as we learn more about each other, I realize just how much they don't know about me.  To them, I am a searching, frustrated person just now getting her sea feet and adjusting her telescope to see what the future holds.  They don't know that I love the theatre, love to sing, enjoy casual conversions and witty word-play.  They are surprised that I've done karate since a very young age, and don't grasp just how much my perspective changed after China.  But they do know that I love to dance, that I love education, and that enjoy long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners (because doesn't everybody?!).  In a place where the people that know me best are far away and I alone am left with the job of defining myself, have I let a few things slide?  I feel inherently out of context here because the people that put me in context are located on another page of another book on another shelf in another library far, far away. 


Neither am I lost, however.  In many ways, it's freeing to have the ultimate fresh start.  I am who I show myself to be, and I've got to be me because not even the best actors can play charades for ten months.  So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I know who I am and I am who I am, just without you.  I miss you.


Enough, however, of this aimless philosophizing.  Speaking of out of context, however, I attended this dog's birthday party as if I weren't allergic to dogs, and rolled around with the dogs, held the dogs and (eek) let the dogs lick my face like I'd done it all my life.  But in the interest of developing relationships (not just with dogs), I threw caution (well, good hives-free health) to the wind.

The picture above is the setting.  You may recognize two of the women from the picture of me in Arequipa, for they were traveling companions.  The boy standing in the center of the picture is the son of the woman on the far left, and he is just lovely.  The woman sitting on my right is the dog owner, and hostess.  The dog pictured, however, is not the birthday dog, but rather, the dog of the boy in the center.

Another shot of the party.

Because I was out of context, and throwing caution to the wind, I wrestled with the dog, and couldn't be happier about it.  What other cautions (don't worry Dad, within reason...) should I throw to the wind to enjoy my life more fully?

The party was in a beautiful park (the pictures don't really do it justice) in one of the most wealthy neighborhoods in Lima.  It was lovely.  In retrospect, I'd get lost and wander aimlessly throughout this neighborhood any day of the week!

Oh, the games we play...

I hope you'll pardon my chronological jumping around.  Hopefully in a few more days we'll be all caught up.  Before my trip to Arequipa, and before I developed my aforementioned appreciation for Olinda, I came to work in the mornings and left promptly at the lunch hour to avoid the uncomfortable fact that I was a self-appointed outsider at work and was, therefore, hesitant to join the lunchtime activities.  As you might imagine, the emotional landscape changed soon after I stopped thinking of my work at the Ministry as a job I had to do (and couldn't possibly do well), and started thinking of it as a unique oportunity to work on redesigning the public English education of an entire country! 


Two weeks ago I made my way to the southern part of the country to a beautiful city called Arequipa to observe a number of English classes, and to hold workshops for the English teachers to work on methodology and teamwork.  I was so nervous!  Much to my delight, the kind of help they needed was exactly the kind of help I could provide.  The next three days consisted of morning classroom observation and afternoon workshops.  In the evenings, I dined with the three women with whom I was traveling.  As if I weren't already bursting at the seams with delight for leading a successful first workshop, I was delighted again to discover that my colleagues were smart, witty, funny, interesting, and caring.  We went out for dinner and experimented with the "food" setting on one of our cameras.  On the final day of the workshop, we reviewed the pictures, and much to our horror, we realized that we had many pictures of delicious food and smiling faces at the best restaurants in Arequipa, and practically no pictures of the workshops...  And so, on the last day of the workshop, we ran around somewhat frantically taking pictures of each other in "work mode" so that our devotion to our work wasn't without proof.


I returned to Lima that Saturday evening happy, exhausted, and proud.  The following Monday, I ventured, for the first time, into the museum cafeteria to lunch with my colleagues.  What fun!  And to think I might have missed it all together on account of my irrational and somewhat misguided nerves!  I must admit, though, that the conversation moves so quickly that I have yet to become an active and involved participant, but I nevertheless hang on every word of those around me.


The majority of the workers in my department at the Ministry are women, and with the exception of the one male colleague at every lunch, we are working women.  As Mother's Day approaches, many of them are thinking about how they should get the exact gift they want, without anyone knowing that they were, in fact, playing their cards just right.  One technique: take one's children to the deparment store and point out what you like and what you don't like.  Then, make sure that the husband goes to the same department store with the children so that the children can indicate your likes and dislikes.  Another technique: Put on an outfit, and say something like, "You know what this would look great with?!"  Yet another technique: Leave a magazine open on the counter with some sort of signal that this is what you want.  A final technique: Call up the potential gift giver and say, "Have you thought about what to give me for Mother's Day? Were you thinking of getting me _________ (fill in the blank with the desired gift)?"


I remember hearing that women must always get men to do what they want them to do, without the men catching on to the fact that they are being led to just the right place.  I only kind of believed it, though, until last Monday when I really met some of my colleagues.  They are pulling strings like crazy to have exactly the kind of life they want without appearing to encroach upon the "man's space."  Oh, and what games they play!  I found myself thinking it might be easier to just be blunt about it, but also admired their tact, resourcefullness, and (for lack of a better turn of phrase) love of intrigue.


I wonder what games I play to get what I want without letting on.  Surely when I was a child, I employed the puppy dog eyes, the tears, and the pitiful pleading to get something or other, but the greater the displacement from the toddler, middle school and high school years, the more I appreciate communication free of manipulation (though it be of a most benign kind), passive aggressive persuasion, and strategically placed glints of the eye.  Have I ceased, I wonder, to play these games, or do I go on playing just as my collegues do, unaware that I'm playing the game and oblivious to any other option? Or, perhaps, do I play the game--batting my eyelashes and planning my outings--fully aware of my "game-like" behavior because, to this day, it is the most entertaining and most effective way of getting things done?

Softheartedness

I arrived at the Ministry my second day in Lima after going to two different wrong places.  The Ministry is located in the basement of the National Museum, and so as you might expect I had to check my bag, my passport and any malicious intent I might have had at the door to obtain a pass to enter.  I walked down the stairs to a warehouse-sized floor that was stacked high with boxes containing years of bureaucratic proceedings and was divided into large cubicles each of which contained about six desks.  I asked for Olinda (the woman I report to at the Ministry) and was seated at (what I now know as) the table for people they don't know what to do with.  I waited for 45 minutes and was finally greeted by a woman with big eyes and an even bigger personality.  Within the first ten minutes of my interaction with her, I understood that I was to monitor the various virtual classrooms with which they are experimenting, evaluate the appropriateness of a recently-created national English language curriculum, travel to all 26 of the Pedagogical Institutes to observe, critique and educate the teachers, and finally, hold a national rolling conference in July on English language education.  I was given a desk, a somewhat arbitrary collection of "school supplies," a computer, and more responsibility than I'd ever had before.  I returned home exhausted, nervous and doubtful of my own ability to do this job well.



In the following weeks, I had many meetings with Olinda trying to clearly define what my job should be.  I came to anticipate these meetings with a hightened level of anxiety as the meetings were rarely clarifying and almost always concluded in an even longer list of things that Olinda would like me to do.  Slowly, surely, steadily, dread set in.  After each meeting my confidence wavered, until finally I concluded that I was not cut out for this job, would not have any more meetings with Olinda, and would do my best to fall into the background of the Ministry and wait while the months passed me by. 


A number of weeks later, the Ministry was giving a workshop to professors from all over the country.  I was to observe the workshop to get ideas for my own workshop.  I didn't know what to expect from this workshop, and so I spent the better part of the week trying to figure out just what was going on.  Finally I figured out that it was an extended brainstorming session regarding the implementation of the new national curriculum.  The last night of the workshop, we had an unexpected visitor: Viceministro Idel Vexler (the Vice Minister of the Ministry of Education).  Based on the somewhat frantic scurrying of my colleagues, I deduced that he was very important, and that this wasn't a meeting to congratulate us on our efforts.  We sat around a modern-day Round Table, and he proceeded to ask us why Superior Education in the country is failing, why we aren't working harder, faster, better, stronger, and why we continue to give "waste-time workshops."  Since I hadn't been at the Ministry long, I was astounded by this harsh "talking to," but not nearly as disheartened as others sitting around the table.  Vexler, at long last, took his leave, and the rest of us stood up to follow suit.  And this is where the story changes: Olinda asked that we take our seats again, and after a great deal of grumbling, we all sat back down.  She asked us how we felt about the meeting.  She told us how she felt about the meeting.  She conceded that superior education in Peru was lacking.  She acknowledged the hard work we all did every day.  She ended with, "In a country where a great deal of lip-service is paid to superior education, but resources are handed out infrequently and policy remembers us only now and then, it is easy to be disheartened.  There is one thing, however, that keeps me coming back to work to do a sometimes thankless job: I believe in the importance of a strong public education system, and I hope that as a team, we can change the educational landscape of Peru so that all students have excellent opportunities."  I sat at that table and seemed to see Olinda for the first time.  She is a smart, brave woman in charge of a team of at least 30 and dealing with a great deal of pressure from above.  Olinda has created a comfortable, forward-thinking, validating working space, and oh, how I appreciate her.