A taste of the tranquilo

You may remember I told my brother James that he would be obligated to write a blog entry about his trip this time around. He has delivered on his promise with an interesting comparison between the Panamanian and American ways of life. My idea of happiness and fulfillment has certainly been re-framed by my time here, and he does a good job explaining how and why his ideas have changed too. Here it is:

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As I return to Panama for the second time, I am struck by how simple life is here. Life out in the country is usually a very straight-forward arrangement. People have a few acres of land with maybe a few cattle and a few banana and orange trees. It seems as though people have very little, but they get by. In fact, they really need very little. Many of them are farmers and they live in what could be described as a giant greenhouse. There is no winter. A small cinder block house with a tin roof and some bright paint seems to be enough for a lot of people. Whenever they need money they do a bit of work or sell some of their cows or bananas, just enough to get them through the week. Overall the life of a farmer in Panama seems pretty easy and idyllic. With all the rain and sun one could hardly fail as long as they put a few seeds in the ground. Life certainly seems a lot easier than back in the US.

Amazingly, even though people in Panama have almost nothing to their name, they seem not to care. In fact, they seem quite a bit happier than the average American. I think it may actually be because they all have so little that it is hard to feel poor when there is no rich person next door to compare yourself to. There are no Joneses in town to keep up with. If a person has a fully-feathered flock of chickens, they are rich. They don’t seem to want electric service to their house as badly as most Americans want, say, an iPhone 4, because no one else in Quebrada Pastor has electric service. They worry about other things, like who is going to win the next pick-up baseball game.

One of the thoughts that goes through my mind is "man, wouldn't it be great to live like this?” To be on an almost permanent vacation with a 10-hour work week. To be free of the 1000 commitments the average American has to deal with on a daily basis. To have time to spend living life instead of sitting behind a desk or watching America's Next Top Distraction. Wouldn't it be great to be in charge of your own life, even if there wasn't much to be in charge of? What would I be willing to give up? At the end of my week in Panama, staying in Catherine's house I was right at home and I felt like I could have got by indefinitely with just my toothbrush and a few changes of clothes, if for some reason my big American pile of stuff back home suddenly burnt down or disappeared. My life would different, for sure, but would it be any better or worse? That’s hard to measure.

We think we are better off in America than the average Central American because we have more stuff. In some ways we are, for example I don't plan on dying of Cholera any time soon. But in many ways, we just have a bigger sand box with more toys but no more meaning. If we are better off we ought to be healthier, happier, feel more secure, have move free time, more friendships and more meaningful experiences in our lives than Central Americans. But they seem to beat us in all these categories. Americans are more obese and have more cancer than any other country. Costa Rica actually has a longer life expectancy, even though their hospitals are not nearly as advanced. In Panama people have strong ties to their neighbors and extended family which have not existed in the US since before the depression. Here we seem to be afraid of everyone and everything, we live to work, we spend our free time on escapism and even though we are the richest nation somehow we still feel poor and rack up debt. There is no way to declare success. There is always more stuff to buy.

So it seems like the thoreauvian thing to do is to go to Panama, build yourself a little shack in the jungle and love life. Panama is the place to go, you see, because it is the home of the tranquillo lifestyle and the only place one can live a low-key life. This was my immediate thought - you have to move to Panama to live like this. But what is to stop me from living like this in the US? I could make a little cinderblock shack, buy a couple acres of forested land real cheap and live just like a Panamanian. I could even cut my lawn with a machete if I wanted to. I could do all the same things here and it should be equivalent. But what would the neighbors think? I would seem crazy. I would seem so terribly poor in comparison, without that speedboat I proudly display in my front driveway to impress my jerk neighbor even though I'll only use it twice in three years then sell it because I can't make the payments on my McMansion. People would think I was too lazy or too stupid to work. What would I do with all my free time? Shouldn't I be working at a job I don't like to buy stuff I don't need to impress people I don't care about? I would be crazy not to.

Coming to Panama and seeing a different way of life has given me a great check on reality. It has allowed me to see how loose the correlation between money and happiness is, and how important your actions and attitude toward life are. It reminds me that I don’t want to be answering emails from the office at 10pm on a Saturday on my Blackberry no matter what my salary is. Hopefully these are lessons I can take home with me so that I don't get distracted by the American dream and can be truly happy.

James´ visit

My brother James is a really good sport. He arrived in Las Tablas after a long day of travel and was immediately immersed into the 24-7 chaos that is Panama´s Carnaval. It is quite like Mardis Gras, but involves a lot more hoses spraying people, beauty queen parade floats, and pop-up clubs in which one is free to dance the night away. He jumped right in to the fiesta without a complaint. He met a bunch of my Peace Corps friends, all enjoying a couple of vacation days, and soaking in the sun, pushing through crowds, and subsisting on what we all lovingly call street meat.

From there, we spent a four full days in my site. He got to know the local kids really well and get a real taste of what a normal day for a PCV is like. There aren´t many people I feel like I could bring into my community and not feel worried about how they would do or view things. But James is one of those people I knew who could handle it and thrive, just like he did at Carnaval! The kids fell in love, and many of the adults told me they thought he would make a really good volunteer and asked about his availability come October, when I leave. I said our mother wouldn´t have it.

We finished our time on Bocas Island, eating bacon, burgers, and really good Indian food. I told James the only condition for his visit was that he had to write me an entry for the blog. That will be coming soon. In the mean time, here are all the pictures from his visit.

Birthday

My uncle Peter asked me what it´s like, being here in Panama. It sounds like an easy enough question, and at the time I think I answered with little hesitation. You can get used to anything. Life in the village feels normal to me now. Things that shock outsiders seem so minor to me that sometimes I wonder why they make such a big deal out of them. I uess i can't say exactly what it's lie being here because I've gotten so used to it.

While I was home, a lot of people asked me if the kids in my village get presents at Christmas. They don´t. If families celebrate, it might be with a nicer-than-normal meal. They spend a few extra dollars to have stewed chicken and maybe a bit of lettuce and tomato.

This idea seemed to make Americans sad. A Christmas without presents. But that´s only because we´ve always had something to open on Christmas morning. We´d miss all that stuff if we only had a plate of chicken to look forward to. But poor kids don´t believe in Santa. They don´t expect presents, so it´s not really sad when there aren´t any. That is just how Christmas is here. They eat well, spend the day with the family, and are truly grateful if the day goes by and everyone is healthy, happy and full. Sounds nicer than some American Christmases if you ask me.

Birthdays are the same. Special food if there´s money, and if not, it´s just another day. I got used to that. But returning to my community after spending two weeks in the states, and at a time when it´s buy buy buy, give give give, my view was set a little askew.

One of my favorites, Rosibel turned five on Friday. The day before her mother has been rushed to the hospital after fainting while washing clothes. Rosibel came over to my house early on Friday morning when Julio, her dad, stopped by to tell me he was going to the hospital for the day to be with his wife, and his oldest daughter would be watching the younger kids. I asked Julio if Rosibel knew it was her birthday. I thought maybe they hadn't said anything, since no one would be there to celebrate with her. Family emergencies take precedent. But he said that yes, she knew.

In the mixed-up mash of having one foot still in the U.S. and one in my village, I lost my balance a little bit. All of a sudden I wanted to give this girl a birthday. Maybe because her family made me a part of theirs in the last year, or because she is one of the sweetest, most adorable children around and expected nothing. And in a weird way, I think I wanted to do it mostly for me. When I returned to QP after being in the states, a heaviness landed on my chest. I wanted something fun for these people, something to be easy, to celebrate something. After almost a year and a half there I got used to the hardships and the rough edges, but I felt newly exposed once I came back.

So the mission that day was to lighten the mood. I made Rosibel a birthday crown. I gave her some change, a fortune to a five-year-old. And I let her in every single time she came by the house (at least five or six.) When I saw her running to the hill each time a bus slowed to see if her parents were finally coming, I offered to read her a story instead.

I don´t think I would have felt as sympathetic had I not just returned from the states. If you let every sad or difficult thing affect you here, you would be immobile. But somehow, after reminding myself how easy things can be at home compared to life here, I felt the need to make something easy just for once. Brighten a birthday just for the sake of it.

You can get used to anything, including forgotten birthdays and holidays. In the big scheme of things, they are trivial. But sometimes all it takes is a birthday crown and a smile to turn a couple of girls' day around.

From 2011-01-12

(she insisted on posing with the pencil sharpeners)

Brace yourself, this is going to be a long post

Saludos, everyone. How are things? I hope this post finds you well. I am well-- currently free of parasitic infections and only battling a fungus-turned-jungle-infection on both feet. It is big, disgusting, and emitting a pus-y effluvium. It makes me limp, which earned me a discounted taxi fare this morning. Look at that poor gringa, all Tiny-Tim like wandering down the streets of David, lost and alone. Pobrecita.

That is why you come here isn´t it? Because I write about things like pus-y effluvium that happen as a result of, well, just being filthy nearly every day of my life. I am glad I can provide that for you, because really, who else would? Pus-y effluvium. You love it.

But fret not, loyal readers, I am not going to talk about bacteria, excrement, or parasites today! I am going to talk about something grander-- my vacation! Indeed, a week ago my brothers came to Panama and oh! We painted the country red. I will condense the week for you in a still-not-condensed enough summary, using James´s pictures. I lost my camera charger, so I took none. I am eternally sorry that I continue to fail in my picture taking. Probably will end up buying a new camera. Sigh.

Pre-Vacation
The night before I picked up mis hermanos at the airport, I stayed in Santa Clara with my very first host-family, with whom I stayed during training. Greysi saw me coming up the hill, ran down right away, hugged me and began filling me on school and everything that matters when you´re five. It was great to spend some time there again, and I could tell how much it meant to them that I came back. I played Bingo again with Nani and her mother-in-law. I cleaned up. For breakfast, she made me pancakes, a hot dog, and french fries. Oh, it was good to be home.

Seeing Santa Clara again after having spent time in my community was enlightening. During training, I remember thinking how there was nothing really there, it was just a small, suburban town, safe and simple. When I rolled back in this time on a Diablo Rojo, I couldn´t stop thinking about how developed it seemed. It has a health center, a playground, a library (generous assessment of a few piles of books lying aruond), a market, a town hall-ish building, latrines, an aqueduct connection at every single house. IT HAS EVERYTHING. It is a bustling metropolis.

Day 1- Saturday, Panama City- Casco Viejo.

Casco Viejo, as its names suggests is the old part of Panama City. When the Canal was built, the entire city was in this area. Today, it is filled with old churches, some delapidated, some restored, charming cafes, and is relatively free of chain restuarants, cell phone stores, and other eye sores. Lonely Planet says it´s like Old Havana. I have never been to Old or New Havana, so I cannot confirm or deny these claims, but you get the idea. It´s pretty and old and rustic and changing and filled with street markets, gelatto shops, ocean views, and historical monuments.



Where we stayed: Hospedaje Casco Viejo. Simple, clean, $10 a night with charming and patient desk people.

Sites: Iglesia de San Jose- famous for its golden altar. When Captain Henry Morgan came to Panama to pillage, plunder and shiver the timbers, he headed for this famed piece, which the priest had sneakily painted black. When Morgan came, the priest told him it had been stolen by another pirate and somehow convinced him to pay for a replacement. Morgan reportedly said, I don't know why, but I feel like you are more of a pirate than I am!¨

Panama Canal Museum- Worth a trip as admission is only $2, but only if you have a bit of Spanish. There are no signs or exhibits in English.

Plaza de Francia- a beautiful walk along the ocean, with stones paying tribute to France´s work on the Canal. They abandoned it after losing 22,000 men to yellow fever and malaria.

Eats: Cafe Coca-Cola, a charming restuarant diner-- the only diner-like establishment I´ve ever seen in Panama. Good service, good food, great coffee and cappucinos. An old neighborhood staple.

Days 2 and 3

We hiked the Cerro Punta to Boquete trail alongside Volcan Baru. It took us about 4 1/2 hours, and we weren´t hurrying. An easy hike, although we did it down hill, and next time I´d like to try it going up (I developed knee problems since arriving). The trail is famed for the resplendant quetzal bird which is abundant in the area. We heard dozens of calls, but couldn´t spot one. This part of Chiriqi is traveled by birdwatchers from around the world because of its hundreds of rare species. Bring your binoculars.


The next morning we awoke en la madrugada for a 6a.m. coffee tour. Imagine how thrilled Michael was. But it was worth the intial agony. We opted for what the hostel owner called the more rustic of two tours, and were picked up in a car at our door just after 6:30. Our guide was Feliciano, an adorable and enthusiastic chiriquano (guy from Chiriqi), who began the tour by taking us, and a German couple who joined us, to his house. He offered cups of coffee as we stood on his porch in the chilly morning, watching the fog roll over the hills and looking down at the coffee finca he inherited from his father. He grabbed us bananas for breakfast, and told us the story of his family, his plants, and how he grows, maintains and harvest them. He spoke all in English, only occasionally asking me to translate a word. This man is adorable. And tiny, which made his comments about the indigenas being too short to pick coffee awfully strange. If you come to Panama, we are going to visit him, because he does other hiking and nature tours and I am sort of in love with him in a non-threatening will-you-be-my-uncle-or-grandfather-or-wise-advice-giver kind of way. Felciano, mi corazon, my heart:

The tour continued with a visit to a small factory, where they roast the beans in batches no bigger than 50 pounds, usually much smaller. We saw where the beans are peeled, dried, and toasted. They roasted a few handfuls for us so we could taste the difference between light, medium and dark roasts. Turns out the differences is only a matter of seconds. We´d always thought it was much longer. I highly recommend searching out a smaller, more personal coffee tour if you´re interested. We were a small group of five, and loved the interaction and ability to ask questions and converse freely with our guide (no, you guys, I really love him). And it´s a better way to spend your money--supporting small farms and independent roasters. $25 for a 3-hour tour and round-trip transportation.

Then we went to Mi Jardin Es tu Jardin (my garden is your garden), a sprawling flower garden open to the public. For free:

Lodging: Hostel Gaia, $11/night, full use of kitchen and they helped us book coffee tour. Also worth mentioning- tried to book at Hostel Boquete, which was full, but the owner kindly called Gaia and drove us over there in his car. Will try his place next time-- has a restaurant, bar, and hammocks overlooking the river. DONE.

Eats: Amigos restuarant. Sat outside on the patio in the cool evening, illuminated by white Christmassy lights. Yummy food and had a glass of my favorite wine available here in Panama for $3.


Day 4: Visit to Cati´s community

You´ll have to ask the boys what they thought (comments are open), because I of course am rather jaded by all of this by now. We arrived late Tuesday night after a death-defying bus ride through intense fog on washed out roads. I messed up a batch of kettle corn, but the boys set up their mosquito nets and we settled in for a long summer´s nap. The next morning James and I headed up the hill to my first host family´s house, hung out, and drank some cacao with mom, sister, and brother. He bought a chakara made by sister Arcadia. They are always trotting out their wares when a gringo comes along! The hike up took a rapid 25 minutes instead of the usual 40ish, due to the driest trails I have every seen. Gringo fam meets Ngobe fam:

Don´t they look thrilled? Do I look like I am about to ride a horse? I think I do.

Then we bajared the loma, to return to Michael B., who had slept in. On the way, James got some awesome shots of some leaf-cutter ants:


Then we pasear´ed, and James and Michael delighted in how easy it is just to wander around from house to house. I named a baby, and they bore witness to the chorus of CATIs that follows me every where I go. Celebrity status.

Typical exchange with Ngobe chi´s, (kids):
¨Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati!¨
I finally answer, ¨Dime mi amor!¨ Tell me, my love.
¨Hola!¨

or:

¨Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati! Cati!!¨
¨Dime, guapo!¨Tell me, handsome!
¨Buenas!¨

Bocas Island, Days 5-6.

And then we went away for our tropical island retreat. Highlights included, a beach paradise, nestled in a national park:

This visit was part of a touristy boat tour James and I went on, including a visit to Dolphin Bay, where you see dolphins. Imagine that.

And... wait for it... do you know what I did?

I went snorkeling. Because my brother James wanted to and I love him and I will make sacrifices. The first 7-10 minutes involved hyperventilating, thinking I was going to drown, die and be eaten slowly by fish and anemones and other marine creatures whose existence I prefer not to acknowledge. My heart raced, I sucked water in my snorkel and generally flapped around like, well, a fish out of water. Except, you know, I was in the water, with the fishes, and do you know the water was about four feet deep, and they were all so close, and they could touch me at any minute? Does my brother love me? I hope so, because this is horrifying. And then I calmed down. And I looked at the fishes, and the coral, which was beautiful and purple and turquoise and yellow, gold and green. Like something out of Planet Earth. They were nature´s big treasure chests hiding under the ocean for us to discover. It was lovely. And I only freaked out and splashed away from fish closing in on me a handful of times. And my heart only legitimately stopped once when I saw a menacing black fish the size of a dinner plate looking at me. Of course my heart started beating again, and I am glad I went.

Other highlights: An amazing Caribbean dinner, James with our fish, in garlic and creole sauces, respectively, and sides of coconut rice. And Michael with his.... well, just look:

Have you ever? Pescado Entero.

Boys´Beer Tour: One night we hung out on the roof deck of our hostel, and the boys sampled five of the widely-available Panama beers. I watched and classily drank wine because I do not participate in such pedestrian tomfoolery. But it was a joy to watch my brothers debate the finer points of really not fine beers.



Where we stayed: Hostel Heiki, $10 a night, super Peace-Corps-friendly with the nicest manager on the planet. Roof-deck with tables, chairs, sofas, hammocks and computers. Kitchen, free coffee all day and pancake breakfasts. Nice view of the street and park from balconies and decks. Fun to gawk at all the gringoes.

So I thought the vacation was a blast, and we did it cheaply. I spent under $300, including all lodging and transportation, and I didn´t hold back. Eleven dollars was the most we spent for lodging, and though we ate some nice meals out, we also got some heaping plates of good Panamanian food (chicken, rice, beans, salad, and Coke) for less than three dollars. So thanks for coming, boys. And to everyone else, I look forward to your visit. Look at the rest of James´ pictures here.

Culture week roundup

Every time I sit down at the computer to write a blog post, I am daunted by the amount of information and stories I have to tell. Today is no different, and worse, I´ve forgotten my notepad with all of my little thoughts and notes I wanted to share.


I´ve just returned from culture week, and my first experience living with a Ngobe family. I stayed in a raised hut with with a mother and father, and two kids, 14 months and four years old on the Island of San Cristobal in the Carribean. When we arrived on Sunday, the whole town was abuzz waiting for the boat load of gringos to disembark, and while we walked through the town to the rancho, we were stunned by the number of children all around. So. many. children. Over the course of the week, they would become some of our best buddies in San Cristobal, running up to hold hands as we walked to class, lifting up their arms to be thrown in the air, and hanging on the legs and backs of the big, burly boys in our group. We spent a couple afternoons swimming in the ocean with them. Ngobe kids loaded up their dugout canoes with PC aspirantes, and we swam around among the coral in water that was still only about waist-deep(my host mom later dug out spines from my feet with a needle. So handy!). We made sure to paddle extremely far out. The environmental-health situation in Isla Cristobal is pretty poor; they do all of their business in ¨servicios¨over the water. Often in the afternoon and evening, the smell of excrement wafts from house to house, especially those whose homes are built directly over the shore.

That aside, I continue to be wowed by the jaw-dropping openness and kindness of the Ngobe people we meet. I would like to say it is my effervescent charm that endears me to everyone, but I can take no credit for how well we are treated.

My host mom was very shy and bashful, and at first. When she spoke it was barely above a whisper. But by second day, she started giggling at my jokes, making her own, and even asked to braid my hair. DISCLAIMER: Only consent to a Ngobe hair-do if you want to look like a fool. At first, I thought she was whipping up these styles purely to humiliate me, but I later found out they legitimately think they look lovely. The first style consisted of several brightly-colored pony tail holders positioned at all angles over my head. Everyone from the PC Bocas group could not look at me without laughing. The last day, my host mom said she had to braid my hair, and I tried to do a little intervention by saying that I like the braids best when they started in the back of the head and go down. You know...I was hoping for something french-braidish. I asked if she understood, and she said yes, but then she immediately began forming two gigantic Clifford-size dog-ear braids down the side of my head, with a violent part in the middle. The braiding continued, and at one point, I asked how many braids she had made, and in one of my favorite moments of the week, she sheepishly replied, ¨Varios...¨

This needs no translation. I spent all of Friday walking around with six braids with neon-colored scrunchies, hearing all the aspirantes laugh at me, barely able to mak eye contact. No Ngobes though, to them, I looked just fine.

The rest of the week consisted of culture lectures, Ngobere classes, walks on the medicinal plant trail, visits to the artisan shops, and even a visit to another volunteer´s community on the other side of the island. We paseared to a bunch of houses there, meeting one incredibly sweet, quietly intelligent older man who told us he stayed home all day from work to wait for our visit. With children tugging and grabbing you, Ngobes eager to teach you their language, and community members peering out their windows hoping you´ll stop by to talk, it´s hard not to feel incredibly optimistic about the next two years of service. Nothing comes easily in PC, but I can already see how the rewards will make it all worth it.

In other news, my Spanish is coming along. In my second language interview a couple of weeks ago, I scored advanced-low, and I am definitely shifting more easily between English and Spanish, and speaking a lot more fluidly. I am grateful that I´m well understood, and made sure this past week to spend a lot of time talking with my host family. Every night I sat out on the porch and chatted for a couple of hours, asking them questions about their life in Panama and answering some of theirs about life in the U.S. I continually found myself struggling to put words to such foreign concepts and realities in our country. For these people, the world is so small. One woman assumed everyone in the United States spoke Spanish. I told her a lot of people took it in high school, but few speak it fluently. She couldn´t figure out how they could forget. Everyone asked about my family constantly, trying to understand how I could be 22 and still without children. They were all worried about my parents, and couldn´t imagine why I would move so far away. And how could they? Most Ngobe families live within spitting distance, who could imagine moving half a world away to live with strangers?

On Thursday, my host mom snuck into the living room, where I had just finished watching Touched by an Angel dubbed in Spanish with Monica, a seven-year-old fan of mine who lived next door. (You may be interested to know, whoever dubbed for the Irish angel kept a slight brogue somehow through the Spanish. Incredibly impressive.) My host mom sat down on a bench, and all of a sudden said she didn´t want me to leave on Saturday, and why couldn´t we do tech week in San Cristobal? I told her my permanent site is close, and I could come and visit soon. She paused, a grin spread across her face, and she said, ¨Catherine, how many stories is your house in the U.S.?¨ I said it was two floors, and told her the floor plan, and she said, ¨You can visit me here, but when can I come and visit you and your family in America?¨

On Saturday, she and Toni, my four-year-old host brother, walked me to the dock to say goodbye, and I tried to thank her for everything, and to convey completely how grateful I was. They stood on the dock and waved goodbye, and I was caught off guard by how sad I was to be leaving them.

As we sped away toward Bocas Island, I realized I have two families in Panama now, in Santa Clara and now in San Cristobal. Nani, my SC-host mom was sad to hear my site was in Bocas, because it would mean visiting her, the Daiveys, and Gresyi would be difficult She hugged me as I left last week, and her concern and advice for me was so genuine. ¨Take care, Catherine,¨she said, scanning me up and down, in disbelief that the sweaty, friendly gringa was venturing out to the rough and wild Bocas province. She watched from the door as my friend and I disappeared down the hill, and again, I was surprised at how sad I felt to have to leave them for two weeks.

We are treated so well here, often times just because people, particularly Ngobes, are so honored and excited to have us as guests. We felt like rock stars walking down the paths in San Cristobal, with kids crawling out of windows and climbing onto porches to yell hello. I can´t wait to see my own community in a few weeks, and to find out what happens when my stay is more permanent, and it´s time to get real work done. The reality of living and working here for two years is starting to hit me. Food is an adjustment, there is very little privacy, and once the gringa-excitment wears off, I will undoubtedly be struggling trying to motivate, and inspire people to change how they´ve lived for years, all in a second language. As rich as some of our interactions have been, I am always wondering when other volunteers taking about having ¨friends¨in their community, how meaningful these relationships really are. How deeply can you know someone when, even though you live together, in most way you are still a world apart? Howevr, weeks like the one I just had always remind me that laughter sounds the same in every language, all kids want your attention, and people always surprise you, sometimes for the worst, but mostly for the best.

In other news, I have a cell phone! I finally called home last night, and the reception was awesome. I think you can get to me by dialing 001 for the int´line, country code 507, then 64101638. I won´t have service when I am in Santa Clara, but I will try to start texting and calling when I can. Once I am in Bocas permanently, I will always have service.

Much love to everyone. I´m off to tech week where we´ll be building a compost latrine, thermoforming PVC pipes for aqueducts, and learning how to maintain, repair and design the lines. We´ll be in the Comarca, where the food will be somewhat less plentiful, and a lot less enjoyable (think boiled bananas three times a day), so I´ll undoubtedly have more to share next week. Be good.

Commencing countdown, engine's on

I have less than a week until my departure date, and I'm trying--but failing--to remember everything: presentation deadlines, immunization records, packing lists, last-minute supplies, Spanish cramming. I have a lot to do, but after months of preparing, and hours of telling friends and family about what I'll be doing, I'm thrilled that the date is finally almost here. In many ways, it's surreal. Ninety percent of the Peace Corps application process is waiting for the next step. To have all the toe-tapping and thumb-twiddling be over with is both daunting and exhilarating. I'll be touching down on Panama soil only about four weeks after I found out where I would be going.

I'm lucky because I got to spend this last summer focusing only on PC preparations, and when I wasn't doing that, I was soaking up every minute with friends and family. I ate out a lot, treated every meal like it was my last . Think along the lines of vineyard tours, huge platters of seafood, and multiple trips to Mike's Pastry in the North End. I vacationed, worked out a lot (those cannolis have to go somewhere), and even got a real tan for the first time since high school. Oh how liberating unemployment can be! My pasty white skin never knew life could be so lovely. (I am sorry to all of my friends who have real jobs and have not caught sight of the noonday sun in months. I know this paragraph is really annoying. You will be the one laughing when I have intestinal worms.)

So on to what I'll be doing and where I'll be doing it. I leave Boston on August 11th and fly to D.C. for a staging event where we hand in lots of paperwork (more still!), do some quick and dirty safety and arrival training, and meet the volunteers we'll be with for the next 10 weeks. On August 12th, we all arrive in Panama City and go on a "retreat" for four days where we receive oodles of shots, advice about living with hosts families and cultural sensitivity, and other orientation tidbits. Training begins in earnest on August 17th in one of two towns about 35 km west of Panama City.

Training is 10 weeks long and covers language, technical and cultural aspects of my service. It is intensely rigorous, and every moment is planned out for me, but I consider this my big chance to get the most out of everything they have to teach me. I want to exceed language expectations, and absorb as much information as possible, because once training is over, it's show time.

So that's the short version. I hear there's no Internoodle access at our training site, so I'll write again at least once more here before I go. Dry your tears and leave questions and emails/addresses in the comments if you want to be on my contact list.

Introductions and icebreakers

So you may have heard that in August, I leave for a 27-month term of service in the Peace Corps. I applied in January, and have since interviewed, been nominated, received the necessary clearances, and been invited to serve in Panama. I moved through the application process more swiftly than many others, but I'm still anxious to get more information about my assignment and future home. This is the first time in my life when I am unsure exactly what my future holds.

I'll provide you with more details about the work that I'll be doing and where I'll be doing it as that information comes in. In the mean time, I'll let you know a little bit about why I'm doing it. One of the things that has surprised me most about this PC process is the awkward lull it brings on whenever I mention it in conversation. I've told dozens of family members and friends about my plans, and only a few have responded favorably right from the get-go. And of course, even though at times I've felt a lack of support, I can't blame those with reservations. It can be a scary thing for a young woman with virtually no experience living internationally to pack her bags and commit to an unfamiliar place for more than two years. I worked hard through college earning degrees that may or may not be of use to me in rural communities in Central America. I'll be leaving my family and friends behind, with no guarantees about how often we'll be able to communicate. I know there will be times when I feel that I've gotten in way over my head, and times when all I want to do is come home and see my family, to go back to the life I've always known. When it comes down to it, I've recently found out, joining the Peace Corps is something of a nightmare scenario for a lot of people. And I know full well that embarking on this adventure is a little naive and idealistic.

That's also what I like most about it. When people ask me incredulously why I want to put my life on hold for two years, I have trouble explaining it to them concisely because there are so many reasons rushing through my head. And to me, this isn't putting my life on hold at all. It is living my life in a fuller, braver, riskier, and hopefully more rewarding way then I've ever been able to do before. It will be a test to myself, to see what I'm made of, how I handle immersion in a new culture. I'll gain technical, social, verbal and physical skills that I probably will never have the chance to do stateside. I'll build upon the years of Spanish I've taken and, with luck and persistence, be fluent by my close of service. Because I'll be working in rural locales with indigenous people, I'll also be learning to speak as much as I can of their languages, which date back to the pre-Columbus era.

One of the three main goals of Peace Corps is to spread a positive of Americans internationally, and participate in cross-cultural understanding. When I'm done, I'll bring a unique perspective to whatever job I work, which will be a priceless professional and personal asset. I've been so curious for so long, and have been given a chance to get some of my questions answered. Just as Teach for America hopes their corps members will go on to be activists for education policy, the PC wants returned volunteers to continue to bring their first-hand knowledge of development issues and other cultures back with them to the U.S. The PC provides me with unique ability to gain first-hand experience in dealing with the problems I care the most about.

Many people consider the PC volunteers to be noble, "save-the-world" types. And some of them are. I too believe in public service and universal responsibility. But I also want my work to be more than that, to be worthwhile, sustainable and befitting of the community I'm serving. So many development and aid projects fail because those who design them don't understand the real needs and desires of the people for whom they're intended. I sincerely hope I'll be able to help in a meaningful way. But I'm also going into this knowing how much there is for me to gain. Over the last few months I've been devouring blogs kept by volunteers in various countries, and they've been incredibly helpful in helping me imagine day-to-day life. This isn't a two-year vacation. I will be thrown into situations I don't know how to handle, and at times, given more responsibility than I deserve.

So as excited as I am, I'm just as nervous. Things will get tough. But in my experience, the decisions that are hardest to make are often the ones that yield the greatest rewards. I hope you'll continue to check in with me as I blog as often as I'm able.

I think this is going to be good.