Three months: values/Tres meces: valores

December flew by for me. That means I'm almost home. I'm in the library at UNIBE in between final exams right now, killing time by screwing around on the internet, which is my go-to activity domestically as well as internationally. I apologize for the gap between blog posts but rest assured that you didn't miss much between Thanksgiving and the last week of school for me.

The three month mark passed on December 2, a week ago. As with the previous milestone posts on my first and second month here, I chose an aspect of my journey to write about as I mark one of the final steps of my adventure in the Dominican Republic.

Since I've already beaten one literature concept into the ground, I'm going to steal another classic from one of my favorite narratives, the Wizard of Oz. The protagonists are all searching for heart, brains, courage, and a way to go home through the story, but each found they had their coveted qualities all along. You know all that. Here's the story of how I discovered each of those values in the Dominican Republic.

Dorothy met the scarecrow first and he said he wanted a brain. Once he got it, he spouted off equations and other boring nonsense. For me, the brains I wanted all along was the ability to speak Spanish fluidly. As everyone in the DR predicted, I am able to do that now...a week before I leave for the United States. It's true. Spanish has never been clearer or easier for me to understand. That doesn't mean I'm fluent. Not even close. But I have a grasp on the language enough to express what I want and to sort of follow what others want and I no longer break down in tears over misunderstands.

Then Dorothy met the Tin Woodsman, who is a lot like me in that we both have rusty old joints and shiny foreheads, but I do not dress is silver lamé. Give me about 40 years, and I might. My grandmother did. The Woodsman wanted a heart. This aspect was the hardest one for me to come by, because I'm famous for being closed off emotionally. Before I came here my career goals were to rule the world, one sports media outlet at a time. In my research I found all the good things baseball does in the DR, and I got a fantastic quote that I want to use for the non-fiction book I want to write: "mira que buena es la pelota," or, look how good baseball is. I gained compassion and concern for the young men who play baseball and can afford only one dream: to play ball in the United States. I want to work in development and management to give those young men the chance to dream about more: an education, a good life for their families, including a wife and children someday, and a life after baseball. If I deserve to dream of a future that includes those things, everyone does.

So that's how I found my heart. I had the capacity to love something so much it transcended my budding megalomania and turned into compassion. That picture I chose, with the little robot guy, represents me perfectly. His headphones are plugged into his heart and he's listening to what his heart says. I think all along I had the compassion and caring in my heart, but I just wasn't listening to it.

Courage is something I've never lacked. My former roommate, a great gal, once described me as a "freight train" when it came to getting the things I wanted. I decimate things that stand in my way. Courage in the domain one masters is easy. Having that same quality in a brand new place is a horse of a different color. (Come on, I had to go for the easy joke with the silly picture.) I had to double up on courage to come to the DR in the first place, and then follow through with the usual activities I mastered in my domain, this time in a different language, in a different culture, and with a totally different set of standards.

I knew that I had the courage to do these things all along. But there was another aspect to courage that I did not expect, nor did I define right away. No matter how brave a person is, that person can do very little without needing help from time to time. In the US, I'd rather disembowel myself than ask for a hand. Here, I am required to ask for help because I'm not the master of this domain. I found it wasn't a scary awful horrible thing to lean on another person from time to time. I found it was helpful to build bonds and relationships with people, thus boosting the heart factor, and it helps me to learn new skills, which is brain food. It helps a lot that most Dominicans here have been exceedingly kind and helpful to me and really made me feel at ease.

The Lion was the one who wanted courage and he was awarded it in the form of a medal. So far fellow posters on my usual sports blog haunts have been asking me "hey, how's the DR?" over the last few weeks and have been fascinated by my stories. Perhaps my medal of honor is the intrigue from my peers for traveling to foreign lands.

Dorothy herself just wanted to go home. Believe me, I'm there. I can't click my heels together, though. I have to wait until Sunday and crowd onto an overbooked flight (twice!) and bite my nails with worry over being detained at customs over the rum I'm bringing home. Unlike Dorothy, I am torn between two aspects of home. It's time for me to get back to my life in the US: work, school, friends, family, and Sam. But I've really come to love the Dominican Republic and I feel comfortable here. It's a place I would like to make my home someday and I get sad thinking of when I will see this beautiful country again. As I've mentioned a few times before here, I struggle a lot with a sense of place and belonging. I have trouble finding my place in the US, but I found my place quickly in the DR. The thought of leaving that domain behind, mastered or not, makes me sad and it makes me wonder what was so different about finding my place here versus questioning my place in the US. I think that will be the most challenging value for me to bring home.

The Wizard of Oz went on for several books. My life also has several volumes. This story is almost over but there are still a few chapters to write. We haven't yet reached the conclusion. Stayed tuned, my friends.

Giving thanks/Dar agradecimiento

Most (if not all) of my readers are gearing up for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Let it be known that Thanksgiving is one of my favorite cold-weather holidays and one of the few things that gets me through the fall/winter months. I hate being cold and I hate being without baseball, but cooking a humongous meal  for my family and friends and chowing down with them takes a little of the pain away.

Here I am in a beautiful tropical country where it's warm and sunny and there's baseball the day before Turkey Day. That fact depressed me for weeks prior to the event. It sucks enough to be apart from your family and friends and to be all alone on any given day, but when it's one of the biggest deals of your home culture, it sucks even more.

That's right. Indhira went home to New York. Her time here was up about a week ago so here I am fending for myself for the next three weeks.

As I saw it, I had two options: one, continue to be depressed about being alone (not just for Thanksgiving, but for the duration of my time here), or two, make the best of my time here.

I chose the latter option.

My Thanksgiving plans involve me going to Plaza Lama, a supertienda (kinda like a big box store a la Target or Wal-Mart) and finish the rest of my holiday shopping. Tomorrow evening I'm going to Il Cappuccino, this delightful Italian place down the street from my apartment, where I will treat myself to a full Italian dinner: pasta, steak, bread, wine, and the most decadent dessert in the house.

The last time I went out for Thanksgiving dinner was right before my grandmother died. It was just the two of us and we went to Mimi's Cafe for their holiday turkey dinner. We ate, drank wine, and toasted to a year that sucked overall but it was okay because we had each other. It was one of the last good memories I have of my grandmother.

I can give thanks while I am here. Here are the things I appreciate about being in the Dominican Republic, and other things in my life:

The weather. I wake up with the sun streaming through the blinds onto my face every morning. The oppressive heat from September has cooled to a mellow, pleasant tropical warmth. Even the rain is charming. Sometimes it's soft and sometimes it pours like crazy and I love watching every minute of it from my balcony. After the rain everything smells fresh.

I value my time alone here. I need time to myself in any setting, to recharge my batteries and do my own thing, but I'm also happy to be alone here because it's forcing me to get out there and do things, which requires me to ask for help. I'm going out to eat more often and I'm going shopping tomorrow alone, things which would have terrified me when I first got here.

The people are lovely, in every sense of the word. From my English-speaking cab driver to my grocery boy to the InteRDom people to the security guards at my building, most of the people I've encountered here are helpful and kind. Whenever I felt alone or like an outsider in this culture, those people have endeavored to include me.

I love the culture here. Aside from the obvious things like music, dance, and fried food, I value that tomorrow and Friday aren't big ass deals like they are in the US. I get annoyed when everything is closed in the US for a holiday and I loathe the hype around Black Friday and Christmas shopping in general. I've seen far too many obnoxious ads for Black Friday and for jewelry stores on the American TV channels here and each one of them makes me want to throw up. I get to sidestep all of that here for the next few weeks. I can go shopping tomorrow, even!

I'm thankful for baseball. Everywhere. Everyone who plays it. Everyone who works in it.

I'm very thankful for my MacBook Pro. It's been my window to the world I left behind these three months here. I've been able to keep up with my friends, complete the work for my online class, and it's become my best friend here. It's just so very handy. I did a complete project for my online class, using solely my laptop: I shot and edited video, put together a PowerPoint presentation, edited photos for said PP, and slapped all three together using programs and software already included on the machine when I bought it--save for MS Office, which I got from my boyfriend. I love this thing.

I am thankful to have strong people behind me in the United States, people who loved me enough to encourage me to go on this adventure and people who love me enough to welcome me home from my adventure. I would not be here if it weren't for Sam, my roommate Phil, my best friend and surrogate sister Jenna, my advisors at San Jose State, my various bosses and coworkers and colleagues in sportswriting and at Santa Clara Swim Club, and I know I'm forgetting some people.

I am thankful for all the lessons I've learned here, about myself, about my two cultures, about Spanish, and about how I look at the world. I will never be the same person I was when I left the US and I really like the person I'm becoming.

I'm thankful that I can return home in 17 days, but I'm thankful for the time I have here. I'm thankful for the views of the sea from my balcony and the banana and coconut palms growing in my neighborhood. When I go home I know I'll see oak trees, gray skies, and concrete jungles. I'm enjoying the beauty of this country for as long as I can.

I am thankful for the culinary tricks I picked up here. I'm going to wow them back home with my slick Dominican cooking skills. Even though the only thing I can replicate to Dominican standards is tostones (fried plantains), I still make other Dominican dishes that are at least edible.

I am thankful for the credits I've earned here that will get me another semester closer to graduation at San Jose State and I am thankful for the future opportunities that will come thanks to what I've done here. One already has come--I was accepted into SJSU's Provost's Honors Seminar this spring, a class for the top 25 students at the school. It's by invite only and it will look great on my resume. Hopefully it will make my applications for grad school a slam dunk.

I wish all of you the best Thanksgiving with your family and friends, and don't get trampled if you do venture out on Black Friday.

Grocery boys/Los muchachos de comestibles

One of the best things about living in my apartment and my neighborhood is that I have a big kitchen and a grocery store within walking distance. I was really concerned about having a space where I could cook and a place where I could get food to cook. I love going out for meals, but after a while that takes a toll on your wallet and your figure. Plus, cooking centers me and I love making food, plus I get the fun of experimenting with Dominican recipes in my kitchen here, with the food resources to make it happen.

Is a trip to the grocery store all that different here as opposed to the United States? It depends on what your criteria is. In terms of what I shop for, what I buy, how much I buy, and where I buy it, there's not much difference. The grocery store I frequent is laid out exactly like every other grocery store I've been to in my life. I buy staples like beans, rice, meats, bread, fresh produce, herbs, spices, and oil. I buy yummy things I don't need like ice cream, sweets, and crackers. Fortunately staples are very reasonably priced here (for me, anyway) and I get a great exchange rate with the US dollar. I shop once a week and I buy enough stuff to cook meals for a week, plus stuff for breakfast, and I replenish any staples that are running low, plus things like cleaning supplies and toiletries as needed.

As for the variety of things I buy, I've found some cool options here. I found these amazing six grain rolls that are delicious with Nutella. That plus a glass of Tropicana OJ (lots of pulp) is my usual breakfast. Yogurt flavors here come in dulce de leche, guava, and chinola (passionfruit). Beans galore. GALORE! Black, red, pink, white, pigeon peas. I love beans so this is outstanding. Naturally the selection of fresh produce differs here, and most of it is dirt cheap. I love fruits and vegetables so I love this. The avocados here are three times the size of the Haas avocados in the US and they cost about 17 pesos a piece. We're talking 50 cents for an avocado that can feed three people. That's the dream, right there.

Also, items tend to be referred to as their brand or product names. Diapers aren't called such here. They're "pamper." Want matches? Ask for "fosforo." The brand of matches.

So I buy my groceries once a week, usually on Saturdays after school, or Sunday mornings if I'm feeling extremely lazy. I shop with the idea of what I want to cook in mind--no different from my plan of attack in the US. I've taken to buying split bone-in chicken breasts because it saves me at least 150 pesos and I'm a pro at deboning meat. I buy a lot of sweet peppers and onions and tomatoes and I make a lot of stewed dishes.

It's easy to take care of your business at the grocery store, too. My grocery store has a Viva payment kiosk. Viva is my cell phone provider here and I can add minutes to my phone there. It also has a photo center and you can buy cigars there, too.

Shopping and buying the groceries is only half the battle. You have to get your groceries home, too.

I live in downtown San Jose and I'm within walking distance of everything. I walk a few city blocks to the grocery store. But as you know, it's hard to get a lot of groceries home without a car. I usually recruit my boyfriend to help on grocery runs and we use this rolling cube cart thing he has. It's not very big, but we've managed to cram a lot of stuff in there using creative methods.

Here however, I have no cube and no car. The first time I went to the grocery store without a ride I wasn't sure how to get my stuff home. Indhira told me the guys who bag the groceries will push the cart to your home--for a tip, and provided that your destination is within a reasonable distance to the grocery store.

Enter the grocery boys. Most of them are young (18-20) and very attractive. It's quite satisfactory to have a cute boy schlep your stuff around.

Relax. I only look. I don't touch. I'm too old for these children, anyway.

These grocery boys have a dangerous job when they carry my groceries home. The grocery store is on one of the busiest streets in Distrito Nacional and the sidewalk has been torn up since I got here due to construction projects. The grocery boys have to walk in the street, with traffic, because the sidewalks are either blocked off or so rocky/uneven that the cart wheels won't go over them.

More than a few times, grocery boys have recklessly pushed the cart into traffic. One of them ran with the cart then rode it. I would have felt awfully guilty if he died a horrible splattery death because he was carrying my groceries home.

Last week I ended up with a grocery boy who speaks English! He goes to La Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo (the public university) and works two jobs, at the grocery store and at a hotel. He's learning English at UASD and he speaks very well. Now he insists on carrying my groceries home every time I shop there. We practice our languages together. He told me (in English) that he's studying engineering at UASD and he wants to go to school because he lives in a bad neighborhood and he wants something better for himself. As a working student myself, I sympathize.

Plus he's the cutest of all the grocery boys. Shut it. I'm allowed to enjoy the company of men. A little bit.

It's definitely different shopping here. In the US, once you pay for your shit, you're pushed out the door. Here, the typical Dominican quality of accommodating and helping people extends to the poor confused American who shows up once a week to drop a few thousand pesos on groceries.

Travelogue/Sobre viajes

I took some trips over the last several weeks and I realized I did a great disservice to my blog by not posting pictures or writing about my adventures.

I'll condense them for you by posting links to my photo albums and providing brief descriptions of my travels.

In early October I went to the beach at Boca Chica with my roommate and her friends. Boca Chica is east of Santo Domingo. There aren't any suitable beaches in Santo Domingo, so you have to go east for the best ones.

I took the pictures from this set at different intervals of the day, from afternoon to sunset. I was told that this beach was "ghetto" compared to the resort beaches in the DR. I was still in love with the sky, the sea, and the sand. Seriously this water was WARM and clear and gorgeous.

The rest of the photos are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150314886931373.337181.731621372&type=1&l=eb2c2fdb6d

The next trip I went on was an excursion with my history class to the ruins of a colonial sugar plantation and the Columbus Lighthouse.

The ruins of Engombe was a fun trip to a natural protected area not too far from Santo Domingo. The ruins included the sugar mill, the main house, the slave quarters, and the chapel.

The rest of this first set is here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150331387681373.340547.731621372&type=1&l=cdb6ad361a


Then we went to the Columbus Lighthouse, a massive museum near the Colonial Zone that celebrates Christopher Columbus' voyage to the Americas and the history, culture, and contributions of each country in the Americas. There's a ton of stuff to see there, so I'll let you read the captions on each photo.

The rest of the photos from that set are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150331471121373.340556.731621372&type=1&l=cabf035ae8

Towards the end of October I went on a boat trip to Rio Chavon and Isla Saona. Saona is an island off the southeastern coast of the DR and is a frequent stop for tourists. It is the pristine and gorgeous tropical paradise that comes to mind when thinking of the Caribbean. We also voyaged on the river and saw cool and wild stuff. It was the best parts of the DR, the untamed and natural beauty of the country.

Lots of photos are in this set: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150334868421373.341244.731621372&type=1&l=d958263b95

The next trip was a voyage to the north, to the second largest city in the country: Santiago. First we visited the Hermanas Mirabal Museum. I mentioned the sisters before here.

I met Dede Mirabal! She's the only surviving sister and she still lives in the house where the sisters lived. She's the coolest woman ever. I'm on the far left, in case you care.

We also went to Centro Leon, which unfortunately didn't allow cameras, and we went to my internship coordinator's family home in Santiago.

I met my internship coordinator's dad, who is the coolest dad ever. He grabbed a machete and led us to his plot of platano trees, where he cut off a branch of platanos for us and pulled up a yuca plant like it was nothing.

The rest of the pictures are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150340230816373.342310.731621372&type=1&l=a2e6edaa80

Last week we went to the east again, this time to La Romana and San Pedro de Macoris. Unfortunately the trip was kind of a flop. The cave we visited with cool Taino paintings didn't allow cameras. And we didn't get into Altos de Chavon because the security guard or whatever wouldn't let our car through the gate.

So our tour guide took us to San Pedro de Macoris and we saw some of the city's oldest sights. Like the first firehouse in the country.

And the symbols of the town in the middle of the city: the railroad, the sugar plantation workers, baseball players, and crabs.

And a quick trip to Baseball City, where several MLB teams have their Dominican academies.

All this and more, here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150354896646373.345487.731621372&type=1&l=9e7301c2d5

My most recent trip, yesterday in San Francisco de Macoris, was to a cacao plantation. We toured the cacao tree groves, followed the process from harvest to chocolate bar processing, watched them make chocolate in both the old fashioned way and the mechanized way, and ate chocolate.

Cacao pods! Not what you expected? Not what I expected either.

We went for lunch at a delightful place in town, where Christmas came early.

The rest of Sunday's pics are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150359310251373.346103.731621372&type=1&l=d4778c4f90

That's the extent of my travels in the DR. No other trips have been scheduled. And now we are caught up. I hope you enjoy my pictures as much as I enjoyed taking them.

Some things don't change/Algunas cosas no cambian

I visited CDN's studios in Santo Domingo this morning. CDN's motto is "the national leader in news." I don't have enough information to confirm or deny that, but I learned that CDN has exclusive rights to broadcast Major League Baseball and the Dominican Winter League games in the Dominican Republic.

I met Ambiorix Vidal, the sports producer of the network. He's very young (mid 20s, and I am very old) and a former ballplayer, and when he spoke to me of his station's mission for baseball broadcast he smiled from ear to ear. That's why I came here--to find others who understand why baseball is so beautiful.

The details of my interview with Sr. Vidal are coming up in a future article. He showed me around the CDN studios. Our tour took me back nearly 10 years, to my first year in college and my first professional aspirations in broadcast journalism.

I got to see CDN's main television sets. Studio A has setups for four desk sets, plus a green screen and a few panels for sports broadcasts. It's not the largest or most advanced set in Santo Domingo, but it has everything necessary to produce a news broadcast. They have HD cameras and their typical news broadcast uses a two-camera setup, different from the three-camera set up I was trained on back in the day.

There's also a studio for programs broadcast on CDN2, geared for women and children, and a separate studio for cooking shows. We got to watch a bit of a live cooking show broadcast in progress. We also saw the editing rooms, the control room, and the radio studios. CDN produces radio and El Caribe, a newspaper in Santo Domingo.

When I started college I was a broadcast major and I was hellbent on being the very best sports announcer there ever was. Deep down, I also wanted to be a news anchor. I met one of the anchors for CDN's news program and was reminded of why I never could have been an anchor. She was tall and gorgeous with flawless cheekbones. Now, I have some damn good bone structure too, but next to this Dominican beauty I felt like Frumpy McStumperson, all fat and squat and awkward. They don't put flops like that on the TV.

But then I remembered the real reasons why I got out of the broadcasting game. Things really haven't changed all that much in how news is produced. The major changes have to do with the switch to digital broadcasting and HD--soon to be 3D, which I'm sorry, is gimmicky as a mother and annoying for people who wear glasses to see. I HATE those tacky 3D glasses and using them every time I want to watch TV? The hell with that noise--and non-linear editing, i.e., editing via computer programs instead of physically manipulating the videotape. I started out right as the industry straddled the line between linear and non-linear editing and I was taught how to edit videotape as well as via computer programs, like Final Cut Pro.

All that means is that I could get back into the game after a few crash courses in shooting, editing, and producing video. The question is not if I could do it. The question is if I want to, and the answer is a big fat resounding NO.

Basically in broadcasting, a few people do all the work while everyone stands around watching you do it. In my production classes, I ran the board in the control room. I ran the sound board. I ran video tape. I was floor manager. I was on camera. I did everything while the other nosepickers stood around doing nothing. It was enough to throw my headset at them.

Plus half the classes were girls and you can guess their motivation for a BS in broadcast journalism: "I want to be on TV! Tee-hee!" After a while, the women who were serious about production defected. One really smart girl who had a lot on the ball and who produced solid news reports just up and left in the middle of the semester because she was tired of the bubbleheads who didn't actually do a damn thing but always were on camera because their only talent was to sit there and look pretty.

Those frustrations pushed me pretty close to the edge, but I eventually found that I enjoyed the writing side of things more than the production side. I gave script writing a try, both film and broadcast news, and I didn't care for it as much as I thought I would. By the time I was completely exhausted with broadcasting, I was offered some opportunities to write about sports on the internet--back when that was still a novel concept--and that took its own course.

I enjoy the interviewing process a lot. Sometimes I think having my own newsmagazine program a la Anderson Cooper, with interviews and stuff, would be great. I love learning new things about people, places, and events, and I love to hear the stories that come out of my questions. I get a deep sense of satisfaction from turning the interviews into articles which introduce previously untold stories. At the end of the day, I'm a much better writer than a speaker and I flourish when I write.

My visit to CDN was still a valuable and fun experience. I got to relive a time in my life that I rarely give any consideration to, and I got to see that I made the right choice after all. Those are the best moments.

Two months: lessons/Dos meces: lecciones

Two months have passed for me in the Dominican Republic. It's odd to think that next month I'll be home. It was like when the calendar turned to August and I was saying, "next month I will be in the Dominican Republic."

A month ago, when I wrote about my first 30 or so days here, I put down a series of goals and benchmarks I had for myself. I vowed to reach those benchmarks and to improve upon those goals going forward.

It's not to say that I haven't improved on handling culture shock, speaking Spanish, and polishing my professional skills. I certainly am better at all these things. But instead on focusing on the end result of improvement  I've found myself thinking more about how I got to this point. What are the lessons I have learned?

Culture shock is still a problem, but a small one. I know how to do some things here, and when I don't, I know who to ask. I see, now more than ever, that my Spanish skills and culture shock are intertwined. I can make small talk with the doorman in my building. That puts me at ease. When I am at ease I do better with the Spanish.

Last week I had an experience that showed me that culture shock will always be a factor, but that I am never truly lost here. I had to call a cab to get home from an interview meeting. I struggled with understanding the dispatcher on the phone and with telling him where I was and where I needed to go, despite rehearsing it before I left and having it written down. A woman in the elevator lobby asked me, in English, if I needed a cab. I handed her the phone and she talked to the dispatcher, and then gave me the number of the taxi unit and the color of the car--necessary details when taking a cab here. I thanked her a million times for that.

The taxi arrived shortly in front of the building and again I stumbled over my Spanish. The driver then asked, in English, if I spoke English. Somehow I got the only English speaking cab driver in the country. I don't know how that's possible. He told me about all the places he's been: Japan, Italy, New York. I'm not sure if he was telling me the truth, but he speaks English and understands me so he's my guy from now on. I have his card with his cell phone number.

The lesson I've learned from my attempts to assimilate is that I'm never going to perfectly fit in here, especially after only three months. I've also learned that it's okay. I've done well enough while I'm here with my work and seeing the sights and learning from my experiences. I can't expect a complete cultural transfusion when I'm so deeply embedded in my native culture.

I still get frustrated with Spanish but it's becoming less of an issue. When I hit the wall last month with Spanish I went back and studied my beginning Spanish textbook. I realized that wouldn't help me but with spot checks on grammar, conjugations, and vocab. That book wasn't going to tell me how to converse with the doorman or give directions to a pedestrian on the street corner. I have to do those things myself.

I do, sort of. I mess up words. Sometimes the people I talk to fill in words that I miss. I can't say that my Spanish is any better technically, but it's better functionally. Now I really don't care if I mess up. I just speak and let the rest fall into place. Somehow that works better than being flustered and worried all the time.

Remember that Spanish class I said I was going to attend? That plan fizzled because I suffered from bad insomnia through most of October, due to stress here and stress at home. I couldn't fall asleep until 5am most nights, and the night before my current events midterm I was up all night until 730am before I took a quick nap and got up for class at 11am. Thank god I got a B on the test. The Spanish class begins at 8am three days a week and by the time I'd fall asleep I either slept through my alarm or just couldn't get out of bed.

But again, I think those classes would be a glorified version of me with my Spanish textbook. It's stuff I already know. We can conjugate verbs to our hearts' content but that doesn't really help us in real world usage.

My professional skills have been touched in ways I didn't consider before. As a journalist in the United States, I enjoy the widest freedoms and the strictest responsibilities to tell the truth in every story I produce. Journalists in the DR adhere to those responsibilities too...at times. What is public knowledge in the newspaper about an education scandal or embezzlement or police corruption is met with a warning to shush it in conversation.

One of my stories was rejected because it was deemed too negative to run. I take pride in my work and I stick to telling the truth without bias. My work here is no different from my work in the US. The rejected story was written with great care, taking different perspectives from trusted sources, using public knowledge from newspaper stories.

It concerned a controversial topic, so it was rejected.

I also need to be fair in describing the capacity of my work here. I am writing for an organization rather than a news source. Organizations require more of a public relations style for writing. PR doesn't tell lies, but they don't tell what's wrong with a situation. It's writing to build publicity. My background is news/editorial writing. There was a culture clash in this situation.

But the situation taught me a few things. One, that journalism is a lot different over here. Two, because of that difference, I should respect and value my job in the US, and I should respect the way the trade functions over here.

The biggest lesson I learned from this is that working for organizations requires a different skill set from mine. If I'm going to be working for MLB (or another sports organization here or in the US), chances are I will need PR writing skills. I've decided to take some PR classes at San Jose State when I come home. It never hurts to know how to do lots of things. Maybe I'll stick in news/editorial writing. Maybe I won't. The point is I want to be ready for the next turn my life takes.

Here's the article that did run. I'm quite proud of it: http://interdominternships.blogspot.com/2011/11/education-in-dominican-republic-part.html

I plan on writing a post every day this week, including photos and descriptions of the trips and excursions I've been on and what it's like to go grocery shopping here. If you have questions or want me to write about something I haven't touched on here, let me know!

Don't drink the water/No beba el agua

Water is a big deal in the Dominican Republic. The country is still a developing nation, meaning that large portions of the population go without running water in their homes. It's not unusual to go to a home, even in Santo Domingo, and see a giant plastic barrel of water in the bathroom.

But this post is not about water resources in general in the DR. I'm going to write about drinking water: cultural attitudes, access, pricing, and other observations I have about a very necessary resource.

Let's get the big joke out of the way. You can't drink the tap water here. Just like in Mexico. At best you'll get the runs, and at worst you'll get cholera. Our neighbors to the west in Haiti are going through a horrific cholera epidemic and it's hit parts of the DR too. You can't cook with it and you can't even brush your teeth with it.

Drinking water is sold everywhere here, in 20 ounce bottles and in five gallon jugs, and all sizes in between. You can call the colmado and they'll deliver a jug to your door. We have an apparatus in the kitchen to hold the jug and make it easy to pour.

The five gallon jugs run between 50-60 pesos a pop, or about US$1.30. About what you pay at those crystal water vending machines I've seen around town in the US.

An article in a newspaper here (Hoy) published a story last week about a consumer right's group calling for drinking water distributors and bottlers to charge no more than 46 pesos per five gallon jug. The article stated that by selling the jugs for 46 pesos, supermarkets were still making 23% profit, but stores charge the 50-60 pesos I mentioned and make more. Blue Planet Water Management, a major water brand here, prints their price on each bottle: 46 pesos. And still stores and merchants jack up the cost to 50-60 pesos. The consumer group warned that sanctions would be applied to merchants who violate the plan to keep costs down.

This may not seem like a big deal, but consider this: when the water you get out of the tap can kill you, the water distribution and bottlers and merchants have you by the short hairs. I fall short of saying that tap water here is free. Utilities are still hit-or-miss in the DR and consumers still have to pay the full amounts of their bill if a service is shut off or otherwise not working properly due to the utility provider's error or some other problem not caused by the consumer.

Providing clean drinking water is essential for public health. End of story. Dominicans are forced to pay for their water. The alternative for them is severe illness and/or death.

On the flip side, I choose not to drink the tap water in San Jose because it smells like metal and tastes worse. It's disgusting, but I won't get bowel-rending diarrhea from it. I don't pay for water utilities at my apartment in the states. The landlord covers that cost for me. I go with bottled water whenever I can, usually in the gallon jugs by Crystal Geyser because they have the handy handle. But at the end of the pay period when my money is so low I can barely afford Top Ramen and there's no bottled water, I will drink the tap water because it's the best I have. I would never use bottled water for cooking or brushing my teeth in the States, either. That seems like a waste to me.

I discovered that San Lorenzo, a tiny town a little bit north of San Jose where my boyfriend's family lives, has the cleanest, freshest, best tasting tap water in the world. Whenever we can, we go up to his parents' places and fill up a ton of jugs to bring home. Free water! Good water! You'd do it too.

Dominicans don't have a choice. While I am here, neither do I. I did some quick math. Indhira and I go through about a jug of water a week here. Sometimes we can convince the internship coordinator to send water delivery service to our apartment (meaning we don't pay for it) and sometimes we can't, so we have to call the colmado ourselves. I estimate we (Indhira, the internship coordinator, or I) pays 60 pesos per jug, once a week for 15 weeks. That works out to spending a total of 900 pesos on water since I got here, about US$24 for water.

There's a cultural component to bottled water that doesn't exist here. In the US, I know as many people who buy and drink bottled water as those who do not. Not because of taste reasons, because we have Brita pitchers and those filters you can hook up to your sink--some even have flavors attached to them. There is a great cultural divide over the plastic bottle that holds your water.

You probably remember this if you saw An Inconvenient Truth. Those plastic bottles don't biodegrade. Nobody recycles. Blah blah blah. Some opportune environmentalists have taken it upon themselves to scream at you for toting around a regular old Dasani bottle instead of a reusable water bottle or small jug. My boss at the pool vetoed buying the crates of 20 ounce water bottles to spare the planet from the proliferation of mindless plastic. We got these awkward metal canteen things that don't go in the dishwasher and I hate them. They make the water taste odd. What we do in the name of sustainability...

At any rate, I actually do reuse my plastic water bottles and jugs. Since I'm in the water a few days a week and screaming my head off at my students, I need to keep my pipes hydrated. I will buy a liter Dasani bottle or a Smartwater bottle at the grocery or drug store, but I will continue to refill it with water as I drink it up. I use that bottle for quite a while. Same with the Crystal Geyser jugs, as I mentioned before. But since I contribute to the proliferation of plastic by buying a bottle of water about once a week because I inevitably forget mine somewhere, I suppose I'm part of the problem.

I'd like to see one of them come over here and see the sheer volume of bottled water. Kinda makes the problem in the US seem not so bad, doesn't it?

Revolution/Revolucion

I am sitting on my balcony tonight, long after the sun has gone down. The only lights here are the street lamps, that are far below my view. I found there's enough room out here for one chair and I was in a sentimental mood, ripe for a heavy duty reflection period on a pleasant evening. You would be too if you had consistent mid 80s weather the week before Halloween like I do.

I passed the halfway mark of my time here this weekend. It doesn't quite balance out to 15 weeks here, but October 23 was basically the division point for me. I've faced significant strife in my personal life outside of my struggles with assimilating and learning Spanish and I allowed the negativity from that to poison the first seven weeks of my time here. I also gave into fear and spent my time inside my apartment instead of going out and trying to live.

I'm sitting on my balcony tonight to take in the beauty of a city that I fell in love with before I even truly knew the city. I have about seven weeks left here. I will not repeat the same mistakes of the first half of my time here. I spent that time wishing for the day when I could go home and wanting the days to go by faster.

I can see and feel the changes in my life, outlook, and attitude that resulted from coming here. For years I felt like my life in the States was tedious and boring. I yearned for a change. I wanted a wild adventure or a sweeping revolution to take over my life. I was ready for it. I just didn't know or expect it, nor did I know or expect how to handle the revolution.

I dragged the chair out here after weeks of thinking about doing it because I realized that I don't have much time left here. I'm not going to waste time thinking of how I wasted my previous days here. I'm not going to allow regret to take hold of me, either. The best way to do that is to take every day as it is given to me: gifts from a country and a culture that loves me as much as I love it. I came here begging the Dominican Republic to teach me its secrets and stories and the country and the people have responded by putting me at ease with Spanish and by giving me the best it has to offer.

I am living the revolution I prayed for. I can't return to the United States as the person I was when I left. I have exactly what I asked for, even if it feels completely different and not at all what I expected. It's terrifying to contemplate that but it's the good kind of fear, the kind that motivates and inspires.

I still want to return to my life in the States. I miss the people and things I left behind there. But I want to make each day here worthy of the revolution.

I made a promise to myself to go out and try something I haven't done or haven't tried by myself this week. Simple things like going to the colmado for a cold drink or going for a walk on a street I haven't been to. Talking to people in Spanish and not relying on English. Stuff like that.

Like everything else in life, I started with the best intentions. A sore foot from my beach trip (which will be featured in a future post) and a crapload of work due for school, my internship, and some other projects (again, forthcoming in a future post) derailed those plans for Monday and Tuesday.

The inspiration behind the week of new things was simple. I went to pay my phone bill on Saturday after my current events midterm, all by myself for the first time. I usually have my roommate Indhira with me to translate or help. I didn't get every word correct, but I spoke well enough to make myself understood and I made small talk. Very small talk. The girl at the phone counter said "¿tienes calor?" (is it hot?) to me and I responded "tan calor." (it's so hot) Then she told me "tengo frio" (it's cold) because of the air conditioner in the building.

I felt so good after that success that I went to McDonald's (shut up, it's good and cheap, two things I value here) and ordered lunch by myself, again successfully. While I ate my food, I saw an older lady who could have been my grandmother. She wore a smart bright blue pantsuit and every accessory coordinated perfectly: blue bag, blue shoes, blue jewelry. She even wore her hair in the same beehive style as my grandmother's signature look. I almost started crying in the McDonald's because I felt like she was there with me even for a minute. She would be so damn proud of me here doing this insane life-changing shit and I miss having the chance to tell her about what I'm doing here. I felt like I had that connection to her, however brief it was.

Then her hot grandson joined her at the table and I was snapped out of that reverie. The point of that vignette is that I would have missed that small but significant sign from the universe that made me believe what I am doing here is right and good, if I hadn't had the balls to go out and fail at Spanish and learn and try. It took balls just to come here. The revolution has begun. I have the balls to see it through and win the ultimate victory: a new, awesome version of myself.

I did a good job of making this balcony evening and my outpouring of emotions sound gorgeous, romantic, and empowering. Then a giant moth attacked me on the balcony. I suppose the insects are staging their own revolution.

A tree grows in Santo Domingo/Un árbol crece en Santo Domingo

I've been here for six weeks and just recently I started to feel homesick.

The struggles and fear I had when I first got here were related to not fitting in and feeling like an outsider. I didn't want to go home but I felt like I couldn't cut it here.

Now I just plain miss California. I miss the rhythm of my old life. I miss working at the pool. I miss Mexican food. Sometimes I think I miss cooler weather--at least, cuddling up in a blanket and a hoodie and drinking hot chocolate with Kahlua.

This week I went to the mall to buy new shoes and a new dress. The mall was huge and not much different from malls I've been to in America. There was even a Payless Shoe Source store. Here, the name is a misnomer. They charge 2250 pesos for a pair of basic black Mary Janes--that's around US$50. In the States, I patronize Payless because, well, I pay less for shoes there.

I found a good pair of black leather flats that are super comfy at a Dominican shoe store next to Payless. It was a throwback to shoe stores I don't see in the States, where they have dedicated shoe salespeople helping you find what you want, suggesting styles and sizes, and bringing the shoes to you. I spent 700 pesos (roughly US$20) and I couldn't be happier.

Clothes shopping was more standard. I gravitated to sales racks at the stores with cute ladies' clothes and found a nice black dress for 700 pesos.

The most impressive thing about the mall was the huge grocery store attached to it. Appropriately named Jumbo, it's a two-story grocery like a Super Target and it has extensive areas for the bakery, butcher/meat,   fresh produce, liquor, and deli.

I wish we had a mall with a grocery store in the States. I'd be all over that.

In my current events class, my prof talked about our individual cultural identities. She said you can be a mango tree growing in the Dominican Republic and you could be transplanted to different soil anywhere in the world. You could thrive in the new soil, but you're still a mango tree.

It goes along with the point I made before. I still have an American brain. I want the knowledge to see things from different perspectives and I've taken the steps to begin that education. But I'm still the tree that grew up in California, so I'll always come back to what I know as that tree. I want the freedom to thrive in other places. I'm not finished growing yet.

Upper class twit/La gila de clase alta

I stole the title of this blog post from a longtime friend on LiveJournal, where I used to blog years ago. That blog was pretty much the same as this one, except more profane and whinier. If that makes this blog boring, I apologize. I had to draw the line somewhere to make my personal life fit for human consumption.

I have changed since I arrived in the Dominican Republic. I haven't undergone any profound personal growth. My Spanish is improving at a snail's pace. I've managed to keep my articles around 500 words--I'm sorry, I just can't handcuff myself to the exact word limit. You'll get 515 words and that's the best I can do. Damn this concise writing nonsense.

Instead, I have received a new identity. Here I am an upper class white person.

Those are odd labels for me, as I don't identify with either quality. A friend once described me as "bootstrappy"--you know, pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Coming from nothing and working hard to get somewhere. Plus I never identified with being white, other than laughing at the blog Stuff White People Like: http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/. I always considered myself a Mexican wandering through a multi-racial American landscape where my last name was the key to acceptance. I attend a state university, financed completely by loans and grants as I can't afford to pay for my education out of pocket, and I work two jobs to make ends meet. I live in a hole of an apartment and I had to sell my car before I came here because I couldn't afford the repairs to keep it going.

Here, I live in a gorgeous spacious apartment in a nice neighborhood with a stunning view of the Caribbean Sea. I have a doorman and security guards who greet me as I come and go. I have cable with 400+ channels and HBO still has the same six movies on every week. Step your game up, HBO.

It's Monday, which means it's cleaning day. Two women come to clean my apartment every Monday morning. They even change the sheets for me. This is not something I'm used to, and I'm still not comfortable with it. Part of me is resistant because I've always cleaned up after myself and done my own chores, and the other part of me is a relentless control freak who gets nauseated by the idea of strangers touching my stuff and doing chores for me because I'm sure they'll do it all wrong. It keeps me up at night.

I don't have school today so I'm sitting around typing this and watching the women clean my apartment. I can't say I'll ever get used to the idea of someone cleaning up after me.

I attend a prestigious university. As I mentioned before, UNIBE is one of the best schools in the nation. I feel a sense of satisfaction that I can go here after Stanford turned me down. Who cares if nobody knows what UNIBE is? The point is that I was good enough for a top school somewhere. It's good enough for me.

In my brief time at UNIBE, I get the impression that it's a school for rich kids. I'm not knocking the university or the student body, but my friend at school will corroborate my story. Yes, I made a friend. Hooray for me. She's smart and cool and for some reason likes spending time with me.

On the walk home from school last week, I looked down at my arms under my parasol and saw white skin. My tan from the pool is fading now that I'm no longer in the sun 24/7. I walk with a parasol when I go out too, so I don't get sunburned.

All right, so it's a stupid blue umbrella I got from the bus stop ages ago. It was free. I'm trying to stay within the lines of this whole upper class thing. Parasol it is.

My golden brown tan is almost gone. Now the only clue to my Latina identity is my last name. I'm white now. I'm definitely white among the darker skinned people here. Anyone can see it and assume I'm at best a snobby European descendant, or at worst a dumb ass-backwards American. Woe.

My upper class status will fade once I return to the States, where once again I will be broke and Mexican. Here, having a little money and the privilege to attend university bumps me up the ladder. It's made me change my perspective of social labels. One small change has led to an enormous shift for me. I can be upper class for a few months, but deep down, I'll always be a twit.

I thought the only things I'd learn about here were Spanish and baseball. The passive lessons are just as valuable.

Some things are universal/Algunas cosas son universales

One of the first lessons I learned in my global studies classes at San Jose State was that things are universal. I took that to mean that we share the world as a system. Economies work together (and sometimes don't, shutting out poorer economies, but hey, that's just business and it proves my point). McDonald's is everywhere. We even have cognates between languages; words that are spelled and pronounced the same way (or very close to it) and that have the same meaning. Like universal.

Last night I learned that some things, like hanging out, don't differ much over here. Indhira and I went to the 'hood, pretty far from our comfy bubble in the nice part of town, to kick it with some of her friends.

Getting there was an adventure in and of itself. Traffic was hell, though not for the usual reasons of a million people rushing in opposite chaotic directions. We drove right into a parade/rally supporting presidential candidate Danilo Medina. People were crammed into the beds of pickup trucks, yelling their support and waving purple flags. Some whizzed by on motorcycles with flags. There was a marching band and everything.

I'll break here to explain a few things about Dominican politics. Purple is the color of Danilo's party, Partido de la Liberación Dominicana. It's basically a two-party system here, with Danilo and Hipólito Mejía representing Partido Revolucionario Dominicano. The party's color is white. And instead of referring to candidates by their last names, they are referred to by their first names. 

I really wanted to take a picture of the rally/parade, but it was all asses and elbows in terms of how packed the streets were, and people here aren't exactly demure. One guy reached into the car window to (presumably) shake my hand. I just gave him a shy smile and kept my hands in my lap. Whipping out a camera in that mess would have meant I come home down one camera. Plus we were moving at a crawl, and I wouldn't get good image quality as we bumped over the poorly paved streets.

We arrived at a colmado, which I described once before as a corner store type thing. This colmado had music blaring (salsa, bachata, and merengue), people flowing in and out, and tons of people hanging out on the sidewalk in front. There was a table for dominoes. Everyone had beer. Indhira brought her hookah. We danced--well, they danced actual salsa and merengue steps. I just kinda shook my ass all around. It was a lot like the parties I attend in the States, just with more dancing and better music.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. The entire neighborhood turned out, from kids to grandparents. We dined on some street food, particularly this delicious thing made with green platanos and hot sauce that was to die for. 

It was like this on almost every corner and every street in that neighborhood. Neighbors all know each other and hang out. It's a stark contrast from my building in the States; I live in a renovated Victorian house that's been split into four apartments. I've met two of the other apartment tenants (two couples) only once and all I know of the other tenants is that they're complete jackasses who slam doors and scream swear words in the middle of the night, and who call the cops on our cable guy for being parked in a red zone. 

I digress. It had a point. Americans are jerks, Dominicans are cool. Let's continue.

The whole evening was so chill. It was perfect for me, to get out and relax and see a side of the city that I haven't yet seen. I didn't come to the Dominican Republic to sit in my room in my fancy apartment. I came to see what this country is all about.

I didn't take a lot of pictures from last night, mostly because I don't want to treat the people here like they're part of some National Geographic documentary. I respect them enough not to run around with a camera and snap pictures like I'm at the zoo. 

The whole evening was the best night since I got here, and I'm glad I got to go out and see more of the country I still know so little about. I also took a lesson from the night. I'm going to go out and live. I will be bad at Spanish.  Nike put it best when they said, "just do it." I just did it last night, and I ended up having the time of my life.

Epy and me/Epy e yo

I'm writing this on a Saturday evening, sitting on the couch in my living room watching clouds roll in from the east. I can tell when the storms are coming; my view of the sea gets hazy when the cloud cover comes in.


It's a perfect evening for stories. The best story of my two weeks here, and possibly of my entire voyage here, was meeting Epy Guerrero. I knew of Epy before I came to the D.R., although I did not entirely understand what he did here. I knew he was a baseball scout and was a tremendous resource for my research.


Upon meeting Epy, I leaned that he is the most influential scout of the last 40 years of baseball in North America. He built the Toronto Blue Jays teams that won back-to-back World Series titles in 1992-1993, signed and developed numerous stars in Major League Baseball for Toronto, Milwaukee, and Houston, and continues his work as an independent scout in the D.R. today. Among his pupils and others who benefitted from his work: Carlos Delgado, Tony Fernandez, Damaso Garcia, Pat Borders, Jose Mesa, Roberto Alomar, Alcides Escobar, and Pat Gillick. Yep, Gillick the Hall of Fame executive. Gillick made it to Cooperstown because of the embarrassment of prospect riches presented to him by Epy's scouting work. Epy is in the Dominican Sports Hall of Fame and has received many scouting awards.


I met him for the first time at his training complex, far removed from the city and into an untamed world I could only imagine before. We drove on an unpaved road and over a dangerous land bridge to make it to the baseball grounds. Before this my most harrowing reporting assignment was running up and down the concrete stairs at San Jose Municipal Stadium in California. Traipsing through the jungle and maneuvering over the scary land bridge is my version of crossing the first threshold, if you're following this story as a version of The Hero's Journey. It kinda fits.


Immediately I was led to one of the diamonds on the grounds, where a baseball game was already in progress. You can tell where my priorities are, because my gaze was drawn to the tall, thin right-hander on the mound, throwing harder than I can recall seeing in person and popping the catcher's mitt loudly. He had a 3/4 arm slot and good late movement on his breaking stuff. 


(I don't know how to simplify that for the non-baseball inclined readers, aside from saying the pitcher threw impressive fastballs, has a semi-low release point for his pitches, and has a good curveball. I fancy myself a scout. Just be glad I didn't refer to his slider as a "slide piece.")


Epy introduced everyone around him before he introduced himself. I met some coordinators at the camp, some assistants, and a scrawny yellow lab, whom Epy introduced as another advisor.


I was asked to sit down and explain why I was here, something that made me really uneasy. Not because I have problems talking about myself. If you've read anything prior to this entry, you know that. I learned a long time ago never to turn your back on a baseball game, especially not when the pitcher throws so hard I could hear the ball whistling through the air. That's a good way to get a knot on your head.


Epy took me to the house on the property, decorated in lush furniture and family photographs. Then we went to a room in the back of the house, where he took me on a tour of his 40 years in the business. The walls were covered in pictures of Epy and his kids, articles about Epy's work, and plaques honoring him for his kids and his work. The room had trophies and awards and memorabilia on almost every inch of the floor. 


It was the greatest room in the history of mankind.


Epy supplemented the tour of the room with stories attached to almost everything I stood gawking at. He bubbled over with excitement showing me everything. He gave me several articles and pictures to take home with me. I earned his respect by correctly identifying some of the men in his pictures. 


When we got down to brass tacks, the real reasons why I'm here, aside from roll around in baseball and call it academic research, Epy gave me almost more than I can handle. Almost. There's already a ton of information to sift through and we've only met twice.


He invited me to his home in Santo Domingo for the following day, to celebrate his wife's birthday. This time it was a lot different. More informal. I was integrated into the family. I met two of Epy's sons, who both work as scouts in the D.R. They fed me asopao, a ridiculously rich Dominican stew that's sort of like pozole. And then we took a tour of another room of Epy's stuff, where I snapped pictures and got more stories.


You can see the pictures from Wednesday afternoon here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150288940411373.332029.731621372&l=182ded7084&type=1


It was a huge departure from how I usually work. In my usual journalism assignments in the States, I spend about five minutes with my interview subject. We meet in a public place in the open, usually the dugout. And that's only in the case of in-person interviews, which I'd say I do maybe half the time. I've always felt it necessary to keep a distance from those I talk to in my work.


This time, I chatted with Epy over asopao for over an hour. He introduced me to everyone at the party, all his family members, and told them who I was, where I was from, and what I was doing here. He took extra care to tell his grandchildren that I am American; some of his grandkids speak English fluently. 


The whole thing made me a little uncomfortable, because I was out of my element. I'm an efficient machine when it comes to banging out a story, but when it comes to getting to the heart of a really good story like what Epy can teach me, I guess I need more work on that.


I also felt awkward because I have trouble being integrated into a group. Like I talked about in previous posts, I don't understand why someone I just met would be so kind to me and eager to know me. I had an instant big loud boisterous Dominican family on Wednesday, and I was there just doing my job.


Epy is like the awesome Dominican abuelo I never had. I can tell his naturally a vivacious person, but I could tell he was eager and excited to talk to me about everything he knew.


I'm not discussing details of what he told me here. I'm saving that for my articles, which will be published in early October, most likely. They will have qualities of both academic and journalistic writing. I'll post links to those works when they are published.


As I wrote this entry, the rain started falling. It's a gentle rain and the air is cool and fresh outside. The moisture on the palms lining my street shine under the street lamps. It doesn't relate to my story of how I met Epy Guerrero at all, but I felt like it was a nice way to end my day with you.

Something (really) old/Algo (muy) viejo

Monday was my trip to La Zona Colonial, the section of Santo Domingo that was the first settlement in the Americas. I had to resist the urge to title this post First!


I took a million pictures, running around like a tourist fool for the first time since I got here. I have a public link to the Facebook album here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150286566621373.331592.731621372&l=4c8d415b83&type=1

We took a walking tour with a few different guides, all who spoke Spanish at my insistence. I didn't understand our main tour guide completely, but I got about 2/3 of what he said. Our guide for the Catedral  de Santa María de la Encarnación was easier to understand and I learned a ton of cool stuff about the joint. It was the first cathedral built in the Americas. Even to a non-Catholic, that place is stunning.

I didn't catch everything that was taught to me. Instead of breaking my ass to figure out the who/what/where/when/why of nearly 200 photos, I brought the pictures up to my history prof at UNIBE. He loved my idea of sharing the pics in class and discussing the sites. I figured if anyone knew what was going on, he would. It's a future class project. That's turning a frown in the form of a still crippling language barrier upside down.

I shouldn't say that my inability to communicate freely in Spanish is crippling. On the contrary. I feel like I understand more and more each day. I'm to the point now where I can listen to most people speak and I can hear the words they say. I don't know what each word means, but it's not just a jumble of impossibly fast noise anymore. I suppose I'm in the word salad stage. 

As for my speaking, it's getting there. Over the weekend I went to the coast with my roommate, where we drank beer, ate fine food, and I took pictures of the Caribbean Sea like a noob. Those pictures are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150284665336373.331083.731621372&l=07420e3668&type=1

On our walk home we stopped by the ice cream shop near our place and met a cute boy working there. Quite honestly I'm surprised that I haven't met that many cute boys here. This boy working at the ice cream shop took an interest in me because I swim. He told me he swims, too. I told him that Indhira does doggy paddle (by mimicking the dog paddle motion with my hands) and he asked "¿perrito?" Then when I asked him for some vanilla ice cream he told me to get something better, to which I said "no es aburrido" (it's not boring).

I guess I'm getting good enough with Spanish if I can tease my roommate and defend my ice cream choices.

Anyway the ice cream here is amazing and puts everything in the US to shame. SHAME. I had tres leches ice cream from Helados Bon. Bon also offers hand packed pints with three flavor options; I got chocolate brownie, tres leches, and vanilla. Jesus Joseph and Mary. Best ice cream ever.

As much fun as I had over the weekend and on Monday I can't think of anything except my visit to Sr. Epifiano Guerrero, the most respected and successful baseball scout in the Dominican Republic. I was whisked away on the freeway to his training complex to the north of the city to get an introduction to what I'm really doing in this country.

After only a few hours with Epy, I was extremely humbled by his body of work, as well as his enthusiasm and interest in me. He's like the cool Dominican abuelo I never had. He pulled out all kinds of old articles and pictures to show me and was bubbling with excitement the whole time.

It wouldn't do justice to the magnitude of this connection to write about one afternoon with Epy. I'm going back to his home, also on the complex grounds, tomorrow to learn more and celebrate his father's birthday. El padre is 100 years old. I don't know how these Dominicans do it. Must be all the Helados Bon.

People are people/La gente es la gente

I planned this post for a later date with the intent of observing more about Dominican culture and the way people behave with one another and with me. I don't think I need more time here to understand that Dominicans are pretty cool people.

In my week here, with 14 weeks ahead of me here, I've seen the best and worst of human nature between my two worlds. In America, I've experienced first-hand the worst of human nature: selfishness, rudeness, and hatred. In the DR, I've experienced first-hand the best of human nature: compassion, generosity, and acceptance. My peers in my home nation have treated me badly. My peers here treat me kindly, and they barely know me.

I have to admit to being foolish in thinking that the people in the Dominican Republic would be different from those in the US. I've found that here, we're all just people. We work. We attend school. We dance, laugh, eat, speak, and do everything that humans do. We share a world. So we're not so different in that, but we're different in how we relate to one another and how we treat each other.

I've experienced profound disrespect in the US. Someone's always there to tell me I'm wrong, with scorn. Someone's always there to put me down. In a word, haters. And yes, they are going to hate.

This is a stark contrast to the Dominicans I've met. I make mistakes daily here, beyond just the language. They're here to help me when I get words wrong or when I don't understand how to do something here. In America, there's a myth that there are no stupid questions. Rude responses to questions can leave you feeling stupid for asking, and deter you from seeking help again. Often times, seeking help is seen as a weakness in America.

Here, no question is stupid. A question is just another human interaction, a chance for connection and communication. Dominican kindness is abundant.

What blows my mind is that in the States, I am well known for what I can do. Especially in my work and my academics. And yet I've run into more than a few people who refuse to believe that I'm credible, or who behave like I'm an ignorant worm because I don't know all the things that they know. The Dominicans I've met don't even know what I can do. They don't know that I love baseball and I'm here to learn their game from them. They don't know that the beating of my heart moves in time with Latin jazz. They don't know that I'm fascinated by this region and if they'll let me, I'll dedicate my life to understanding them better and making the world understand them better. But they will know. Or maybe they already know why I'm here. Maybe they can see the eagerness to learn and to embrace a new culture and they're already responding to that.

I know that it's not perfect here. I'm sure if I looked hard enough, I could find examples of hatred and selfishness. But what I know is, I just be myself wherever I go. In the States, that's not good enough. Here, it's exactly what they want and need from me.

It leaves me to wonder why I should go back to a place that doesn't want me. Or, why I should go back to a place that only wants me so the people can feed on my fear and anger.

I'll tell you, if it weren't for the fact that I have a good job, a journalism career, my boyfriend, and a year-long lease in the States, I wouldn't be breaking my neck to go back. But those leases are a bitch to get out of.