Sometimes, life has other plans.

A brief posting, and then more updates to follow:

After a brief weekend getaway to Bayahibe, which I will write about at a later date, we returned home to the apartment in Santo Domingo. As we got closer to the apartment, we recognized buildings and streets, and Maggie pointed out how cool it was that it felt a little bit like coming home. We knew where we were, and just two weeks ago the streets had been unfamiliar and new. Now they had become a part of our lives.

Unfortunately, upon return to the apartment, I learned of the passing of a very good friend of mine from high school. Unable to process how a twenty-six year old, talented, loyal, and incredibly warm young woman could suddenly be gone, I felt very confused and stuck. Steph, who had helped me understand what it means to be loyal to others and who had helped me learn to be good to myself, had died suddenly over the weekend. With Clare still visiting, I sorted through options, battling a sense of fear and a paralyzing sadness, and found that I could go home quickly to be with family and friends. And though it didn't feel right to leave, I knew I couldn't stay. Even today, now that I am home, I can't think of anything but her and I don't think I could have learned much Spanish in school, or focused in a little classroom in a little desk talking about basic level Spanish topics when I knew my heart was elsewhere. I struggled with the decision to leave, but Maggie came through.

"Isn't this what happens with our students? Sometimes they just disappear for weeks, or stop coming, and we wonder what it is that could be so important, and why they are missing what we think is more important, when really there are more important things? We think our school work is the most important work, so necessary and so vital, and we get annoyed when students disappear, but when we step back and ask what happened, what becomes clear? That life has other plans, sometimes, and we have to be understanding of that, too. Go home. Go be with your family."

For my last night in Santo Domingo, we went to our favorite restaurant at the Plaza Espana, and soaked up the evening. A sudden flamenco show took over our restaurant, giving me one last taste of the sounds and the spirit of the city. There was so much that I didn't see yet and I didn't do yet, thinking that I had so much more time. I'll have to return. In the meantime, Maggie and Alexis can send visual updates, and I will do what I can to support the rest of their journey from home. I remain tremendously grateful for the opportunity from Fund For Teachers to go to experience Santo Domingo. Below, pictures from our weekend in Bayahibe, and our last dinner together.

The beaches of Bayahibe

The beaches of Bayahibe

Pura Tasca

Flamenco dancer in action

Flamenco dancing

Team Santo Domingo

On the night before the exam...

Tomorrow we have our first language exam, to see if we're ready to move on to the next level of Spanish. To me, the entire thing seems a bit forced: regardless of how you've progressed, you must take a test every two weeks. If you pass, you move on. If you fail, the plan is seemingly to repeat the exact same course through a review. The quality of education hasn't suggested to me that this will be a "re-teach in a new way" sort of situation, but a girl can hope. I will say this: teaching teachers must be the worst. We are demanding, critical, and always think we know more efficient and effective ways for students to take in information. The grammar classes at the language school are very traditional, even if the class sizes are small. We are explained a concept, told to try it in an exercise, go over the exercise, and then move on. Can you tell why I'm hesitant to imagine the re-teach will be effective? And why I think teachers are the worst to teach?

Because here I am, the night before the exam, completely unmotivated to study. I'm unconvinced I can absorb all of the information that I've been taught, and I'm genuinely unsure that I'm ready to move onto the next level either way. I don't believe all of the grammar tenses can be memorized in two weeks, even if they are understood, and I don't think cramming the night before will convey the real learning I am doing here.

What is the real learning then?
The moments of coming out of my shell, trying to explain to the cashier in the little market that I'm looking for a soda, and yes it comes in a green bottle, and yes it is made by Canada Dry, and no it is not Sprite (all because I do not know the word for ginger).
The moments of listening to the women in the nail salon switch between Spanish and Haitian Creole, welcoming customers, catching up on local gossip, complimenting each other's clothing, congratulating each other for big news, and observing as the entire salon watches the little girl (who could not have been more than 4) who came in silently to observe, touch a few things, look at women's nails, and sneak away with an unused plastic box for her two pesos.
The opportunity to show Clare, who has safely and happily arrived here, around the Zona Colonial, and show her where I like to eat lunch (although I've been on a purely white rice diet since Monday.... I could write a guidebook to the best white rice in SD), and which streets are the prettiest, and how you must not accept a first price in a tourist shop because they think you don't know how to bargain.
The sense of joy that I feel in a taxi, while the driver is blasting a song that I don't know or can't understand but he is singing along so fiercely that I too want to sing.
The sense of familiarity that is growing in me with the phrases I can use, the questions I can ask, the streets that I walk, and the space we call our home.

So I justify it to myself that I came here to not just to learn Spanish inside of a school, but also to take in a scene, take on the challenge of expressing myself in a new language in a new place, and take on new opportunities. All of this has led us as a team to take on a new opportunity that has been presented to us by a teacher at our school: a weekend trip to Bayahibe, to explore Taino caves and get some sun. A new adventure awaits us when we get back, I am sure, and all of the lessons will come with it.

Saying "Si"

Without going into too much detail, I've been suffering from some stomach trouble for the past 36 hours. We were warned of this by our doctors and our friends; although I've done the best I can to not drink the water and not eat anything too adventurous, it was bound to happen at some point. As a result, I've been pretty cranky.

I woke up this morning unable to fathom going to school; Spanish seemed too hard, and school seemed too far, and I had a pounding heading that was certainly symptomatic of my dehydration. I stayed in bed and tried to sleep while Alexis and Maggie went off to school. However, the noise of the road and my natural restlessness forced me out of bed in the late morning. I decided that even though I couldn't really imagine myself taking in much Spanish, I really couldn't waste an entire day in bed, sick or not. So I dressed. I walked myself to school, warming up my brain in Spanish to try to prepare for class. When I arrived, I was greeted by a private tutor, who took me into a small classroom and began to speak to me. I emphasize speak to me rather than with me, because my brain couldn't process anything. When she first greeted me, I needed everything slowed down and I explained I had been sick and would need extra time to think. Patient and warm, she agreed to go slow, asked me about my ailments and then began the conversation questions.

"What do you think is the difference between the Latino family and the European family?"
"What do you think is the difference between Latino youth and European youth?"
"What do you think about single mothers? Are their lives hard?"
"Should women work equally as men?"

And so today, apparently, was large sweeping generalizations day at our school.  While there's certainly merits in discussing cultural differences, I was uncomfortable (and not just because of my stomach). I'm not sure if the nuanced ways to discuss these matters are impossible with such low-level Spanish, or if there's an agenda of answers that the teachers expect from us, or if it's just that these conversations never feel like they can create a deeper level of cultural understanding (perhaps it is all of them).

But I stuck it out, trying to stick as closely to my beliefs and explain them as well as I could while also trying to keep my stomach in check. The further into the conversation I got, the more exhausted I felt. My teacher would patiently repeat a question, try it in a new way, and eventually I'd stumble through an answer. It felt like I had taken three steps forward and nine steps back. By the end of class, I was just ready to be done.

Before we left, my teacher asked me a question and I couldn't understand. She gestured to my stomach, and I nodded and said, "Si." I didn't know what she was asking but I thought that she was asking me how I was feeling. Before I could respond, she held her hands up towards the sky and began to pray aloud. "In the name of our father....May Jesus Christ bless this young woman, Katharine, and relieve her of her pain..." And so she continued for a minute. I sat there silently, trying to show respect, but feeling a little shock. I had agreed to it, not knowing what I had said "Si" to, but a lesson was learned: it never hurts to clarify a question. The teacher's warmth and generosity did make me feel cared for, though, and so this "si" brought with it surprise but also gratefulness that someone so new to me could care.

After an hour break, I said my second, "Si" for the day. I was feeling exhausted and couldn't imagine going on an excursion, or even leaving our block. But encouraged by the others, I made myself go. It was the best "Si" I said all day. With one of our teachers, we went to Los Tres Ojos, which are a part of a national park located inside Santo Domingo. The three eyes are actually lakes, deep underground in caves. Although the name implies that there are three, there's a fourth that is perhaps the most beautiful of all but can only be reached by "boat." (I put boat here in quotations because it was more of a wooden raft that a man pulled across a lake and into a cave via a set of ropes....even my teacher put the word boat in quotes!) We went to each lake, where we discussed the origin of the lake's name, and avoided aggressive but friendly men who were trying to sell us tours and necklaces. I wish that I had the words to describe the beauty of these underground, inside cave lakes. The stunning blue of the water, the spotting of turtles and tilapia, the echoes of tourists gasping in awe, but I don't....Los Tres Ojos really just has to be seen. Below, a few pictures.

Guest Post (A story from Alexis, woven by Kate)

"Let me say this to you before you write it: I'm loving my experience here so much that I get sad when I think about ever having to leave. I feel moments of being at peace, happy, when I'm walking down the street listening to music playing, especially in the neighborhood where I've been going to the gym. I feel part of it here." - Alexis

The following are the words of Alexis, re-told as a story by Kate (the speech-language pathologist doesn't know how to write, apparently)

The streets of the Zona Colonial are touristy. In the neighborhood where I go, it feels slightly more authentic. Street vendors sell salami and tostones, children play basketball on the courts, and people sit outside the restaurants and corner stores talking at all hours. The streets are alive, and active, and slightly more authentic than anything we experience where we live. It's not real, and it's not authentic, and even walking down the avenue listening to the blaring bachata, I can both know that but also enjoy it for its vibrance and my peace with it, my piece within it.

At the gym, I feel like I'm doing a real life thing. I go, regularly, and speak in Spanish to my trainer and his other client. I communicate only in Spanish, becoming to some small extent part of some type of community here, a near impossible feat in such a short period of time. I feel like I am becoming part of the scene. I recognize faces. I am starting to make connections outside of our school's walls. Such little differences make all of the difference. If I lived here, I'd have a regular salon to get my hair done, and a regular gym to exercise in, and fall among all of those people who live and breathe those spaces every day.

What I love when I leave the gym is hearing music on the streets that is music I love, feeling comfortable and familiar with the location, and it all gives me a sense of joy (although, author's aside: that's probably the endorphins, too).

Tonight, I literally stood in the stairwell, looking down at the Zumba class and the instructor, for five minutes before joining in today. I was worried, not sure how to get in there and wondering internally if I could move the way any of those women could move. Already exhausted from personal training and cardio, I knew that I'd be even more stiff than usual but a friendly face beckoned me to try. I took a deep breath and fell in line. This was my opportunity to be a part of this class, which was relatively unfamiliar as a work out and also as a location. I can't say that I had all of the moves, but my feet were correct and I will take that as a win for the day.

El Domingo

I think you can tell a lot about a city based on Sundays.

In Boston, my Sundays are filled with the stress of finishing lessons, grading papers, entering grades, and grappling with the idea of launching myself into another week of school, so much that I hardly enjoy them. Living in the North End, in the summer and early fall, I at least get to enjoy the weekly parade, the marching band, the festival, and the occasional funnel cake.  In Paris, when I was a student and then as a teacher, too, Sundays were the days for the market visits, the picnics, the long family meals and the most quiet early morning city streets. I coveted Sundays in Paris. Time with my wonderful host family, time to visit the best markets and relax without deadlines or pressure, Sundays meant time to just take in the city and the scene. I've never loved Sundays more.

But Santo Domingo offers its own wonderful flavor of Sundays, too. This morning was the quietest I've heard the city since we arrived. I probably didn't notice it last weekend because I had only just arrived. But this morning, the only noises that I awoke to were of pigeons cooing outside my window (not as nice as it seems....). As we dressed for Catholic mass at the Cathedral of the Americas, we noticed that few people were out. Those who were out were clearly dressed for church, quietly making their way down our street. Cars, usually blasting music and honking horns, drove quietly, as if respecting what is Sunday mornings in Santo Domingo. As we strolled to mass, quiet neighbors nodded and said, "Hola," but kept conversations low and private, a marked contrast from the lively conversations we'd seen before. The city didn't feel asleep so much as in agreement of the quiet respect that a Sunday morning deserves.

We attended the Catholic mass, which tested our Spanish both because of its speed and the beautiful gothic cathedral's acoustics. Although we understood almost nothing, even with Maggie and Alexis both knowing the routine of mass, all of us felt the warmth as our neighbors shook our hands and kissed our cheeks and wished us, "Peace be with you." After mass, the city began to come alive. Women, almost all in white, flooded the streets in search of lunch, and family, and parks to sit in. There were so many women dressed in white that we began to wonder if we had missed a memo somewhere. Tourists filled mini-trolley cars, bustling through the streets while listening to explanations of sights. We ate lunch on a patio until rain threatened, returned to the apartment for a rest, and when we awoke, the city had become even more alive.

Here was the pièce de résistance for the day: At night, at the site of ruins that were once a monastery and then a mental institution, a dance floor is put down on the cobblestones facing, a stage is set with live music, and a dance party begins. Locals and tourists (although far more former than the latter) fill the street, turning a residential street into a dancing plaza, as live bachata, merengue and salsa are played. There's drinking, dancing, joking, greeting, wonderful music, and so much laughter. There's no typical attendee: dancers and attendees were young children, young couples, older adults, entire families, and the elderly, filling the streets with plastic chairs and watching the dancing and the evening unfold. It was a contrast to the Sunday morning we awoke to, and a great one. How a city can go from so quiet and private to so warm, welcoming, and loud, is such a beautiful thing. I can definitely see how Sundays here should be coveted, too.

The Day in Pictures, Courtesy of Alexis

This blogger needs a day of rest from writing and reflecting. Thankfully, Alexis captured the day in photographs. Below, a day in Santo Domingo. Many more photos to come but the electricity has gone off so many times today, I want to get these up while I can!

El Conde

Maggie at the "world museum of amber"

Maggie learns about amber

Strolling by the fort

"Where the Devil cannot go, he sends a woman." 

Bailar

A very short post, because I am so tired from the week, but a quick reflection on a moment today.

Alexis and I stayed at school for an extra hour today for a dance lesson in merengue, bachata and salsa. Anyone who knows me knows that I can dance my tail off at a wedding, and I can let loose when needed, but when given actual, reasonable, specific dancing steps, I'm lost. I cannot move that way. My brain hears the beat, but my feet won't move to it. My ears understand and catch the music's waves, but my legs can't keep up or stay on it. It's a kind of movement that I have never mastered, or even approached mastering. I'm not sure my feet are teachable.

But watching my teacher move today, and listening more deeply to the music, I was reminded that what I can do is feel the beat. I don't completely understand all of the words to any of the bachata songs that we listened to but I can tell you this: I felt them. I could recognize them instantly as bachata, and I could feel something inside of me stir. As someone who knows emotions and feelings all too well, something about bachata moved me inside. And so maybe, with time, my legs can move to it, too. In schools, we set standards and require that all kids meet them all of the time. But what about the kid who cannot get her legs to move to the music, but can feel it ringing in her ears and moving her heart? Does she understand the bachata any less? What about the student who sees it as a puzzle, or a painting, or can't move to it but can weave a new piece of music from it that represents herself? How do we make room for these students, and recognize that they too can be moved by dancing, even when it is not their feet that move?

Maggie, Alexis and I sat around talking tonight about how we create great middle schools, and how so much of adolescence is about helping kids articulate who they are as individuals. Participating in the dance class today was a good reminder to celebrate the kids who move to the beat and the kids who are moved by it in some way, too. An even better reminder that, at least to me, one option is not necessarily better than another, even when a standard says it is.

Claro

It wasn't so much as many cultures colliding, or crashing, or anything quite that serious. But today was more like cultures crossing paths, and stopping to say hello.

At night: Three in a row traipsing through the streets of Santo Domingo in search of the Barrio Chino (ie: Chinatown) in search of plantain sushi (that was not located, sadly), ending up with what is more or less typical American Chinese food. Not exactly what we had hoped, but it was interesting to see what the Barrio Chino was like, although much of it was closed when we arrived at 7pm.

During the day: A one-on-one conversation between myself and my Dominican teacher, entirely in Spanish, about religion in the DR. When the conversation shifted to the more personal level, and I was forced to explain not only Judaism, but also Buddhism and Quakerism to my instructor, it wasn't so much a clash but more that I felt like the cultural oddity that I really am.

"When I was young," my teacher explained, "I thought that all Jews were atheists."

"No, no, no," I replied.

"Explain."

With broken Spanish, I did the best I could to piece together "beginning of Bible," "no Jesus," and "many different types," and "yes, believe in God" so that she got a tiny sense of what Judaism is. 

"So then you're Jewish?"

"No, no, no," I replied.

"Explain."

"My mother was raised Jewish, but she's a Buddhist now."

And so it went that now, facing VERY raised eyebrows and clear concerns, I had to explain Buddhism. Piecing together, "objects don't matter," and "be, be present, be calm," I reassured her that she was confusing Buddhism with voodoo, as she re-enacted a woman in a movie, stabbing a small doll with pins to make a girl suffer.

"It's the opposite of that in so many ways," I replied.

"So you're Buddhist," she asked.

"No, no, no," I replied.

And so it went that now, for my patient and genuinely curious teacher, that I had to explain what Quakerism was. Translating the Religious Society of Friends into Spanish did nothing to help. Piecing together, "everyone is equal," "no war," and "God is in everyone but not literally...metaphorically," I ended up with just, "Christian. It's a type of Christian."

"Wow."

Wow was right. Wow was the moment I realized that I could piece together any of these sentences at all, and the sense that I wasn't doing justice to any of them but it was better than just sitting there shrugging. Wow was also when she asked about my tattoo, and my piercing, and if I had dyed my hair, and when she was told that my parents had been (mostly) okay with all of it, she wowed again.

"Muy liberales, tus padres," she said.

"Claro," I replied. She doesn't know the half of it.

Her questions about me continued. When I told her that I studied English literature in college, she couldn't believe it. "A woman like you, so liberal, why are you studying books and telling stories? You should be in publicity, marketing, advertising, something exciting and loud and....out there!"

I tried to explain just how important telling stories is, and that learning languages for me is another way to try to tell stories, but I grew frustrated with the inability to express my passion with such limited vocabulary, and so I told her that, too. 

"It's so hard to believe something so seriously and not have the words to say it," I said, feeling worn out and out of words.

"Claro," she replied. "But it will get better."

"You're such a contradiction," she said. "Liberal, pierced, tattooed, and....reading?"

"I think here I seem very liberal. You should come to the US. Then you can see really liberal."

After this religious discussion, it was clear what Maggie and I had to do. Claro, we went to church. We walked, and talked about what religious education must be like here, and what we have experienced at home, and how to bridge the gap for our students.

Below, pictures from our adventure exploring the oldest continuously running cathedral in the new world, and then lunch on the Plaza de España. It was so beautiful here today, especially after yesterday's deluge, and so extra photos for those who enjoy that sort of thing. 

So after this beautiful adventure, and delicious gazpacho, and this stumbling-through-my-palabras, what was more Claro? The skies, the fact that I can piece together more Spanish today than I could three days ago, a few more of the streets of Santo Domingo, and that language (if you have it) can teach, and share, and explain, and explore the unclear and unknown. 

Tropical Storm Chantal

We tried to walk to school today, but by the time we had walked two blocks, and saw that already streets were flooding over with water (and it had only just begun), we thought to ourselves, "This can't be right." Indeed, it wasn't. School was closed, and we were stuck indoors, with power coming and going, and rain coming and coming.

To keep ourselves from going too crazy (well, anymore crazy than we already are), Alexis taught us the steps for the bachata and the merengue. We practiced in front of the full-length mirror that our teacher, Alexis, dragged into the living room for our usage. Both steps require simply finding the beat and a lot of hips. Maggie and I need a lot more practice.

We watched sitcoms in Spanish, told stories of students, and watched the rain come down and come down. With the day off, we have few stories but a memory of a day inside, practicing some Spanish together and learning a few dance steps, and watching a ton of "Everybody Loves Raymond" in Spanish.

Photos below from brave Alexis's journey to get us dinner.

Escuchar

A short post today, more of a reflection than anything, about learning languages and learning places.

I know that I'm usually quite the talker, but today was a reminder that some days are meant for just listening. Listening to the sounds of a stranger, driving down the street where you're staying, shouting on a megaphone loudly and proudly, with words and language that you don't understand. Listening to verb tenses from a teacher and the difference in prepositions, trying to override the French rules that my teachers spent years drilling into my ears. Listening to your colleagues tell stories of times before you were born or lived in what you now call your home, while sitting on the balcony, sipping your cold beer and checking out your neighbors' balconies. Listening to your teacher explain that no matter what country her students come from, they all report the same thing: "Government everywhere is corrupt. The best of men fall with the rest of the worst, and hope can be hard to hold onto." Today was a day for conversations, but while I stumbled with contributing, I felt my ears open a little more clearly to the words of my colleagues, my teachers, and all those around me. I could even hear the key turning more easily into the door, with its impossible locks (and so many at that!), my fingers and ears recognizing the clear clicks of the locks sliding into place.

But there's another kind of listening too that I had to do today. I listened to my body. After sleeping poorly last night, battling some combination of uncertainty in my surroundings and a longing for the familiar, I listened inwardly and tried to articulate something out of that unease. The rampant poverty, the disgust my professor expressed in the way things work (or don't) here, the sense of anxiety I feel as darkness falls in a city that I don't know or understand, the developing understanding of where many of my students are coming from, and the constant reminder that I am a white, American, English-speaking, female stranger here who calls attention to herself just simply by walking outside, all of a sudden I felt all of this bubbling in me and thought that I can't take any more in just yet. I need to sit with this first. So I listened. I took the afternoon off, tried to relax, attempted to watch cooking shows in Spanish and breathe. I napped, too. Classic. 

I didn't wake up feeling any sense that I had overcome any of this confusion, or feeling of being overwhelmed. But I did wake up understanding that I don't have to be comfortable all of the time, just so long as I am open to listening.

,

Socio

"Socio."

Yes, we started school today. Yes, we went on adventures to find a gym, and find meals, and discover new streets we hadn't yet walked down, but today's story is not any of these things. I could write about the school (which I will at some point, I promise), or the friendly restaurant owner that I chatted with in Spanish (!) briefly tonight, but I won't. Today's moment was our meeting with Jesús and his Socio.

Last night, the air conditioner in my bedroom started making the most horrible noises. We called Juan, our property manager, and left a message detailing the problem. We emailed the property owner in the US, expressing our concerns, and I shared a bed in a cooled room with Alexis. This morning, we woke up to a reassuring email from our property owner that Juan would be by this afternoon to fix it. We called Juan this morning, and he said he would come by. He didn't tell us that he was bringing Jesús.

Enter Jesús. Seven years old, dressed in a red shirt, denim jeans, a belt and loafers, Jesús entered the room with his father, held out his hand and declared in proud English, "My name is Jesús." That was as far as his English went. But Jesús had an immediate presence in the room. While Juan inspected the air conditioner, Alexis told Jesús he could watch tv. Instead, he began to instruct Maggie on how to use the remotes, and how to find Cartoon Network. When we asked Juan to take us to the grocery store, Jesús rode in the car and talked to his dad. Maggie and Alexis sat in the back with him, and chatted a little, and when we arrived at the grocery store, Juan said he would pick us up in 15 minutes. "Do you want to come with us?" Maggie asked Jesús. He smiled and climbed out of the car.

In the grocery store, Jesús was our guide. He instructed us to get baskets, but later changed his mind and made us go back to get a cart when we had too many things. He refused to let Maggie carry anything, declaring it was too heavy for her. In the beer aisle, Jesús explained the different sizes of beers and told us that different sizes could add up to equal amounts. All in Spanish, Jesús explained how we could get two small six packs, or one larger six pack, or if we wanted to get the largest of sizes, we'd really only need two or three bottles total. When we made our decision, he took them off the shelves for us and placed them in the cart. He insisted on pushing the cart around. Jesús helped with our Spanish, insisted on carrying things for us, and carried himself like a man.

When we got to the check out line, it was clear we had done something wrong. In retrospect, I think we were supposed to weigh the fruits and vegetables before checking out, as I had done in France, but the cashier explained it too quickly for us to understand. Whatever she said, even Jesús looked at us confused, as if to say, "Um, aren't you the adults here?" But once resolved, Jesús returned to being the man.

In the car, Jesús called his father Juan, socio! Socio means business partner, associate, and his father laughed and explained. "Yes, sometimes Jesús calls me socio, you know, like business partner." And today, Jesús was definitely that. He had taken us around the grocery store, and instructed us on toilet paper brands and types of fruits, and he had acted like a grown man the entire time.

Except in the car, in the last moment, when he said so clearly in Spanish that even I could understand it, "This was the best day."

el socio de Juan

The walk to dinner

Three women in a row

Last night, I dreamt in French. I can only imagine that this means my brain is trying to place where I am, and orient itself to its new location. Hopefully it figures out soon that French will only get me so far, and it will open itself up to Spanish.

So imagine us now, three women, all in a row, walking up and down the streets of the Zona Colonial. Three women, Alexis in the lead, Maggie in the back, and me in the center, walking with our eyes wide and our heads turning every which way, trying to orient ourselves. This was us all day long, trying out different streets and searching not necessarily for anything specific but just to search. In some ways, our exploration today was a lot like what my brain attempted as I slept: a certainly inefficient, somewhat repetitive, partially useful exploration of our new surroundings. We went out first in search of breakfast, then in search of supplies, and then once more for a delicious dinner. With breaks in between to rest our sun-soaked bodies, our walks allowed us to take in the colors of the houses, the sounds of catcalls and blasting bachata, and the sights of the massive colonial buildings. With many places closed for Sundays and with my slowly developing Spanish, it was hard to know what it was I was taking in.

"What's that?" I asked, when our breakfast table at the Parque Colon suddenly became a front-row seat to a military exercise. All at once, the hundreds of young men in white shirts and blue pants, who had been casually chatting and resting in the shade, ran suddenly across the park, fell into formation and begin running drills.
"What's that?" I repeated, when we stumbled upon the Monumento de Fray Anton de Montesinos. And though a forward gentleman offered to tell us everything we wanted to know, we declined and decided to learn later at our own time, at our own price.
"How do you even say, 'What's that?'" I asked, determined to get myself settled, although everything is too new and too unfamiliar to stick just yet.

I'm reminded of my first days in Paris, when turning every new corner was like a magic trick: a new place revealed itself, and only then could my brain understand that this place existed. And, like a magic trick, with repeated viewings what seemed magical became typical, and what seemed fresh and bright seemed like home, and I can only hope that our little corner of Santo Domingo might become that way for me, too.

But for now, we will be the three clearly American women, strolling quickly down the streets of Santo Domingo. Alexis sets the fastest of paces, ready to dive into any adventure. "Don't let me think about the Spanish, just make me do it. If I think too hard, I'll forget," she says, and helps us get what we need. "Don't mind me," says Maggie from the back. "I'm just taking it in," she says as she watches a game of chess on El Conde, and explains to us that she doesn't need to know how to ask to play, because "Chess is a universal language." And here I am, somewhere in between the two, wanting the words but also the willingness to dive in and become a part of the great city that is around us.

Tomorrow we begin our Spanish studies. Maybe then my brain, and the rest of me, will be more prepared to dive in.

El Conde restaurant at breakfast

The view from breakfast

The Arrival

Arrivals to new locations are all about first impressions; in some ways, though, I felt like today's arrival was as much about the start of the journey as it was about ruminating about the finish. With each step, I couldn't help thinking to myself, "But how different will this be, and how different will I be, when my time here is through?" Hopefully, there will be at least a lot less mumbling in broken Spanish.

We arrived right on time, with a flight full of Dominican families, clearly going home for the summer with new babies, a crying puppy, and children anxious to see their families at home. Overloaded suitcases and massive strollers were forced to be gate checked. In waiting for the flight, I couldn't help but notice that our flight crew seemed entirely unprepared for the overwhelming number of Spanish speakers on the flight. The flight attendants asked passengers to help translate important information. I was disappointed that no crew member seemed to speak Spanish, and emergency information would have had to been translated by passengers. Thankfully, emergency information wasn't necessary.

Our property manager picked us up at the airport, and we headed straight to the apartment. He gave us a quick tour of the neighborhood, showed us to our apartment, and took us to a local store to get a fair exchange rate on currency. Without Juan, we wouldn't have found this exchange place. It looked more like a house, with a group of old men sitting around playing dominos, who didn't even look up when we entered and asked to exchange money. I'm told that the more obvious exchange places charge high fees and take advantage of tourists who don't know of such places. I believe it. But without the kindness of Juan, how else would we have found this place? The DR seems immediately like a place where the kindness of generous, sincere strangers can be the difference between a fine vacation and a great adventure.

Over dinner, I asked Maggie and Alexis what they hope to accomplish by the end of this trip. Again, I was so focused on the end when I should be soaking up the beginning, but I'm also aware that for me, beginnings and endings work on each other, depend on each other, and I want to remember just how I felt now when I look back at the end.

Alexis: "I hope to have fun, and obviously to improve my Spanish."
Maggie: "I've already accomplished what I wanted. I've gotten away."
Kate: "I want to be more fearless with my Spanish, because it's the only way to learn."

So although my feelings about our arrival are somewhat caught up in my desires to know we'll accomplish our goals, I'm going to commit to tomorrow as a day to just be here. To just soak up the experience. Buenas noches.

Excéntricas y Neuróticas

Eccentric and neurotic.

These are two words that many, many fellow teachers have used to describe us. While I agree this is true, and I would happily throw in some other important descriptors, I'd like to think that these two words won't drive our upcoming adventure. Yes, we will be neurotic: at any given point, one or more of us will be worried about something. Yes, we will be eccentric: we are definitely more than a little strange, and I can't imagine that any one of us is fully ready for the others. Many of our fellow teachers have told us that they can't imagine a more bizarre trio of women to go to Santo Domingo. In some ways, I hope we prove them all right. But I also hope that we'll prove to ourselves that we are more than just that.

If you're following this blog, here are the cast of characters for the upcoming adventure:

Maggie - Although she shudders when I call her the wisest of us all, ("It's a euphemism for old!"), Maggie does have 14 years at the Dever-McCormack K-8 School under her belt, and years before that in other BPS Schools.  Maggie describes her Spanish language acquiring skills in this way: "One of you is going to have to make me talk."

Alexis - Our school's Speech and Language Pathologist, Alexis has spent the past few months convincing students that they'd love to invite us over to their families' houses. She's determined to make the most of her time in the DR, and is convinced (and I agree) that the best Spanish we will learn will come from outside of the classroom. Alexis describes her Spanish language acquiring skills in this way: "I'm just going to talk all of the time. Even if it's wrong. Just keep talking."

Kate - Your resident blogger, English/language arts teacher, and youngest of the trio, I have the least experience studying Spanish. I spent 10 days last summer studying Spanish at Dartmouth College, but have otherwise devoted my language learning time to acquiring French. This results in me grasping for French first all of the time. I'm open to making mistakes, excited for new adventures, and happy to write my way through this experience.

We depart on Saturday. Real updates begin then.

Many thanks to the Fund for Teachers for giving us the opportunity to take on this adventure!