Hay que arrancarle la postura de chisqué de Inglaterra...

El jablador les ta jablando desde Inglaterra.

And first off, would like to apologize for being blogically challenged this summer.

To keep things short and sweet, it's interesting (forgive generic bland adjective) to be in a foreign country where things run almost exactly the same as your own country. For example:

I'm walking around downtown Norwich (donde vive la abuela) and I pass a small barefoot child looking forlorn, standing outside a department store. I'm thinking, "No, it can't be... (niño ambulante)". Of course, I was right. The little punkass was simply pouting waiting for mommy to get done with her clothes shopping, and mysteriously insisted on appearing in public with bare feet.

There are also WAY too many white people here. Like, entirely so. Eerily so.

Mi tierra

Tierra dura

Tierra empedrada

Tierra tan empobrecida hasta que la dejaron la gente pa' que se abandonara y crecieran los árboles como hierbas malas en las fincas damnificadas

Tierra dura

Tierra dura

Tierra dura y fría

Tierra tan fría que nunca se sabe cuando se congele ni cuando caiga la nieve

Tierra dura

Gente fría

Gente fría y dura

Gente cerrada, hasta que sospeche maleza cuando uno le sonría e intente hablarle de novedades

Gente fría

Ciudades duras

Ciudades duras y rotas

Ciudades tan rotas que sólo le invitan a gente más cálida, más amable de tierras más cálidas y amables

Pero esta gente es mal recibida

Porque no le sonríe la gente vigente

Le sospecha maleza

Se cierra la tierra y cae la nieve y más rompen las ciudades y más se damnifican las fincas y más se abandonan la naturaleza

Es maleza, esta naturaleza

Pero yo quiero a esta tierra

Esta tierra empedrada, empobrecida, dura, fría, cerrada, rota, mal recibida

Es mi tierra

La hora de volvé

The entire state of Massachusetts looked as though it were about to commit suicide when I arrived yesterday evening.

I feel a bit like the opposite of Rita Indiana in "La hora de volvé":

Toda la gente vuelve a la tierra en que nacieron
Al embruje inconfundible de su sol
¿Y quién quiere estar comiendo mierda y hielo
Cuando puede estar bailando algo mejor?

(Translation)
Everyone goes back to where they came from
To the unmistakable spell of the sun
And who wants to be eating shit and ice
When you could be dancing something better?

Now, don't get me wrong. I love Worcester, really, I do. It's a love-hate relationship of sorts, and as though I were starting right back at square one, the hate definitely comes first.

There's a certain indescribable energy here, good vibes, that unfortunately decide to run and hide whenever it rains. It's all good when you've been here a while, but a little disconcerting upon recently disembarking from an airplane spitting you back in the physically and emotionally frigid north after your Caribbean adventure.


Ccccccccccccooooooooooooooooooñññññññññññññññññññññoooooooooooooooooooooooooo.......

I returned to the States almost a month ago. Writing in English feels slightly unnatural, much less life in general. While of course I can seamlessly slide around through the mundaneness of this great country, it's little obscure things que hacen falta.

No pickup trucks with soundsystems in their flatbeds blasting politically-motivated reggaeton, síndicos/alcaldes/senadores begging for your vote.

No one chasing after you in the street trying to sell you avocados/their wife.

Everything appears kinda sterile here, especially in the suburbs of Boca Raton, Florida. Luckily I'm getting out of here in a few days, to return to my 'hood in Worcester. I get separation anxiety. It will also be interesting to return to my heavily Dominican New England neighborhood and see how many aspects of la cultura get translated.

I'm not quite sure if culture shock has set in; of course, I sometimes have to remind myself to speak English instead of Spanish. Aside from that, however, everything seems so easy here. Which feels strange, but I can vibe with it. I'm lazy. But I also vibe with constant challenge and thrill. Yo no sé.

Yes, I suck at blogging. This has been made apparent as over the last month I've posted exactly twice.

In other news, I'm done. We're finished. This life-changing semester has come to an end, and it feels more than slightly surreal. I emerged physically unscathed from the dark, dank, fetid, drippy tunnel that was my workload laid on me by CIEE-Santiago Service Learning, but otherwise utterly stimulated and mind-expanded, emotionally and intellectually.

My service project, which I had begun to write off as a total fluke, an ego-fluffer for your typical privileged white college student who believes he can really "make a difference", was received most warmly by Acción Callejera, which makes me think it wasn't such a fluke after all. Also, the fact that I came to be recognized and loved and asked after in El Fracatán had made the experience altogether more worthwhile.

And now, to celebrate my birthday (and the birthdays of two of my closest friends), me he ido a jugar pa la playa. Like what every other tourist comes to the D.R. to do. But I almost feel like I've earned it. Except that's a horrible way to think.

This place has taught me certain vital lessons. The one I pull out of my head most easily is the lesson of patience. We in the US of A (and Europe) are so conditioned to things moving smoothly, going just as we like them to, and we all seem to have forgotten that it's completely impossible to have control over our environment. Therefore we get physically uncomfortable when things don't run smoothly, when things don't go exactly the way we want them to. On the contrary, living in a country for four months where literally NOTHING runs smoothly has taught me (with a roundhouse punch in the face, or whatever that means) that we don't have control over jack shit. The only thing we can control is how we react to our environment and all the curveballs it will throw at us.

Also, I've learned that my pasty, freckled, fair skin renders me incompatible with a tropical climate. I am much better, biologically suited to cool, grey, overcast, chilly places, and plan to spend the vast majority of my future in such places.

I'm sure I've also learned some more profound lessons, that I just can't be bothered to put in writing at the moment.

Al fin y al cabo, I've left part of my soul here in the Dominican Republic. And I'm not expecting it back any time soon, if ever.

Editor's Note

Hola tod@s,

This post is to let you all know I'm still alive and kickin', just a little swamped on the academic front.

Wishing you in Gringolandia well!

Driving in the D.R.

Now I can't actually talk from firsthand experience.

But it's all just so...forceful, aggressive, impressive here.

Here's to emulating Dominican driving habits back home in gringolandia, and breaking every single traffic rule:

- shamelessly running red lights after dark (sometimes not so shamelessly, as much as out of necessity)

- obnoxiously honking at people as you attempt to pass them (only to have some other puto cut you off...in the opposite direction)

- pulling up behind the car directly in front of you, literally within inches, and then swerving across six direction-shifting lanes of traffic with the wrong blinker blinking, with only your hand making an (ambiguous) fist to let other drivers (quienes no están prestando ni un chin de atención) know what you mean to do.

- kick the beautiful white girl out of your car, because you see an even hotter white girl standing on the street corner, and you want her for your (un-)lawfully wedded green card.

(yes, that last one actually happened to my friend Raquel)

By the same token, I'm planning on sticking a big white letter K in the top left corner of my windshield when I get my car back, and drive it through Worcester, to give the many displaced santiagueros some nostalgia. Rides will gladly be accepted, 15 pesos per vola.