Twice and Counting

I’m fairly confident that in the whole of my adult life I’ve had but two completely successful conversations with total strangers.  I’m 26 years old.  I’ve met a lot of people.  My batting average would indicate that I’m not making any conversational highlight reels.

Except for two occasions.

The first was on a beach in Pensacola, Florida.  It was early morning and I was killing time by wandering along the tracts of sand that stretch between the shore and the hotels.  The entire area was noticeably deserted save for one man in the distance carrying a couple of golf clubs over his shoulder.  The man -- presumably returning from sinking a few dozen dimpled balls into nature’s big blue driving range -- and I were headed in opposite directions and quickly approaching one another.

“How are the fairways this morning?” I asked when I was close enough to catch his eye.

“Better than the office,” he answered in stride without awaiting a reply.

Crack!  A clean line drive up the middle.  A nice piece of hitting, as they might say.  It’s one that stands out in my memory. 

Of course it’s smug and trite and the exact sort of unoriginal exchange that, if placed in a crappy movie, would have me audibly groaning.  But it’s important to understand that, for me, real-life moments like this just don’t happen.  I never know what to say or when to say it and I’m incredibly jealous of my friends who can create jovial, seamless conversation out of thin air with people they barely know.  It’s a truly enviable characteristic.  Meanwhile, I’ve always been the introvert who avoids eye contact at the last second when passing someone on the sidewalk.  When a pretty girl takes the seat next to me on the bus, it’s hard for me not to breathe a heavy sigh of relief when she breaks out her iPod and I can peacefully reflect on all of the painfully awkward conversation that we’ve escaped.

After two months in site, it’s become apparent that talking to strangers is something I better get comfortable with real fast.  Because, let’s be honest, that’s who I’m surrounded by right now.  With some legitimate exceptions, the overwhelming majority of my 300-person community and I still don’t really know each other.  And if I want that to change, the burden is on me.  Everyone else in this community already has established lives and relationships to keep themselves preoccupied.  I’m the one trying to construct an existence from the ground up.  Succumbing to my normal level of verguenza out here in the campo probably isn’t going to get me anywhere – socially, professionally, mentally.

My second successful conversation occurred a couple years back while idling on a tarmac in Cheyenne, Wyoming.  After spending the first leg of the evening’s cross-country flight restlessly positioned in a middle seat, I was not only relieved that we’d successfully landed amid thunderstorms but that we’d managed to do so with enough time left for me to make my connection.  I shut my book and hurriedly stuffed it in my backpack alongside my iPod and coiled headphones, those precious items that act as a universal conversational buffer in forced social situations.  It was only then that the captain welcomed his passengers to their current destination – not Denver International as scheduled but rather Cheyenne, where we’d have the pleasure of waiting out the weather for an indefinite period of time, sorry for the inconvenience, thank you for your patience, more updates to follow.

And then, amidst the requisite chorus of moaning such situations elicit, the gentleman seated to my immediate right made some innocuous comment in my direction.  I can’t recall exactly what he said – assuredly something in the realm of meteorology or FAA regulations or crying infants or peanuts or what have you – but it was enough to draw an equally harmless response from myself.  And from there it snowballed.

Before long this stranger and I, after sitting elbow-to-elbow in silence for the previous three hours, were deep in legitimate, easy conversation.  We talked about the hospital in Sacramento where he worked as a doctor and the research he was involved in.  We talked about the medical convention he was returning from in New Orleans and compared our thoughts on the city, its people and its cuisine.  We discussed my job with AmeriCorps and his past international volunteer work.  We talked about being in your early twenties, relatively fresh out of college and how it compares to being in your late fifties with children in their early twenties, relatively fresh out of college.  We shared our respective experiences living in the forgotten capitals of big states.  We talked about the NBA and MLB, about small-market basketball and big-market baseball.

And then, three hours later, we finally landed in Denver.

Right now, based mostly on my lingering language inefficiencies, it’s a tall order to have that level of conversation with a fellow Paraguayan community member whom I’ve yet to meet.  But I definitely don’t think it’s impossible and I think that it’s crucial to try.  And I’m a firm believer that there is always room to try harder.  For as long as I’m in Paraguay, I’m going to have to take off my headphones, make eye contact and force my way through the uncomfortable small-talk on the way to building real relationships.  There’s really no other way to both make this experience worthwhile and, in exchange, invest myself and my energy back into the community.

Years from now, I will be deep in conversation with the person next to me on a cross-country flight.  It doesn’t really matter who started talking first, but I’d like to think that I finally did.  Maybe the conversation will somehow come around to Peace Corps.  “So,” my curious new friend will ask, “how was the Paraguayan campo?”

As I close my book and tuck it beneath the seat in front of me, I hope I’m able to sincerely respond, “Better than the office.”

Hey June

Yep, it’s been awhile.  Apologies.  Hope this finds you well.  Let’s take some time to discuss a handful of anecdotes and observations since last we left:

MY host family cooks everything on a woodstove over an open flame.  There’s a really romantic quality to that, especially during these cold winter months.  Unfortunately, it can be difficult at times to see the romanticism of it through all the smoke building up in the kitchen.

NOW that the temperature has cooled down, the men in my community play soccer every evening.  Before playing, everybody throws in two or three mil (2-3.000 Gs) as a friendly wager.  Of course, I have no problem with this… in principle.  My issue lies in the fact that we need to spend a good half hour before the game collecting the money, counting the loose change, squaring it up, hounding the handful of guys who inevitably didn’t put in enough, counting it up again, and then settling on somebody neutral to keep track of it.

It’s an excruciating process to witness because in the time it takes to do all this you could have easily held a second game.  It’s true – I swear I’m not exaggerating.  It takes that long.  For as much soccer as these guys play, you would think that they’d have this down pretty efficiently. And to suggest playing a game (or even a round of penalty kicks, for that matter) without putting money on it?  Well, you may as well be speaking another language.

SINCE I can’t keep up with the big boys when it comes to soccer, I’ve found a small group of kids ages 7-11ish who are more my speed.  In my community, gender roles are strongly reinforced and gender separation is the societal norm.  So, on the first day I played with these kids, I was super pleased when one of them – a nine year-old girl – informed me, “I’m a girl but I can play with the boys.  I go to soccer school on Saturdays.”

I was even more pleased, however, when she single-handedly (footedly?) carried our all-girls-plus-one-norteamericano club to a 10-3 victory.

IN Paraguay, the term “shortcut” really just means “a different way to get somewhere regardless of how much shorter or longer it will actually take you.”

Along the same lines, if you survey five or six people hoping to gauge how far of a walk a certain place is, it’s not out of the realm of possibility to get answers as varied as 3-10 km, for example.  In such instances your best bet is to take the highest bidder and then go ahead and add 20% for good measure.  At the very least, you’re probably gonna want to pack an overnight bag and throw on a decent pair of shoes.

I’M not allowed to discuss Paraguayan politics, neither within my community nor here online.  But it’s been an interesting month in that regard.  Take a minute and Google it.

THE line between my community’s definition of “clearing the road” and my personal definition of “deforestation” is a little blurred.  But machetes are fun.

THERE’S a political talk show on the radio here that my host family enjoys on weekday afternoons.  The intro music that this show uses happens to be ESPN’s Baseball Tonight theme.  I think a little piece of me dies every time I hear the song and it’s followed by a Spanish rant on the local gobierno rather than Karl Ravech updating me on the AL wild card standings or the NL Cy Young race.

THE most common evening pastime here once the sun goes does down is to watch telenovelas, your daily Spanish-language soap operas.  With campo television reception, you wind up with essentially one channel.  Your choices are limited.

These shows are painfully tacky in every regard – plot, production, acting, you name it.  For several weeks I tried to avoid novelas at all costs knowing full well that it was anti-social and a prohibitive strategy for speedier integration.  I just couldn’t make myself do it.  Really, they’re that trashy.

Then I discovered Los Herederos del Monte.  About a month ago I forced myself to spend a week watching the 6pm novela as an earnest way of improving my Spanish listening comprehension.  Then that first week turned into a second and then a third and before long I had stopped asking my host sister for clarification about verb tenses and had begun requesting clarification about specific plot points.  For example, do any of the brothers know that Sr. del Monte is still alive?  How much longer did the doctor tell Julieta she has left to live?  Why is Jose such a jackass?  If not at the fancy dinner table, when will Juan finally take off his cowboy hat?

(*Spoiler Alert – Answers to above questions: No; A matter of months; Unclear; His brother’s wedding)

Yep, I’m hooked.

THERE’S a myth out there that I’m going to go ahead and unsubscribe to.  I think our culture perpetuates it to an illegitimate degree that clashes with my experience.  Hear me out.

Beforehand I believed, like I think a lot of people do, that strong relationships can be built that transcend language barriers.  But wait, that’s not the myth.  That one’s a fact.  The myth is that it’s easy.  I feel like there is a misconception out there spurred on by movies, idealism, American egotism and certain classic Disney theme park attractions that, at the drop of a hat, you have the capacity to become really close with anybody you choose to surround yourself with.  But do you actually realize how we are conditioned to become close with others?  Words.  Language.  Verbal communication.

Yes, humans will instinctively find other means of bonding when verbal communication fails – I’ve participated in nonverbal bonding through cooking, dancing, farming, playing games and even housing renovations – but it’s a long, arduous process to cultivate anything deep or meaningful this way.  Particularly when you’re so accustomed to forming all of your relationships through conversation.

Like I said, it can certainly be accomplished.  I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t believe that.  I’ve enjoyed two-and-a-half-month homestay stints with two separate, incredible Paraguayan families with whom I believe I now have strong friendships.  But it can be tiresome, difficult and oftentimes frustrating work.

I think this sort of friendship comes with a big advantage, however.  Another side of the coin.  By building a relationship this way in such a long and deliberate manner, it’s much easier to recognize what you both have invested in it.  The effort you’ve put in is so much more tangible and apparent that you’re more inclined to continue to nurture and sustain it rather than take it for granted.

Yes, in fact it is a small world after all but it’s not necessarily an easy one.

ALL told, I’m nearly 20% of the way through this thing.  It’s going quicker than I anticipated.

Shark Bait

In sifting through the advice, thoughts, opinions, and general ramblings of dozens of current (and therefore experienced) PCVs over the past ten weeks, there was one particular nugget that continuously presented itself: in Peace Corps Paraguay, the two-plus months of in-country training varies significantly from the two years of actual service that follows.  Without exception, everyone was sure to mention just how much life changes after officially swearing-in.  In fact, I had begun to get the impression that training is akin to wading in the shallow end of your average-sized puddle, lifeguards on hand, whereas the actual service is more reminiscent of capsizing hundreds of knots off the Atlantic coast as a fleet of Guaraní-speaking sharks thrash around you in the frigid, yerba-steeped waters.

How accurate that analogy is probably varies from person to person, from site to site.  For me, just three weeks in, I’ve noticed the stark contrast between the two lifestyles but it hasn’t felt quite so perilous.  I’m no longer accompanied by Americans who can help me navigate through the trickier language barriers or shoulder some of the awkwardness that seems to burden us during every conceivable social situation.  I no longer have classes meticulously scheduled and organized for me six days a week, which means now I have to teach myself to create and fill my own schedule from scratch everyday.  During training, I was often wondering how to slow down the heavy, persistent momentum of the daily grind.  Over the past three weeks, by contrast, there have been plenty of days where it’s been tough to keep any momentum going at all.  The positive feeling I have after accomplishing something productive from 9-10am quickly disappears by 11 when I think to myself, “Well, dammit, what am I supposed to do for the remaining seven hours of daylight?”

The answer, so far, has been to try and meet people.  To introduce myself to the community and make things happen as organically as possible.  As I mentioned, nothing about the last three weeks has felt as terrifying as the thought of being surrounded by bloodthirsty sharks.  Granted, there’s been plenty of moments when I’ve felt lost out at sea, but instead of shark-infested waters I feel like I’m surrounded by schools of friendly, curious fish who just want to get a look at the bizarre americano flailing about the surface.  “Slow down for a second, tranquilo,” they’re probably saying, “Maybe you’ll float along fine if you just stopped kicking so haphazardly and paddling so awkwardly.  Watch us swim and try it the way we do.”

I imagine this is what they’re saying, at least, but who the hell really knows.  They might be harmless fish, but they’re still Guaraní-speaking fish. 

School´s Out

Originally written 26 April 2012

Training is over. Last Friday (4/20) I officially swore-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer and on Tuesday (4/24) I moved to the Paraguayan community where I will be living and working for the next two years.

“So, Chris,” you might wonder, “surely you must have learned a ton over the past ten weeks of training.  Please, enlighten us.  Tell us all about these new and wonderful things you know.”

Well, then, where should I begin?

I have learned that if you are informed something is happening “en seguida,” it can mean any time between “right this very moment” and “never.”  I have also learned that this ambiguous phrase is incredibly frustrating when told to you,but incredibly convenient when you’re telling it to somebody else.

I have learned how to say “there are little black kittens” in Guaraní.  However, I cannot successfully construct any other complete sentence that is neither a personal statement nor a direct question.

I have learned that even if the bathroom door is unlocked, the lights are off, and nobody is responding to your knocks, there is still a solid chance that it’s occupied.

I have learned to value broccoli over beef.

I have learned to stop translating every transaction into “how many dollars does this cost?” and to start thinking in terms of “how many bus fares does this equal?”

I have learned that the concept of “adult learning techniques” entails a shocking amount of drawing and coloring.  I have yet to learn why.

I have learned that the single most reliable way to successfully break prolonged awkward silence in Paraguay is the following equation: “Rico es” +“X” (Where X stands for any possible food you can think of regardless of how delicious it actually is).  Not only will everyone around you speak up to agree, but they’re bound to begin mentioning a lot of other rico foods that you can consequently agree with as well.

I have learned that, in the 21^st century, it is actually possible to survive two and a half months without a cell phone and I hope I never, ever have to try to again.

I have learned how to drink boiling tea through a scalding metal straw.

I have learned that for as naturally pretty as the mandioca plant is, its edible root is doing it absolutely no justice.

I have learned that for as naturally pretty as the mango tree is, its edible fruit is doing a serviceable job.

I have learned that I absolutely cannot distinguish the pronunciations of the letters y and ŷ in Guaraní, no matter how many hours a native speaker spends trying to teach me.

I have learned that the strangely addictive result of baking corn flour, cheese and lard is called chipa and that it alone can sustain you during the five days leading up to Easter.  I’m under the impression that Jesus would be proud of me for this, but I never learned exactly why.

I have learned that while being guapo/hard-working is one of the personal characteristics most highly valued by Paraguayans and Americans alike, the two have very distinct and different ways of defining it.  However, I think I’ve learned that taking initiative is at the core of both culture’s definitions.

Despite ten weeks of densely packed training, I have learned that I still have no real idea what anything over the next two years will actually be like, with two obvious exceptions:

1)  I have learned that there is an awesome collection of Americans scattered throughout Paraguay that I get to refer to as mis compañeros.

2)   I have learned that there is at least one incredibly generous, super linda Paraguayan family that has my back no matter what.

How to Barter for Cab Fare in Paraguay (translated & paraphrased)

As demonstrated by an actual Paraguayan!

Setting: 6:00 pm on an ordinary, early autumn Thursday

[Slowly but purposefully approach the driver of the only cab in town.  Politely accept a sip of his terere and casually exchange pleasantries in Guarani.  Discuss the weather for a minute or two.  It’s unseasonably cold today, no?]

Cabbie – So, where are you headed?

You – Santa Elena. (i.e.; village 10+ km away inaccessible at this hour by any other means save for walking)

Cabbie – 60.000 Gs.

You – 60?? (For extra effect, add lengthy, high-pitched whistle implying how unreasonably pricey that seems)

Cabbie – Yes, 60.

You –

…

…

[A good half-minute of uncomfortable silence in which the cabbie stares at you intently while you pretend to think of other transportation options - of which absolutely none exist)

…

…

Cabbie – Santa Elena, you said?

You – Yes.

Cabbie – 50 then.

You –

…

…

[More prolonged silence during which you shamelessly search your surroundings to ensure that there are, in fact, no other taxis in town right now.  Of course this is the case and you’re both well aware of it.]

…

…

…

[Strain your face to show optimal distress and helplessness.  Be sure not to say anything.  It seems at this point that awkward silence is your strongest – and evidently only – bartering tool.]

…

…

Cabbie – How about 40?

You – [casually wait a few beats to conceal just how unbelievably successful that entire exchange was] Yeah, 40 works.

And there you have it, folks.  With just two words, one whistle and a couple minutes of uncomfortable silence, you can reduce your cab fare by up to 33% despite having absolutely no leverage whatsoever.  Tell your friends!  Guaranteed to work in any socially passive and indirect culture!

Bright-eyed yes, but bushy-tailed? Afraid not.

The absence of squirrels here is disconcerting.  I know they’re here somewhere - secretly amassing just out of sight, strategically lurking in congregation and preparing to pounce from the deepest corners of Paraguay when the most opportune moment presents itself.  Seriously, no squirrels?  What other possible explanation can there be?

I’ve definitely witnessed some cool animals and foreign flora since I’ve been here.  The nighttime silhouettes of tall coconut trees towering over the landscape are amazing.  Bright green birds are ubiquitous, Narnia-sized toads are commonplace, and unidentifiable lizards scurry across your path without first looking both ways.  A rogue cow joins a soccer game and nobody misses a beat.  I’ve already shared a bedroom with some creepier-end-of-the-spectrum spiders and at least two scorpions. 

And still, the absence of squirrels has to be the single most exotic thing that Paraguay has revealed thus far. 

After six weeks in country, I’m almost positive that it tops the list of things I cannot wrap my head around.  More so than the concept of adding charcoal straight into the pot of brewing mate.  More so than the train of thought which leads one to believe that a cold shower after a hot meal is perilous.  More so than the sight of a family of four (literally with infant in arms) rapidly cruising across jagged cobblestone on a tiny motorcycle.

Yes, more so than any of this, I cannot believe that I have gone a month and a half without seeing a single squirrel.  It’s completely unnerving.  What at first seems like such an insignificant contrast from everyday life back home slowly reveals itself to be troublingly obvious.  Constantly apparent.  Like a tiny, single acorn stockpiled in the nest of my subconscious, each squirrel-less moment is a subtle reminder that I’m out of my element, passing over foreign soil in a foreign land. 

Clearly, the larger, more noticeable differences can be just as unnerving and considerably more overwhelming– language barriers, cultural etiquette, technological disconnect.  But these discomforts are to be expected and are all things that I had both anticipated and braced myself for.  It’s the smaller changes, the ones that catch you by surprise while your attention is diverted towards the biggies, that will sometimes awaken you the most to the fact that you’re so far from any place you consider familiar.

I was mentally prepared to learn Guarani, drink terere and live without Internet.  These concepts are far from shocking.  But to know that this park or these woods are not home to a single squirrel?  That one’s gonna take some time.

Hypothetically Speaking

Before we go any further, let’s settle into this with a few hypotheticals.  If you ever happen to find yourself in Paraguay, frantically paddling to keep yourself culturally afloat, then maybe a few of these scenarios will be useful:

“Olympia or Cerro?”  I’ve only been in this country for 12 hours, I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about.  Oh, you’re asking me which is my favorite soccer team?  Can I take some time to get back to you on this one?  Am I actually being judged for not having an answer right now?  For real?

“Would you like a little bit of tea or coffee to add to your hot sugar milk?”  Probably.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but there’s very little room on this bus at the moment.  Would you mind standing on the first step with your back hanging out of the open door while I speed down the highway?”  Well, kind of, but okay… is that really my only choice? 

“Hey, do you want to kick the ball around the yard for a bit?”  Sure, but only if we can set the goal eight feet in front of where Grandma is sitting and then share a hearty laugh with her when the ball inevitably soars inches past her head…

Enough with hypotheticals, let’s move on to some concrete stuff.  This has been an insanely busy month and the final few weeks of training promise more of the same.  What does this mean for me?  Six day work weeks, mentally draining language immersion, a hearty helping of “adult learning techniques” featuring a bizarre amount of drawing, daily sunburns, almost non-existent Internet and telephone access, and very little of anything resembling free time.

More importantly, however – what does this mean for you? Quite simply that my posts here will be sparse and scattered until I have an increase in free time towards the beginning of May.

I would like to quickly mention, though, that if anybody reading is interested in some old-fashioned penpaling, I am completely open to receiving letters and will undoubtedly make the time to write back.  Not sure what postage is like from the USA to Paraguay, but it’s always fun to get real, tangible, paper mail.  I’ll attach my address to the end of this post.  And, of course, I’ll definitely continue receiving and responding to all emails as well if that’s more your style.

There will be more interesting updates to follow in the coming weeks and months, but I would like to leave you with this quick story of disconnectedness:  There was an unknown period of time of at least two week before I found out that A.J. Burnett had been trade.  All I currently know about it is what I quickly read in a semi-unrelated AP article that made passing mention to the trade.  And it was so brief and tangential that I’m still unsure if this actually happened in real life or if it was just part of an incredibly happy dream I had.  But since distance dictates that most of the next two baseball seasons will be left up to my imagination anyway, I suppose the truth doesn’t even really matter.

This commentary cannot be reproduced or retransmitted without the express written consent of:

Christopher Suriano, PCV

Cuerpo de Paz

162 Chaco Boreal c/Mcal. Lopez

Asuncion 1580, Paraguay

South America

Quick! Call now - time is running out!

It’s going to be summer next week.  Really excited for that.  Granted, I have been able to drive around the Northeast with the windows down for three of the past seven days.  So I guess that makes it a little less exciting.  Also slightly diminishing the fact is that, when translated literally, the Guaraní term for “summer” apparently comes out to “Louisiana in the dead of July without A/C but with the humidity plus five extra degrees at times for good measure.” Go ahead.  Look it up.  Prove me wrong.  I dare you.

Let’s get down to some nuts and bolts.  If my previous posts are any indication, you’ve probably realized that I’m not too keen on this sort of discussion.  Today, though, I’ll go ahead and humor you with a brief stroll through the hardware store.  I leave Albany on Tuesday afternoon and arrive in Miami later that evening for orientation.  On Wednesday, some other future expats and I will orientate and icebreak our way through the day before boarding a late night flight south.  Somewhere on Thursday’s schedule, and not to be overlooked, is an arrival in Paraguay.  I’ll go ahead and highlight that as *urgent* on my itinerary.  I’d hate to skip that one.

And then it all happens.

As for communication over the next several weeks, bear with me.  I will surely post updates on here and respond to all emails as time and Internet access permits.  A mailing address will be coming shortly, as well.  Stay tuned for that.  Beginning on Tuesday, my (518) cell phone number will no longer work.  Go ahead and call it if you’d like but know that I reserve the right to not call you back indefinitely and to look confused and hurt when you accuse me of not returning your calls.

Also, since I won’t be able to answer your future texts, please feel free to pick your favorite responses from the list below and use them as needed.  I think I’ve got most situations covered:

• Definitely.
• Leaving now… Be there in 10.
• Ok sounds good.
• Yeah, I saw that – it was awesome.
• can t now im dr ivng
• Burnett blew another 6-run lead?  For real?
• [the second half of that Shins lyric you just awkwardly sent me]
• Yes, Mom, I made it to _______ safely.  Sorry I didn't text you first thing when I got there.

I suppose this will be the last time I update this blog while I’m in NY.  I travelled throughout the area a lot over the past three weeks.  I’ve had an unreal amount of fun and said too many goodbyes.  Some of the toughest are yet to come.  I hesitate to use the word “emotional” because I really hate what its everyday connotation implies.  It conjures images of weakness and instability.  It evokes the scene where a giant, soaking Alice, cake in hand, helplessly cries herself a flood because she knows no other way of coping with a changing environment.  I’ve yet to shed a goodbye tear and, truthfully, I probably won’t.  That’s not typically my outward nature.  But I still can’t think of a better word to describe the recent days and weeks other than “emotional.”  That’s exactly what it’s been – a flurry of emotions and I’m thankful to have shared them with so many wonderful people.

Paraguay has some big shoes to fill.  This is a statement I’ve thrown around somewhat facetiously over the past few months.  Now, though, I say it genuinely and without pretense.  

Have a happy, healthy and unbelievably awesome 2012, America!

Railroad Ties

There’s a pretty notable nature preserve located in and around my hometown in New York.  It’s hardly the most interesting place to explore, but it’s considered something of a local treasure among 7^th grade science teachers and butterfly enthusiasts alike.  At the end of the day, though, wandering through the Pine Bush Preserve is simply a more desirable way to pass an afternoon than strolling through the mall.

Several weeks ago I was doing exactly this – following the yellow-marked trail a couple miles through soggy terrain when, around one bend, the trail happened upon a new, unmarked path to the left.   After walking a short distance in this direction I noticed a clearing a couple hundred feet through the woods.  Weaving through trees and brush I reached the open space and discovered a healthy stretch of railroad laying several miles in either direction.  Even though the tracks could hardly count as secluded - you could easily see an overpass with decent traffic flow a mile or two down the straightaway - I thought my little discovery was pretty cool.  But what I thought would be really cool, however, would be to watch a train ride by up close from where the woods met the clearing.

I crouched for 20 or 30 minutes but nothing came.  Turning back, I decided to return in a few days and stake out a spot where I could patiently wait for a train to chug by me in the woods.  In my mind, I figured this would be a neat - though admittedly romanticized - little event.  It was hard not to imagine the simple amusement of hearing a low whistle in the distance as it crescendos to a blaring locomotive exploding through the quiet woods.  Who wouldn’t be mesmerized by a powerful freight train speeding by just fast enough to make counting the sixty or seventy boxcars impossible?  Or by the rainbow blur of graffiti screeching alongside the rusty, battered cars? With no one around, wouldn’t it be cool to imagine that, if the train was going slow enough, you could hop on up and insert yourself into a sort of Mark Twain adventure?

           

I thought so, at least, and a week later I set out over scattered patches of snow to arrive at the same spot looking out on the tracks.  The scene was set – heightened by the sense that I was off the marked trail and possibly in violation of some vague trespassing ordinance - and I was ready to patiently wait all day for my train to pass if necessary.  Heck, the longer the wait the more rewarding the payoff, right?  Well, not even ten minutes passed before I heard a whistle and saw a white light off in the distance moving east-to-west.  Then, not 30 seconds later, the train was barreling by.  And then, just five seconds later, it was past me and gone.  So much for trying to count hundreds of cars or read the graffiti or imagine all the places it might be headed or what cargo it’s taking there.

           

For the record, I was able to do all that but the result was pretty underwhelming:  There was a whopping total of four cars, the graffiti was a neatly stenciled Amtrak logo, the cargo was probably a few dozen business suits passing through Albany and it was gone quicker than it got here.  Talk about a letdown.  I didn’t even get the chance to stake it out all afternoon!  Plus, I was reminded how much I hate that terrible whooshing feeling you get while waiting at the subway station as the train zooms in. And I’m damn sure that Huck Finn never hopped an Amtrak.  Where’s the poetry in all that?

           

And so, fast-forward a month and a half.  I guess my biggest concern as I get ready to embark on the next two years is what if it can’t live up to the scene I’ve set in my mind?  What if my imagination is so revved up that reality has no choice but to be underwhelming? If over the course of one week I can overhype an ordinary railroad track in the middle of nowhere then it’s scary what sorts of damage my mind can do leading up to a foreign experience complete with a new country, job, people, and opportunities.

I have made it a point to temper my expectations as best I can about where I will be going and what projects I will be working on and everyone that I will be meeting.  To be honest, that hasn’t been as horribly difficult as you might believe.  What I’ve been unable to do, however, is avoid imagining how incredible the experience as a whole might be.  It’s been close to six months since I’ve known that my destination is Paraguay and that boils down to a lot of time inside my own head.  I cannot wait for the moment next week when I get to erase my notion of what this experience ought to be like and replace it with what it actually is.

Dear Abby – Why? Sincerely, Rilo in Albany

For a few months now I’ve found it interesting to observe the variety of reactions I get when I mention to somebody that I am headed to the Peace Corps. Two of these seem to pop up most frequently.  The first is one I’m particularly familiar with because it is the exact reaction that I’ve had each time someone else has mentioned their Peace Corps experience to me – a glimmer of jealousy and intrigue followed by a lot of excited exclamations like “Where?” and “When?” and “That’s so cool!” 

I’m more interested in discussing the other frequent response, though.  This one is usually offered up a bit more solemnly after processing some of what the job entails.  It revolves around the questions “Won’t that be overwhelming?” and “Aren’t you scared?”  Initially, I tried to shake this question off and play it cool but people weren’t buying it.  Pretty soon I realized I wasn’t buying it myself.  So to answer that question – Yes, it will be overwhelming.  But I’m pretty sure that’s part of the point.

I am aware that this is going to be an overwhelming couple of years.  I also acknowledge that there will be times when the emotional rollercoaster is banking so hard left and dropping down so fast that I will laugh at myself for having the nerve to believe I could be aware of how overwhelming it might get in advance.  But I’ve reached the point where I’m welcoming that.  For a while now I’ve done a good job of underwhelming myself on a day-to-day basis.  When the toughest decision you make all day requires standing in Best Buy for twenty minutes debating whether or not to get season two of Fraggle Rock while it’s still on sale, then maybe it’s time for a change.  When you find yourself emailing Dear Abby a slew of Rilo Kiley lyrics simply as a means to entertain yourself, then perhaps a new continent is worth looking into.

So, yes, I am beginning to feel anxious.  But it’s the good kind of anxious.

And still, to my surprise, missing from nearly all of these reactions is the question, “Why?”  The topic of my personal motivations for going to Paraguay and the numerous branches of inquiry that can stem from this line of thought are rarely approached.  Aside from acknowledging that this can be a relatively intimate question to bring up in light conversation, I get the sense that it just doesn’t occur to most people to ask.  I suppose when people hear that someone is going into the Peace Corps, it’s pretty easy to assume what’s motivating him.  The transference of your own convictions onto another combined with the canned cliché of “trying to save the world” probably makes asking “Why?” an afterthought.

I had genuinely expected this to come up more often than it has and I am (somewhat embarrassed to admit) genuinely relieved that it is not often asked.  I tend to fumble around my answer when discussing my reasons for wanting to work in the Peace Corps.  This is certainly not to say that I am unaware of what motivates me or that I’m doing this on a whim.  Nor is it to say that there isn’t some small, altruistic slice of me that would like to “try to save the world.”  Who wouldn't?  But that’s just a simple fraction of my motivation. I’ve had trouble expressing it to others because it’s a complex combination of so many things that has led me to this point and it’s difficult to neatly categorize and differentiate Reason #1 from Reason #2 and so on.

Compared to all that, it’s easier to just spend $15 and watch some Muppets run around in an underground cave for a few hours.  But I’m kind of over that for now.

The Paraguayan delta was...

Welcome.  Thanks for stumbling across this page.  Pull up a chair.  Make yourself comfortable.  I don’t mind feet on the furniture.

This is where I will be sharing my thoughts as I spend the next two years in Paraguay working with the Peace Corps.  To be honest, I’m not really sure how often I will be posting updates.  My knack for writer’s block coupled with what I can only assume will be a less-than-reliable Internet connection may lead to fewer posts than I’m hoping for.  Also, since this is essentially the first time that anyone without academic tenure or a professional responsibility has read my writing in six or seven years, it may take some time to get comfortable myself.

Just as I can’t accurately predict what my experience in Paraguay will be like before I start living it, I don’t really know what shape this blog is going to take yet, either.  I have a few vague ideas about what I don’t want it to become  - a) a dry, boring account of my day-to-day routine, b) a soapbox.  My guess is that I will try to straddle the fence between staying connected with anyone reading back home and simply keeping myself entertained.  If I wind up leaning too far in one direction for your liking and tumble over, I apologize in advance for messing up the neighbor’s lawn. 

And now a few surface-level words about the blog’s title: 

·      Yeah, it’s a play on Paul Simon’s “Graceland” and what I think are some of the most unquestionably great opening lines to a song

·      No, I don’t actually play the guitar

So come on back.  Bring your friends.  Don’t be shy.  Post some comments.  I hope you like what I’ve done with the place.

On that note, I’d like to open up the floor for some questions –

Q.  I just read your blurb about the blog’s title and I still don’t like it.  I think it’s pretentious and stupid.  I mean you’re barely even musical, right?

A.  Your comments are valid and uninteresting.  I’ll be sure to forward them to management.  I appreciate your concern.

Q.  So let me get this straight – you finish college, spend two years as an AmeriCorps and now you’re joining the Peace Corps?  Are you still putting off the real world?  When are you going to get a real job and actually contribute something to society?

A.  Really?  This again?  Are we really gonna keep playing this game?  Next question.

Q. What sort of work will you be doing in Paraguay?

A.  Rural health and water sanitation.

Q. That seems pretty vague.  Do you have any idea what that will consist of?

A.  Yeah, kind of.

Q.  ¿Hablas español?

A.  Huh?

Q.  Will you go on record as to how recently it was that you learned to place Paraguay on a blank map?

A.  No, probably not.  I don’t like where these questions are headed.  That’s gonna be all for now.