A Colombian Thanksgiving, can-free pumpkins*

Thanksgiving is this Thursday, and whereas I originally thought it might be an unfortunate Thanksgiving-less year (like the one three years ago spent in a Swiss train station), it now looks like I´ll be celebrating it twice. If my stomach can stretch to accommodate, that is. Which it will. Thanksgiving lunch with the family of the church leaders (the wife is American, the husband went to college in the US, and the children attend an English-speaking school) and then Thanksgiving dinner with the other Fulbright kids. I´d like to make mom´s famous pumpkin pie cake, a la colombiana, which will mean raw pumpkin, or some sort of Colombian pumpkin/ squash conglomerate. Messy, but certainly doable. Repeatable, recommendable, or edible? Hm—I´ll be your trusty guide.

Internet directions I´ve cursorily looked at for cooking raw pumpkin begin with scraping out the “brains.” One site recommends cutting the pumpkin in half with a hand saw. I´ve also just learned that the right kind of pumpkin is necessary—Halloween pumpkins used for toothy jack-o-lanterns are apparently a far cry from what you find in the cans in the supermarket aisle. “You would not want to eat a Halloween pumpkin,” according to the source. Which sounds definitive. The things you learn in internet forums! If I had read further on, I could have learned the answers to more of life´s most pressing culinary questions, such as, “What if our Turkey is Blue?” and “I bought this sandwich maker yesterday. I need ur ideas?” or “What are some foods/ dishes that have to do with grapes?” Always good to put my problems in perspective.

*Humanely raised in large, open patches, can-free pumpkins are allotted three hours per day to walk around in sunshine and fresh air and do not suffer the cruel practice of having their stems seared off. These practices translate to an overall greater pumpkin happiness that you can taste.

Bobs and notions

Without a single thought of anticipation, I lopped off six inches of hair today. O sea, I let Leonardo whittle down my locks to a little bob between ears and shoulders. I was in the car with Yadi and Alba, about to be dropped off, when Yadi saw a peluquería in my neighborhood and cried out that she wanted to cut and color her hair, so I impulsively said me too! (suddenly realizing that a haircut was just the thing), and Alba also chimed in, making us a fabulous, impetuous trio. Didn´t know any haircut vocabulary and felt rather indifferent and trusting about it all, just wanting a change, so the end result is Leonardo´s interpretation of my lousy, non-sensical directions and the creative muses at work in his fingers. Ended up holding off on the color for the moment, but I may be back later in the week if further change is seen to be necessary.

At lunch, the group of friends decided, with no forewarning or explanation, that today would be ch day for Katie´s Spanish Vocabulary. Thus, I present to you/ confound you with:

chiflado/a—crazy

chascarrillo—small joke, funny story

choncho/a—chubby

chato/a—pug-nosed

chando/a—bad, lame, crappy (apparently a very low-class word, off-limits to ladies)

So, this is how I am filling in the millions of gaps in my Spanish, one trivial word at a time. Though it´s kind of amazing to think about how all these non-essentials (pug-nosed?) slowly build to something of such substance and significance. Like, being able to one day express myself by saying exactly what I mean and not an approximation, not a code, not a secret wrapped inside a secret. I get the spelled-out, literal gist of the words but know there´s so much meaning and resonance and purpose escaping me. I don´t truly understand and I certainly can´t remember from one day to the next what I´ve just learned, so I´m writing it all down. Small pieces of folded paper covered with the tiny lists litter my apartment; several Excel sheets are helping me alphabetically keep track of the vocabulary. As if each one were an IOU, an oath, a promise that one day I´ll be able to redeem these funny phrases for something incredible, something standing up so much larger and meaningful than the words themselves or little ole me scurrying to find them.

Thoughts before sleeping

Serious salsa tonight—yessss. Probably my second-best night of dancing these past few months. Tonight was with four friends from the university, and one of them, Antonio, a fantastic dancer, graciously showed me several new moves (and was patient enough to demonstrate them over and over again until I got them down). I´m finally starting to put together and integrate the various moves people have shown me,  more able to intuitively and smoothly respond to the music and my partner. Colombian salsa is completely different from the salsa I was dancing all summer—same music, same beats, but different (more complicated) footwork and tempo. Much more energetic and, well, kind of wild. It´s a lot of fun. I´m so glad I´m young and have so many years left to live (I hope), years to fill with dancing. I still need to learn how to knit and bake bread and garden and tango and pray and be disciplined and a host of other things, but I feel like I´ve got my foot in the door that leads to those skills, having come a decent distance in salsa. I love it.

Just got home, and it´s almost 3. Listening to Satie Gnossiennes on Youtube to help my mind and body slow down, get ready to expire for the night. Plus, they´re beautiful. Tomorrow Valentina and Mateo, little neighbor children, are going to come rattle my gate at 7 to ask me to ride bikes with them (Sundays there is Ciclovía, where several major roads in the city have half the lanes shut down so people and families can ride bikes and rollerblade and walk from 7-2), so I need to go to bed so I can be ready for them. What a way to be awoken, what a way to usher in the week. I choose to say it has significance.

Shadoobie Jackson

The New York Times word blog is asking readers to submit their personal/family words that they use when they can´t remember the name of something—whatchamacallit, thingamajig, doohickey, whatshisname, etc. Reading the submissions was great fun—the whatintheheckin, whatsinplotzin, dingus, whatshisbucket, hoogiesniggle, frammis, kazobber, hootchiemotcher, flotchie, gazornenplatz, whosiewhatsit, hoochiegotchie, doomaflotchy, dealiebob, etc. I´m obviously having way too much fun with this. Shadoobie Jackson was my favorite. Sometimes knowing the precise word is so overrated. Now, if you´ll excuse me, I´ve got to hoogiesniggle. You know what I mean!

“Shadoobie Jackson

I’m not sure where my manager got this but he uses it (and so do the rest of us) to describe everything. You see, I work at Pottery Barn where the names for products, especially the color of products, require at least four months of working there to even try to remember the name of something (And when a guest comes in who has no idea what something is called, matters get worse). At any rate, whenever one of us has a brainfart and can’t remember the name of a sofa or the color of a pillow, we’ll insert shadoobie jackson instead:

“Stock support, can I get a check in pillow covers?”
“Sure, what are you looking for?”
“Uh…uh…the silk pillow in uh…uhh…the shadoobie jackson color.”

It’s especially fantastic when stock knows exactly what we need.”

Schott´s Vocab

The signals we give

“Also, a million apologies if this is in any way presumptuous or tactless on my part, but I feel that I should let you know, just in case, that I am not interested in dating you. I enjoy meeting people and making new friends, but don´t want to waste your time, money, or energy if you were hoping for more, and don´t want to give you false hope. And it´s perfectly ok if you decide not to go out tonight, after all. But let me know beforehand, ok?”

—Part of an email I sent today, eyes closed, fingers crossed, hoping my desire for sincerity and transparent motives would be understood and appreciated. It was—loved, actually. It is such a relief to be upfront! I am a terrible procrastinator, but this is one area of life in which I´ve pretty much got the urgency thing down. You really can´t spare a person heartache and disappointment soon enough. Then proceeded to spend the next three hours immensely comfortable in a deep and honest conversation on what turned out to be a surprisingly really nice, well, (grr—but what else can you call it?) date.

Redirected

The day was full of small disappointments and misses, minor setbacks and lots of waiting, but it´s ok. That just means I was alive today. Some days, I swear I pass twenty-four hours and that´s not the case. These scrapes and snags are what happens (and they are glorious, in their way) when you live with other people, accepting all that comes with that–the surprises, letdowns, absurdities, miracles, and tragedies. And giving, too, or trying to remember to, not just walking around with your mouth open and your hands cupped.

I ordered a pair of the coolest, rockingest handmade black and red shoes last Sunday at the crafts market, and the boy delivered them today. They fit but just barely, my feet squeezing into them only after a long tussle full of wriggling and hopping. So then, no. That was lame, but it´s ok because the boy (Gustavo, probably around my age) delivered them on his bike, having ridden from the factory, and there was something beautiful about talking to him through the bars of the gate in the early morning, him balanced on the motionless bike and me, makeupless, precariously holding myself together, coming out of a day of solitude. And he was so kind, so unexpectedly kind and caring, taking much more time to talk to me than necessary. He left with the shoes; they´re going to make me another pair; I´ll see him again on Saturday.

Fanny and Yadi came by the apartment a little later but rang the wrong doorbell, a habit of Fanny´s, and so missed me. I met with them later, and then Yadi and I went out to lunch, joining her friend Johanna. Afterwards, I accidentally left my keys in Yadi´s car, which was annoying until I remembered how I had begun the day desperately wanting to avoid another self-imposed sentence in the apartment. I just didn´t realize that my subconscious would be so willing and able to help. Took a bus to Yadi´s work to retrieve the keys along a route I should know by heart but somehow distractedly got off eight blocks too early. My heart sunk for a second, irritated at my stupid error. Then I did an about-face, gratefully realizing the marvelous opportunity I had to be outside, amongst crowds, exploring, in the warm sun, alive and in motion. Sometimes I get so far away from health I need it forced on me. Forgotten keys and wrong detours seem part of some benevolent conspiracy to help, to gently redirect my steps according to what I need and not what I fear.

Waited for what seemed like a long time in Yadi´s office as she finished up a few things (no me demoro mucho!), and then again (ya vengo!) in her car afterwards as she rushed into a meeting, this time for almost an hour. Waiting can be so boring and frustrating as you wait and fidget and wish for something that is not there, indignant to have your time wasted. But it doesn´t have to produce such discontent. I finally gave in to it, letting myself relax and even enjoy the experience, as non-exciting and uneventful as it was. Ripped a page out of a book and wrote. Read a four-page English article on Gandhi that was incongruously on the backseat. Watched three teenagers walk by speaking in sign language. That time in the car turned out to be my only time alone all day. Like a tiny rivulet of water silently running its crooked course, the day nonchalantly made one unexpected, unexceptional bend after another, guiding me nowhere flashy or impressive, just leading me away from muddles and closer to some kind of wellness that I want and need and had asked for.

Not the kind of beauty I typically look for, but beauty nonetheless

If you want to know the most pressing news story of the day here in Colombia, if you want to be completely up-to-date on the issues every Colombian is thinking about, look no further nor deeper than the Miss Colombia 2009 pageant. The final ceremonies were last night, taking place in Cartagena, Colombia´s fifth largest city. The city goes crazy the week of the pageant, and the rest of the country is not far behind in the madness. Schools are closed (yup, no classes for a beauty pageant) and the entire city is taken over by all manner of indulgence and merrymaking. My new friend Linnéa, who teaches at an international school in Cartagena, escaped to Bogotá for the week to find mellower climes. Apparently, it´s typical to have eggs or bags of flour thrown at you in the street by spirited Cartagenians during this festive time, a scenario I believe no American would know how to good-naturedly react to. I hadn´t been paying much attention to all the hoopla before last night, but like the good little culturally-aware immigrant I am trying to be, I dutifully tuned in last night with Fanny to be able to make better sense of this strange place I find myself living in. And to see beautiful women in bikinis. Beauty is alive and well in our times, have no fear.

 

Here is the winner, Natalia Navarro Galvis, from the Bolivar department. Twenty-two, attends college in Miami. But who cares about her–I was infinitely more interested in last year´s winner, Michelle Rouillard Estrada, who is to her right. After winning, she cut her hair because she felt more comfortable that way, earning herself the nation´s disappointment and scolds for doing something so rebellious and unfeminine. Also because they all think this will disastrously ruin her chances for the Miss Universe pageant, the next destination for all Miss Country winners. Do you know the differences and heirarchy between Miss Country, Miss Universe, Miss International, Miss World, and Miss Earth? I´ve just learned, and should be able to keep them straight in my mind the minute I start to care. Anyway, I was completely enchanted by Michelle´s dress. I´ve spent all morning trying to find a good picture and it seems none exists. Floor-length, peacock design, feathers on the shoulder. Lauren, these should have been your bridesmaids´dresses!

 

Just for fun– part of the national costume competition. Another dress I want.

 

The five in the front are the five finalists; behind are the other contestants. Beautiful women, all of them. Oh look, there´s Michelle in the background and you can see a full-length profile shot of the dress. Lovely, lovely. Where can I order this? I have the money.

You might think that I would be feeling a bit depressed right about now, my mind inundated with the faces and bodies of these perfectly gorgeous creatures. Not at all. I too once was once in a beauty pageant and placed very well. It was among friends, and here is a picture from the evening gown competition. I cannot be pressed to give names, but I believe we will be very easily recognizable by our features by those who know us well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cookies

Every once in a blue moon, I accidentally eat nothing all day long and then a big dinner of cookies. Today was one of those days. Oops.

 

 

Living in satire for a day

Something is wrong with my phone. This morning a little envelope on the screen told me that I had text messages, and then the first message asked me if I would be up for dinner tonight, the most rhetorical question I´ve ever been asked. But then I saw that it had been sent three days ago, having run on foot all the way and then nearly died on arrival. Then another. And another. One invited me to a Frida Kahlo exhibit and lunch, another said that people were waiting for me. I´m not uncared for, after all—my loneliness is due to technical malfunctions, a loose spring or an overheated circuit board or errant signals! I´m living three days behind the rest of the world, Katie 1.0 while everyone else is in Vista. My present is everyone else´s past, and everyone else had long assumed I just wasn´t interested, that I must have had better plans and couldn´t even deign to send a text back. This I can fix.

The New York Metropolitan Opera does global live broadcasts, and I fortuitously found out last week while flipping through the newspaper that theaters here in Bogotá were showing Turandot this Saturday and the last. Turandot is wonderful- I saw it in Vienna with Lee Flatt and others three years ago. And the Met, well. One of the best experiences of my life was seeing La Bohème last Christmas in New York. I wanted to go but felt it was unlikely any of my friends or acquaintances here would spring at the invitation, and I wouldn´t want someone to sit through a three-hour opera just to be nice and keep me company. I waited and waited and finally decided, the hell with it, I would go by myself. Very atypical of me, very non-ideal, but it seemed like some sort of test of strength. Karate chop a stack of bricks with your bare hand, wear a hairshirt all your life, go by yourself to the opera. I could do it. Afterwards I would go and get a tattoo to commemorate the experience. A pretendiente (suitor) had to call me last night and ruin everything, inviting himself along, and I was just lonely enough in that moment to assent, fantasies of being a fantastic fearless female pushed to another year, another opera. We went but missed it in a sequence of hapless bungles. Went to lunch instead, and then darted into a grocery store to buy something in order to break a large bill. In the checkout lane, saw this book:

English title–On My Own: The Art of Being Alone

Perfect! I thought, sensing an undeniable intervention by a divine hand. I had to read this book; God wanted me to. If the cover were any indication, it spoke word for word to the stage of life I´m in. I was in this weird mood where I would have bought the book if I´d had the money on me, the sort of mood that said, yeah, I´m lonely and I don´t care who knows it. Where I was no longer impressed or even all that depressed by it myself—ready for what´s next, ready to stop defining myself by that one adjective, ready to channel all that energy and free time and do something. Unfortunately, however, books in Colombia are prohibitively expensive and I didn´t have much on me in the first place. So, it was not the book´s day, just like it was not the opera´s day. Later on, I looked up the book on Amazon out of curiosity. I had been feeling more and more suspicious of the book since my initial embrace, doubting that first girlish swoon. What author is named Florence Falk? What real person for that matter? Maybe Latin book publishers regularly put English pseudonyms on books with the hope of driving sales. I felt skeptical. Well, it appears she does exist, though Amazon had her name as FALK FLORENCE for the Spanish edition. Skimming the reviews wasn´t encouraging—alleged cringe-worthy flowery language, another called it “almost inspiring.” Alas. Maybe God has something better for me to read, then. Maybe I´ll just write my own book on the blessed art of being alone. Maybe I needed this day filled with sparkling absurdities for some very real reason unseen by me but very much believed in.