Saying Goodbye

By Beth

December 17, 2009

On my last full day in São Tomé, the sun is blazing. My boyfriend, Kilson, and I spend the day at the beach, swimming off Ned's dock, taking pictures, dancing in the street to neighbors' loud music, sipping beers at a cafe strung with Christmas lights. From Ned's dock, sopping wet and in our bathing suits, we watch TAAG- Angola's airline- touch down on the runway close to Ned's house. Kilson's sister's boyfriend is on that plane and we take my motorcycle and rush to the airport, as do a couple hundred other São Tomeans.

And as I watch the crowd at the airport in the setting sun, I can't help but think about the fact that the next time I see the sun again, I will be in the very same airport, with my suitcase, leaving. Kilson is very good at detaching and putting on a smile so I don't know if he is thinking the same thing, but he must be. A knot forms in my stomach. On one hand, I have got to go back to the States because I have the best chance there of finding someone to finance more computers for the São João school. On the other hand, I can't bear to leave Kilson behind.

I have wondered if Kilson and my relationship is mostly enchanted by the new surroundings and the paradise-like atmosphere. That may have been how it began. But I also think I am just simply enchanted by Kilson, and the man that he is. So many times our lives in São Tomé have been a hindrance to our relationship rather than a help. We never have a place to go that is our own, for example. But we have survived it all and with flying colors, and now leaving a boyfriend behind is one of the hardest things to do.

My friend AJ tells me of friends of his that left behind relationships upon finishing the Peace Corps. When you're countries and countries away and not sure when you will be back, it's impossible to ask the other person to wait for you, no matter how much you want them to. Kilson and I only dated for maybe six weeks but he very quickly became my best friend on the island. Yet during the last two weeks, our relationship was very trying. We got into countless arguments. In addition to the fact that I was leaving, his sister was coming home for Christmas- the first time he would see her in nine years. I was hustling to get the computer program at São João minimally stable, writing guidebooks, meeting with teachers, writing grant proposals.Often we would start play-fighting...but then it would end up as a real fight. Both of us were about at the end of our ropes...stressed out of our minds.


But our last day together is perfect. We have both reached a level of peace with the fact that I am leaving. There is nothing we can do to stop it. And in this recognition the stress drips off and let ourselves enjoy each other. We fall in love all over again. We are done fighting with each other; for each other. We surrender our stubborn selves to the inevitable.

If Abercrombie São Tomé existed, it would be us in this picture.

The next morning on the plane to Portugal I rub Kilson's necklace that he gave me. It is a grain of rice that he got in Cuba with his name painted onto it. For four of the six hours of flight I write in my journal about him. I am not ready to get him go. When I arrive at my cousin João's house in the little town of Val Florido in Portugal, a stopping point on my journey home, João's wife, Elsa, offers me their phone. They say if I need to call my dad or anyone else, to feel free.  I call my dad but then I call Kilson. I hear his voice light up on the other end. “I'm so glad you called,” he says. “I've been thinking about you all day.”

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two (Part 2)!

By AJ

Last month, I focused on the parts of male culture that I saw in South Africa that promoted infidelity and having multiple girlfriends, or cherries (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/27/get-yourself-a-girlfriend-or-two/).  There is more to the story though.  The pressure doesn't just come from other guys, but from some girls too.

Now most women who have traveled abroad will probably have experienced some of the unwanted attention that is a result of a healthy patriarchy.  If you are unfamiliar with this, see: (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/15/shes-with-me/).  One of the reasons this kind of behavior is so alive and well is because a lot of women play into it. The few that don't are mavericks like Mpho (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/11/starting-the-conversation/). But there is a story you may not often hear, and that is of the unexpected attention that men sometimes get when traveling abroad.

“Un”wanted Attention
I'd been at my site for almost two months and I was finally beginning to put names to faces.  I had almost all the teachers down but was lost with the 500+ kids at the high school.  Only a few stood out, like Mofokeng, who taught me to herd goats after school, Thabiso, who spoke great English and was teaching me seTswana, and Patience, whose powerful voice led the entire school in song at each morning assembly.  She was a senior and a pretty girl. Each day after school as I walked home, I'd pass her and her group of friends as they chatted.  Patience would always greet me with a big smile.  One day, she called me over to chat.

“KB, when are you going to make us dinner.” (KB was my nickname)
“I think there's a misunderstanding. I'm not making any dinner.”
“Can we come over to visit you then?”
“Umm, I guess so, everyone here knows where I live.”
“Can I spend the night?”
“No no no no...and in fact, maybe you shouldn't come over...”

I hastily beat a retreat down the dusty road.  This was not the first nor the last time I'd turn down such propositions and flirtations.

One instance was more subtle, but far more troubling.  Lerato was a relative of my host family and often came over to help with errands and take care of the babies.  She was one of my early allies as I struggled to master seTswana. She'd often help translate what people were saying in broken English.  One day as we were baby-sitting the two year old Tlotlo, I tried to teach her “Rock, Paper, Scissors.”  After a few minutes she gave up and insisted on showing me a game.  She held out her right hand in a fist.  She wiggled her thumb, and told me to raise it. Then she wiggled her index finger.  Then her thumb again, this time indicating to put it down. And finally she wiggled her index finger again.  As I looked to ask what was next in this game, she gave me a big smile and I looked down again at her hand. “Oh shit...” I thought to myself.  The hand gesture, which some of you may know as sign language for “t”, in South Africa is one of many ways to subtly say, “I want to have sex with you.”  I looked at Lerato with terror in my eyes and shook my head to try to erase any mixed signals I may have unintentionally sent.  It's not that I'm terrified of girls, just that Lerato was 14 at the time.

Unfamiliar territory
From what I've seen, in the world of guys, unless you happen to be a Brad Pitt look alike or the star quarterback, it's unlikely that you'll find girls aggressively hitting on you.  Flirting is an entirely different matter, but most of us are not used to having a girl directly communicate that they want us.  The onus is on the guy to make the first move in general.  When an American guy is then placed into this unfamiliar circumstance where he might have to actually bat away girls, there are many problems that can arise.  Quite honestly, it feels kind of nice for a change and it can be very tempting for a guy alone in a foreign place.  Some lucky ones find meaningful relationships but unfortunately, in most cases, I think the American guy is viewed as an economic rather than an emotional investment.
In places where male promiscuity is boasted about, it's often the case that female virginity and fidelity are highly prized.  This asymmetry shouldn't be mistaken for practice.  If every guy has multiple sexual partners, it's highly unlikely that all the women are sticking to one guy.  When I started my service I was in a long distance relationship.  I thought that the answer that I had a girlfriend would be enough to  end the discussion.  I was taken aback when some girls responded with, “But she is so far away. You need a girlfriend here.”  Another volunteer working in the health sector was told by people in his organization that he should knock up some local girls in order to “leave a remembrance” of himself for them.  Perhaps, as I discussed previously, there should be some kind of menist movement, but the feminist movement still has plenty of work out there globally and more men we get behind it rather than obstructing it, the better.

Shades of Grey
Like so many other issues, the issue of male promiscuity can't be pinned down to one thing alone.  Sometimes there is pressure from both men AND women for guys to be promiscuous. It's not an excuse.  But it's something to think about before demonizing men. Lots of the married male teachers I knew and worked with had stuff going on with women in the village, some even with students.  In some cases, I already didn't get along with them for other reasons and this just added fuel to the fire. In some cases though, it was a tortuous relationship because I knew some of these guys were good people and good teachers but that under a very heavy societal and physical pressure they had made a few choices that were not the best.

When traveling or working abroad, you will occasionally find the guys that are true free thinkers that swim against the patriarchy like the friend I described in my last column.  More often, you will find guys that are doing some things that clash with your sensibilities. Some may be jerks that you want nothing to do with. Others though, may actually be decent people that could be quite helpful.  It's not easy to tell sometimes but it's worth the effort to find out.

City Crush- Prague

By Megan

We were in the middle of our 'northern' European trip, enjoying a white peony tea in a shop near Wenceslas Square when I knew- I was in love.  It was as if I had fallen into an Audrey Tautou movie, except my hair was convinced on growing dreadlocks and looking quite wild.  I braided my hair and opened my arms wide ready for an adventure.
Our hostel was adorable (SIR TOBY'S; see my favorites at http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/a-go-girls-guide-to-hosteling/) and filled with several interesting characters.  There was a father introducing his two young sons to hosteling and the charms of Prague, a boy from Singapore who had been backpacking for several weeks, and of course, my new friend Anton from Sweden.  The lady at the DELICIOUS homemade granola breakfast bar giggled when I informed her that the jug of agua was empty.  A helpful guy making pancakes translated my vocabulary slip-up for me with a thumbs up, as a refilled my cup of water.
Prague itself was warm and the tank tops finally started to pull their weight, especially on a walk across Charles Bridge towards the Prague Castle.  I still remember the torture chamber and tiny shop doors of the castle ground, but walking up the stairs to the castle was half of the fun.
The next evening, I went back to the castle with my new friends at night and hiked the stairs with the city lights in the background.  Prague had me swooning in the palm of its hand; romantic vistas, a bohemian style that didn't feel forced, and a music/arts scene so diverse that admirers still enjoy Mucha's art nouveau advertisements.  Speaking to the diversity of the city's arts, my friend and I enjoyed a concert through the Fringe Festival, in a small basement bar, by a Scottish singer/songwriter before walking through the historic Jewish quarters in search of dinner.
Later that night, with a so-so gelato in hand, I watched as the famous astronomical clock let 'death' chime in nine o'clock.  It wasn't too exciting to see, until I learned that it was built in the 1400s and nearly destroyed in WWII.  (Quite the commentary that 'death', represented by a skeleton, ticks away the time especially considering the new year...)

Our next day, we climbed the 'Eiffel' tower, which gave us fantastic views of the city and has very cool double helix stairs.  Then, we went across the city to view a most confusing t.v. tower covered in giant crawling babies.  I still don't get it.  It was decided that one more night in the country was necessary, so my travel partner decided to tour a concentration camp ,while I went with my new bud to Kutná Hora for a day trip.  The next day (and next week's entry) promised to be interesting...

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two!

By AJ

When trying to think of a topic for this months column, I found myself skimming through accounts of women's travels to dig up some themes. Something that comes up again and again is outrage or at least incomprehension at how acceptable it is for men to be unfaithful to their partners in some countries.  I haven't done any kind of study, but from what I've seen and read, it seems like it's fairly common in Africa and Latin America.

Now, I'm not talking about the usual double standard; that a guy that gets around is a player whereas a woman that does the same is a slutty ho.  That still is fairly alive and well in the U.S.A.  I'm talking about an attitude that is so pervasive that, as a married man with children, your masculinity will be questioned if you do not have a few mistresses on the side.

Before I get rolling, let me be clear about what I am NOT saying.  I'm not commenting one way or the other on open relationships where all partners are in the know and agree to be open.  Purely from a public health standpoint, I will just say that great care must be taken (especially in southern Africa) because having concurrent sexual partners seems to spread HIV faster than serial monogamy (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/20/AR2007112001676_2.html). I'm also not in any way trying to excuse infidelity in a committed relationship.

What I am going to do in this column and the next, is to try to paint a picture of what this all looks like from a guys perspective.

Part I: Cherry Picking

As Beth points out in “Sexism and Candy” http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/15/sexism-and-candy/, there is sometimes a machismo that dominates male culture.  Sometimes it's strange how much resolve it takes simply to do the “right” thing when everyone around you says you aren't a man.
One day after school, Mr. Tshabang and I decided to go to the local clinic to try to build a partnership in the HIV/AIDS awareness campaign we were trying to start.  The clinic was located about 7 km from the school.  Fortunately we were able to get a ride from two other teachers, Mr. Ndlovu and Mr. Manchusi.  At the clinic, Tshabang and I brainstormed ideas with the nurses on topics such as condom distribution, testing drives, and educational talks.  After making a few plans for cooperation, we got back in the car and headed back towards the school.  After a few kilometers, we diverted off the main road and pulled up to a house.  Ndlovu got out and with a big grin said he'd be back soon. Manchusi joined him as they went inside.

Tshabang and I sat for a few minutes of awkward silence before I finally asked what exactly was going on.

“Ndlovu is visiting his 'cherry' in there.”

It took me a few seconds to make the connection and then it dawned on me.  'Cherry' is a slang term for a mistress.  I knew all of these men were married and had children, but were now far from their families because of work. Such is the nature of the South African migrant worker-based economy.  Mr. Tshabang waited for a bit before speaking again.

“You know, I really don't agree with that type of behavior.”

“I'm glad, Mr. Tshabang, because neither do I.”

In that moment of solidarity, Tshabang opened up.  Almost all the male teachers had several “cherries”, some of whom were students.  When he'd joined the school a few months ago, they had tried to pressure him into taking a few of his own.  He'd resisted and as a result had been ostracized.  He was here, in the desert, earning money to support his wife and children, over 700 km away, and the colleagues who should have been his support had pushed him away.

Mr. Tshabang is a thin guy. He is even skinnier than me.  But as I would learn over the years, his slight frame contained an incredible character.  He had a powerful voice, and would MC school events of hundreds of people without a microphone.  His legs may have been wires, but he could run like the wind.  And he had unshakable moral fiber and resolve.  He became one of my closest allies and trusted friends.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be the exception rather than the rule among the male teachers.  Even I got some of the pressure. Every month or so, somehow my conversations with Ndlovu would get to the topic of my love life. Having a girlfriend at home had not been enough to satisfy him. I had to have something going on locally.  One day I finally got him off my back.

“So tell me KB, how are you taking care of yourself?”

“Well, I exercise every day. I eat well and make sure I get a good night's sleep...”

“No no, I mean, how are you taking care of yourself?”

“I'm sorry Ndlovu, I don't follow you.” (The standard, play dumb strategy)

“You know KB. A man has needs.”

“Oh, you mean masturbation?” (The standard, make him really uncomfortable strategy)

“No! No more talk of masturbation.  You know it's only natural that a man has a woman somewhere. It's how nature works.  All the animals do it. When the lion is hungry, it must eat.”

“You know what the difference is between an animal and a man?  An animal is driven by its desires, its hungers.  A real man can make choices and be driven by principles rather than desires.” (I do realize that this statement is not entirely accurate for animals, but it served to make a point)

“Is that so?”

“Yes it is. So which one are you?”

With a laugh, Ndlovu quickly left the room and never brought up the topic again.
As I mentored the young men in my camps and classes, I could see some of them torn between what they thought was right and what the popular culture was telling them was right.  Tshabang and I tried our best to provide an example, but we were vastly outnumbered by the Ndlovu's.

I sometimes think that there needs to be a “men”ist movement.  Feminism has done a tremendous amount to raise consciousness in our society, and in particular to empower the women of today.  (There is still much to do on this front, as I'll discuss next time.)

For true equality, there must be more than feminism. There must be a substantial change in the culture of manhood that pervades most of the world today. I'm not talking about an emasculation as my male opponents might cry out. On the contrary, I'm talking about being a real man.

[Note: The incidents listed above are as accurate as I can recall.  Only the names have been changed, not because I want to protect guys like Ndlovu, but because I don't want to compromise the ability of future volunteers working at my site.]

There With You

By Megan
 
Anyone who has lived away from home- outside of their culture and apart from the people, language, food and places they find familiar- can attest to the sacredness of letters.  They are a golden beam of connective energy that leads straight to that place or person to whom you attach home.

Mail is usually filled with bills and junk that few look forward to opening, but a letter glows out of the mail box screaming- OPEN ME!  THERE IS LOVE IN HERE!  I like to take my letter and carry it with me for a bit before I open it, creating a sort of suspense while thinking about the person that sent it.

Bike in Belgium

Why are letters so meaningful?  I mean, a lot of the time it is easier to pick up the phone or send an email, or facebook stalk them.  Or maybe you'll just head over to Go Girl and see what she has to say  about life this week?  Who has the time to buy stamps, put down thoughts on paper, and figure out where to send the card?

Next time you think about the effort it takes to write a letter, consider this:  A letter is the closest you can get to someone far away- it's kind of like a mini-vacation for you and the reader.  The paper is something that both will touch, the curve of the handwriting takes time for the eyes to appreciate and, often, interpret the words.

Roland Barthes, a french man famous for his musings on love, said that one writes letters not because what they compensate for absence or because the writer wants to ensure love from another; but because a letter is 'there where you are not'. Your words may say nothing, but it is the connectivity between writer and reader that makes every letter precious.

Take the post secret phenomenon:  People write their 'secrets' on postcards and ship them away to be viewed by the world online and in books.  There is something so exhilarating in putting anonymous thoughts into the mail and imagining its journey and who might see it.  You are immediately connected with readers and fellow sympathizers by just sending in a secret.

I am continually amazed by the letters I get from friends in other states and countries- just think of the hands that passed it along the way to my dear friends hands and the enjoyment/support/love it is always guaranteed to the writer and reader.

What it may feel like waiting for a letter

Some letters carry a bit more meaning than others:  Love letters, letters of encouragement, and letters from people whom you haven't seen in a long while sparkle with an unbelievable warmth and strength.  I have a collection of my all time favorite letters.  They either said something beautifully, came at an apt time, or just make me smile/cry/laugh every time I re-read them.  But I still remember that Valentine from a certain someone in second grade, which their mom probably purchased for them at the grocery store.  It wasn't fancy or even unique, except that it came from him.  He put the Power Ranger sticker on there by himself.

Let me know if you would like a letter or if you want to send one my way.  I promise to write back!  And I am so excited to hear from you and be there where you are.

Older German men, younger Thai women: An Inside Investigation

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com


"How old do you think zat man is?" Hans hissed at me, pointing to his equally white-haired, equally German chum. "Um, fifty?" I guessed politely. Hans threw his head back and cackled. "NO!" he hollered, "Fritz is seventy-five! And he is living viss a twenty-eight year old Thai girl!"
What else could I do, being the only young, female, American guest here at this party, but smile and coo: "That's wonderful!"
I had accepted Hans's invitation to his Thai ex-wife's massage parlor party with a peppy journalistic spirit. "Lillie--" warned my Muay Thai boxer buddies from the hotel, "You realize this is going to be a bar packed full of seventy year old German men and their young Thai girlfriends, right? You realize you are getting yourself into a really creepy situation, don't you?" I smiled and hopped on the back of Hans's mo-ped, clinging to his puffy waist as we revved off towards the massage parlor slash cocktail bar.

Arrival: multicolored lights, balding silver hair, long dark hair, smiles. Hans's ex-wife, Nok greeted me warmly, her tight red dress sliding along her curves. She showed me to the free Thai food buffet in honor of her daughter's birthday and poured me a Coke. Plate heaped high, I squeezed between Hans, Fritz, and Peter. Just one of the middle-aged German men! That's me.
German jokes flew fast and furious, as did hugs with the Thai women, and refills of "bier". Hans glowed increasingly red, and began belting out every song the Classic Rock guitarist strummed. "Brown sugar, how come you taste so good? Brown sugar, just like a young girl should!" I sang along too, because really, who can resist Classic Rock?

The story began to trickle out. As a young German sailor, Hans had seen the world, and all its women. Thirty-seven years ago, he decided to settle down and wed a German woman. They had a son. Two years later, he could no longer stand the endless quarrels, and fled the country. "I don't know what happened viss my son," Hans admitted, looking away. "Maybe his mother told him that I am a bad person, but now he will not talk to me. I try to call him always but even though he's grown now he won't think for himself to forgive me. I could have taken him around Thailand, shown him so much, but he won't forgive. For this I say I have no son."
So Hans arrived in Thailand, wealthy and unencumbered, and soon made his way to one of the massage parlors infamous in Phuket. "Behind zee glass," explained Hans, "were women paid to sit for twenty four hours to offer massage. They got paid for massage if they got hired, but if no massage zey still have to sit behind the glass all day for no pay." Here, Hans met/hired Nok, and started to love her. At last he said, "I don't want you to do massage here. It's not a good place. I want you to have your own massage parlor, viss your name on it." Nok, one of many children from a poor rural family, was overjoyed.

In just a year, Nok's life was completely transformed. Hans found and bought a tract of land in Nai Han beach and ordered construction of a clean new massage hall, with a roofed outdoor restaurant/bar adjacent. Nok's name appeared on top in blazing red letters, and glossy business cards went with it. "Soon I say to her," Hans remembered nostalgically, "I love you, I love your young daughter, and I have a big house. Why do you not both live viss me?" And so the wedding and move-in occurred. "Two hundred thousand I paid for the party," said Hans, shaking his head. "And I pictured us growing old together. But she had other ideas."
Hans had lived a jolly long life of excess and hedonism, so he told Nok, "I am sixty-eight and you are thirty-five. I cannot always keep up with you, so if you want to stay out late and enjoy, do it." But this began to spin out of control. Nok got home later and later, drunker and drunker, and began to say she was sleeping at the house of a female friend. "Just tell me," said Hans. "Don't give me stories. I just want to know." One night Nok came back late and drunk and revealed that she had just bought a bar in a town fifteen miles away without consulting Hans. Hans knew he was losing her, and in a few months she asked for a divorce.

"Here is zee stupid thing," Hans growled. "I married her because I loved her, but also to give her my pension. When I die, vich is ten years, fifteen years, maximum, she would have gotten 60,000 Baht every month, just for doing nothing! She gave all that up when she divorced me! That is so stupid."
"And now this idiot," Hans laughed, pointing at the white-haired German gazing worshipfully at Nok across the room, "Now he thinks HE loves her and zat she loves him. HAH! I give it less zan one year before she takes all she can from him and it is still not enough. You cannot blame either one of them. Zey are both good people, but this is what happens."

Suddenly the smell of gasoline filled the air. "Fire show!" squealed the audience, and five Thai boys sprinted in with blazing torches, spitting gasoline out of their mouths and bursting them into flame balls. The spectacled German man near me slid his hand down the back of his Thai girlfriend's skirt, and she stared at the twirling fire.
These fire dancers spin torches along their young skin. These German men love and pay. These Thai women love and exchange. Fire play, flame dance, and the glow of possibility and risk!

At this point a German voice shouted, "Oh no! The motobikes!" and we all realized the pyramid of fire-twirlers were inches from the thirty gas tanks. But the show went on, and ended with a flourish and a hat out for money.
"She has found a new sponsor," said Hans, sipping his Tiger Beer, "and for me, I say never again. Now I make sex viss the young girls each night, and zen live the rest of my life alone, happy. Vee all stay friends, and vee all still love each other, but for me and her, never again."
At this point I thanked Hans for the kind invitation and bribed one of the Thai women to drive me home through the pouring rain.

A word on mosquito bites and family as a way to sum up the Mayan Empire

By Karla

Four days into my trip to my father’s homeland, Guatemala, we go to the most beautiful terrain I have ever seen. A mix between jungle and forest, parrots flying past me, butterfly’s the size of your hand, and the buzzing of insects. At some point we stop in what can only be described as a Lychee forest, huge lychee everywhere in tons of different colors, lots of yellows, reds, red with green spindles, and oranges. There it is – the entire world’s beauty there for me to enjoy.
I get to our family’s home and realize I have been massively bitten by mosquitoes. Now a few bad mosquito bites is a blip on my travel radar. My father, a man who always praised toughening up, looks obscenely worried.
His reaction surprises me. The father that I know and love has always been slightly apathetic. That night, I am up writing in my journal and about to slather on menthol. My father comes in the room and asks me if he can put the menthol on my legs for me. I look at the worry lines creasing his forehead and ease myself back on my uncle’s couch and make room for him to sit as I think "Let him be your dad right now". For the next 30 minutes my dad sits on the couch and rubs menthol on each of my mosquito bites. He shakes his head as he looks and thoroughly rubs the cool balm into each of the bites. It dawns on me then, 1 am, sitting on the couch of an uncle I've only known for days, in a tiny tropical and rural port town in the south east of Guatemala, just how much my dad loves me. It hurts him to see my mosquito bites. Where as I was fully willing to brush them off as inconvenience and take a minimal 5 minutes to care for them, my dad thinks it’s worth 30 minutes of his time to try and make it better.

Now, my father isn't the most expressive man. He has a gruff exterior and his expression in the states is usually one that verges on scowl. I am quite the emotional and expressive woman, I was a toughy for him to handle. That night, and many other moments on the trip, I was struck by how in our baggage as father and daughter, I had not ever truly understood just how much my dad loves me, even if its hard for him to say it. I am loved. There it is – the entire world’s beauty there for me to enjoy.
My family in Guatemala relates to each other so powerfully. When one family member hurts the whole family does, when one family member has joy the whole family rejoices. My dad, I discovered, was pulled from all this love at a very young age and put in orphanages until coming to the United States, this is where his base was created. Everything he learned about being a dad got packed into the first 8 to 9 years of his life. A nine year old boy soaked in family and all the bruises and trauma that followed created the man who sat at my legs and dedicated 30 minutes every night for 5 nights to provide his daughter with comfort.
I heard so many rich stories in those three weeks. Stories about my revolutionary great-grandmother "La Abuela", that hid propaganda in tortillas to help Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary. Stories about her exile from her mother country. Stories about the loss of her 13 children and her raising all her grandchildren in their absence. Stories that are full of immense pain and tremendous pride at what each of them had to do to guarantee survival for the rest.
I understand now, perhaps better than at any time in my life, that I am Guatemalan, Mexican, and American. This visit was not a visit to a foreign land but a return to another home. I am fundamentally tied to my culture. To a people whose ruins remain more amazing than any modern day building I have seen. Linked to traditions and values created out of struggle and hope. I am loved by them. I was loved by them before I ever was even born. And they fought for themselves, each other and my future. Now I get the distinct honor of being their historian; making sure that my kids, my students, and my friends know where they come from.

Just Looking for Love

By Beth


It was raining.

I remember the rain the most, because I had been determined to go even despite the foul weather. It had stopped everyone but me.

That's right: me, it would not stop. So I went on my adventure alone.

The town was called Montemor-o-Velho, roughly translated to something that what was derived from “The Old Mountain and Wall.” And that's what it was, a few houses skirting a hill with a castle on top. The stone wall on the old mountain. A speck in the distance from Coimbra, Portugal, where I had been living over the past year. Where Coimbra had cell phone stores and shopping malls, this town had rice fields and wandering farm animals. Everyone knew everyone else. There were few visitors.

The nearest train station: perhaps a two hour walk away. But I hadn't quite had enough of castles yet, and the whole day was in front of me. I hadn't minded the idea of walking two hours for an adventure.
I was lucky on my way there. Two women in a car picked me up along the route, displaying sympathy for my wet walk and explaining the pride they had for their little town far from any sort of urban development. I spent the afternoon exploring the storm-soaked castle grounds, watching old fountains overflow, a haze sweeping over countless fields and unoccupied houses. It was a safe town, that was for sure. Quiet, to say the least.

Until I began my trek home.

I had walked for nearly an hour, splashing in puddles, dreaming up romantic stories about the people who lived in the houses far across the foggy meadows. A few cars passed, but not many. Until one pulled up.

Inside was an old man. He was small and wrinkled, not younger than 70. He rolled down the window and signaled to me. “Come in,” he shouted. “I'll take you the rest of the way.”

Remembering the kindness of the two women just hours ago, I didn't think twice to hop in. Inside, the car was warm and cozy. I felt my body thawing through the heat vents, reaching dry satisfaction just one bit at a time.

The man looked at me. “So cold,” he said, with worry on his face. He touched my hand. “Your hands are so cold.”

I smiled and told him I was fine, but he turned up the heat so that it blasted in my face and on my hands. He let his hand linger on the heat knob. Then he slowly returned to my hand again. Then my knee.

He held it there for a moment. I brushed it off, and it returned. It always returned.

His face was calm. He began to ask me where I was from and where I was going. I was familiar with the flirtatiousness of Portuguese men, even older Portuguese men, and tried to wave the gesture as a cultural difference while I focused on his question. I explained how I was studying at the University of Coimbra, and he said he was very familiar with the town and its university. In fact, he used to work in Coimbra, and knew the drive from Montemor quite well. He also was familiar with the train station I was heading to. I listened to him with the acute concentration of a foreigner, but it was hard to ignore the movements of his fingers. The way I felt them pulse on my knee.

He looked at me. He looked at me for longer than he needed to. I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
“You are so beautiful,” he said to me. “I'm just a young boy, you know. A young boy, looking for love.”

I could have smiled...but I was busy trying to figure out how I could communicate to him that I wanted to walk from here.

But he insisted to take me the rest of the way. The train station was not a far drive, and it was too rainy for me to be outside. And the car was so warm...

He kept looking back at me, these long gazes. He held my knee and rubbed it. He offered me a ride all the way back to Coimbra in exchange for a kiss. I told him the train station would be just fine.

When we approached the station, I let out a long breath. I knew the ride was almost over. I didn't feel endangered, per se. There was little he could do to harm me- he was too feeble, and anyway, Portugal was not known to be a dangerous country. Yet I was still pretty...grossed out. He smelled like my grandfather. I imagined my grandfather hitting on me in a small car in the middle of Portugal. I withheld a gag reflex and tried to maintain my composure.

At the station he continued driving at a steady pace. In fact, he passed it.

“Did you want to get off here?” He asked.

“Yes,” I told him.

“Okay. Then give me a kiss and I'll let you out.”

I wasn't sure if there was a way to avoid this. Either I gave him a kiss, or we drove around with his hand on my knee for what seemed like it could be the rest of my life. I weighed my options. Would I see this man again? No. Would I make his day, a young girl giving him a little peck on the cheek? Maybe. Could it be some form of payment for the free ride he just gave me, saving me from a long, cold walk outside? Okay, probably so.

I turned to kiss him, his cheek stubble in my line of vision. His agility surprised me. At the last minute he shifted his head, and I kissed him smack-dab on the lips. SMOOCHHHHHHH. It was about as wet and as delicious as you can imagine, sweet, juicy apples on a crisp September morning. Crunch. Slurp. Smack. Gulp.

I looked at him in horror, jumped out of the car and ran to the train station. The ride back went much faster than I had expected. I laughed nearly the entire way home.