I'm back!

I know, I know, I'm sorry I abandoned you. And the fact that my internet was taken away and my battery had only 7 minutes of power is not an excuse for ignoring all of you, my faithful readers, for nearly 3 weeks. But Heather arrived with my router and a family size box of Cheez-its last week. The Cheez-its are gone, but the router and I are just beginning our long and promising relationship. After scouring every electronic store in a 10 block radius I went to a galeria in Calle Florida that specialized in tiny kiosks that literally oozed cords and other technological looking things. This was obviously the place I was looking for.

Desafortunadamente, the place that I was looking for consisted of 200 of these negocios, and I had to find the magic one that had a transformador. The first guy I talked to told me that the primero piso (1st floor) would have them, the guy on the primero piso said that the planta baja (main floor) would have them, then I was told the shop in the corner, ElectroStar, the yellow shop upstairs, the shop at the end of the hallway, shop 470, shop 364, and finally, the electricity shop in the far back corner of the galeria where the owner seemed to think my desperation was ridiculous as, obviously, he has several to sell me. I could have kissed him, but I thought that that could have created a slightly awkward situation when all I wanted was to get my transformer home and plugged in to my router. (Thanks Mom!) And now, thanks to the combined efforts of my mother, Heather, and the transformer man, I am back. It's good to be back.

.... 6 hours later....

I should have known it was too good to last. My internet is gone. With any luck it is simply a minor problem that Gabriela (host mom) can fix when she gets back. Somehow I doubt that there is very little that she cannot do or get done. And so I press on...

It should come as a relief to all who know the agony and ecstasy of scheduling (the rest of you are missing out, the satisfaction of a perfect schedule... well, I guess you just wouldn't understand) that I have a fixed schedule! And what a schedule it is. Though I do have to wake up at 7:00 a.m. (I am still a little shocked at myself) before taking an hour long bus ride to my Tuesday class, the fact that I begin my week on Tuesday and then promptly end it at half past noon on Thursday is sufficient incentive to rouse myself. My three classes are Gramática, Relatos en imtemperie, and Literatura infantil y juvenil. I sure it will come as no surprise to my fellow Macalester students that I find the lectures and discussions about "semiosis o no semiosis", the ideology of gender compared to that of class (and their relations, of course), as well as literature as a construction of societal codes to be significantly more comprehensible than the ticket seller at the movie theatre asking if I want any soda or candy. You know you go to Macalester when you can discuss "the real" in two languages but everyday human interaction causes serious mental duress.

Sometimes I forget how much I like buses. But I always remember eventually. Like today, with my iPod on shuffle and rain drizzling not half and inch away, I wished I could just sit on the bus for an hour or two and let the people and streets stream by and my iPod shuffle seamlessly from Julie London to Jack Johnson and the Gotan Project. As I watched the old man with the tweed hat and burgundy neckerchief offered his seat to the young woman with a baby I wished that everyone would just stop and take a moment to chill, maybe have a cup of coffee without being concerned that the waitress will never bring the check. I would hazard a guess that I am happier than the portion of the population that gets terribly concerned when they go a couple blocks too far on the bus. Granted, the friends waiting for me at the coffee shop the bus just passed might not be...

I am having a hard time remembering if I only thought out how I was going to write about things that have happened, or if I actually wrote about them. Like the vegetable man down the street. One sunny afternoon a couple of weeks ago I was lost in thought on the bus and missed my corner. But it was a beautiful day so the extra 5 minutes of walking had me smiling as I paused to check the price of some avocados. This turned out to be just the invitation the man was looking for to strike up a conversation. .... "Yes, I am from the States." ..... "No, I am studying here." ..... "Hahaha, yes, 6 months is enough time to find a boyfriend." ...... "Ummm, what? How much money I would pay to marry you or how much money you would have to pay to marry me?" .... "No, no, thank you! I have to go.... hahaha, bye!" I'm still not sure if he was suggesting that he pay me or I pay him. Amusing and nice though he may have been, I will be purchasing my avocados at a different verduleria in the future.

What is it about American women down here that seems to shout "Why yes, I would love to date you"? Perhaps it is something to do with supply and demand? But then one would assume American men would get the same treatment which, poor things, they most certainly do not. So then does that put us somewhere in the realm of luxury goods? The econ majors will have to answer than one. Until then I will just blame American media and shows like The Bachelor for making us look plentiful and, well, desperate.

One thing I am desperate for is sunshine. There is the occasional beautiful in amongst the gray, but there is only so much longer I can resist the pull of my *NSYNC Christmas album if there is no sunshine. It's not my fault that it's only August; the weather is telling me it's time to get ready for Christmas, and my iTunes is undermining my every effort to suppress these desires. Every time I let it shuffle my songs I find myself unable to skip past Bing singing "White Christmas" or a boy band harmonizing "Little Drummer Boy". What's a girl to do?

And now I must be off for it is Sunday night, and I have plans to spend it dancing the night away with a tall curly haired girl from Minnesota. Her younger brother's name is Joe, and he spends his time bumming around SCSU while she attends a small liberal arts school and plays rugby. Her name is Maggie.... Maggie Tucker. Creepy huh?