Tiny, fluffy, beautiful mewling balls of love, they are.
I had a really great Thanksgiving; Wednesday Kate and I went to Leonardo's, the Italian/pizza place, and had very good food, and a sad attempt at an apple pie. The next day was my school's Thanksgiving dinner, so Maru and I went, in semi formal dress (do you even KNOW how much I hate heels?), and I chillaxed with my homies, as it were, for a very nice evening. The turkey was good too.
Last night I went to a nighttime parade/fireworks display (antorcha), with Carlos. We met up with a bunch of others and spent more than three hours running about the dark, people-filled streets of Chorrera, watching the marching bands play and the various students marching with beautiful, candlelit torches. It was definitely my favorite parade that I've been to so far, and the fireworks were actually pretty enough to nearly justify the horrific noise. Also, I played Super Smash Brothers, which has been the only homesick point for me lately. Yes, you can laugh.
Today I am going to meet with Candice, my AFS friend who is living in Colón, to hang out around Chorrera. I will do my duty as a proud Chorreran and make sure that she tries both chicheme and bollo, unique to my city.
Love!
Laurel
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Copied from my journal... tengo pereza.
The heat tongiht is dense, at once dead weight and live animal, not quite mass over volume but just the same exerting some strange force that pushes my molecules closer together. It is la Mes de la Patria now, and while I, the anti-reptile, am warmed into lethargy, the sharp booms and bangs of drums and fireworks sound out endless parades. My classmates were right when they told me that Panameños are a party people.
My host mom knocks on my door, and sees me sprawled American on the bed; one earbud jammed in awkwardly as the other hangs loose, iPod in hand, solitaire on screen. "Ya vamos," she says, immediately exiting as if to underline the urgency in "ya." There is no need to state the obvious- of course we are going to see the parade. I do not bother to change from my pink snoopy flip-flops- in house wear only, por favor- to something more suitable for going out. I am too enveloped in a sleepiness that in most of the world would belong past 1 am, not 7:30 on a beautiful winter evening (those latitudes have never been this warm).
Once in the car, Maru, the host mother, presses radio buttons at random until she´s selected one that chooses a station she likes. Raw, rich lovesongs tumble forlornly from the speakers, the heartache lacquered brightly in mellow pop tonality and trite lyricisms. She rolls down her window, and we are on the one way road, hot wind in our faces, only billboards in sight.
When we´ve turned onto the main drag, the exhiliration and freedom of a rural drive, facade though it may be, is abruptly dispelled by the gaudiness of neon fast food signs, here the token golden arches, there a giant spinning cup of popcorn chicken emblazoned KFC with kindergarten name tag boldness. Judging by our turn signal and Maru´s greedily pointed eyes, MacDonald´s is our pre-parade stop. Every once in awhile we make this our custom, with one specific purpose, to eat ice cream. The thought of calorie laden, cold deliciousness spreads through my sweat-drenched body like an elixir. "Un cono, muchas gracias," is my anxious, grateful, overheated reply to the What do you want? that I have been waiting for.
As the car crawls slowly toward the drive through window, progress slowed by the SUV in front of us ("Mira Laura, cuatro por cuatro!"), Maru asks "No quieres un sundae?" and in politeness I respond no- she is paying so I must not burden her. My eyes, however, betray me, lingering a moment too long on the perfect specimen pictured on the lit up menu, drenched just so in caramel sauce, the soft serve ice cream forming a cute little point.
When the server takes our order, Maruquel decides on two sundaes, one caramel, on strawberry. The wait for the orders to be completed is agonizing, silent. Maru and I look at each other with twin expressions of hunger and impatience, and as each moment brings me closer to a spoonful of bliss, another bad love son blasts from the station on the radio, the singer´s voice letting me know that he loves me, that I am home.
My host mom knocks on my door, and sees me sprawled American on the bed; one earbud jammed in awkwardly as the other hangs loose, iPod in hand, solitaire on screen. "Ya vamos," she says, immediately exiting as if to underline the urgency in "ya." There is no need to state the obvious- of course we are going to see the parade. I do not bother to change from my pink snoopy flip-flops- in house wear only, por favor- to something more suitable for going out. I am too enveloped in a sleepiness that in most of the world would belong past 1 am, not 7:30 on a beautiful winter evening (those latitudes have never been this warm).
Once in the car, Maru, the host mother, presses radio buttons at random until she´s selected one that chooses a station she likes. Raw, rich lovesongs tumble forlornly from the speakers, the heartache lacquered brightly in mellow pop tonality and trite lyricisms. She rolls down her window, and we are on the one way road, hot wind in our faces, only billboards in sight.
When we´ve turned onto the main drag, the exhiliration and freedom of a rural drive, facade though it may be, is abruptly dispelled by the gaudiness of neon fast food signs, here the token golden arches, there a giant spinning cup of popcorn chicken emblazoned KFC with kindergarten name tag boldness. Judging by our turn signal and Maru´s greedily pointed eyes, MacDonald´s is our pre-parade stop. Every once in awhile we make this our custom, with one specific purpose, to eat ice cream. The thought of calorie laden, cold deliciousness spreads through my sweat-drenched body like an elixir. "Un cono, muchas gracias," is my anxious, grateful, overheated reply to the What do you want? that I have been waiting for.
As the car crawls slowly toward the drive through window, progress slowed by the SUV in front of us ("Mira Laura, cuatro por cuatro!"), Maru asks "No quieres un sundae?" and in politeness I respond no- she is paying so I must not burden her. My eyes, however, betray me, lingering a moment too long on the perfect specimen pictured on the lit up menu, drenched just so in caramel sauce, the soft serve ice cream forming a cute little point.
When the server takes our order, Maruquel decides on two sundaes, one caramel, on strawberry. The wait for the orders to be completed is agonizing, silent. Maru and I look at each other with twin expressions of hunger and impatience, and as each moment brings me closer to a spoonful of bliss, another bad love son blasts from the station on the radio, the singer´s voice letting me know that he loves me, that I am home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)