You look worried

In the past month, I have heard "you looked worried" or "you look concerned" or "you look tired" more times than I have in the past 3 years. And, well, I am. I worry if the decisions I have made are the right ones. If I can pull off the impossible. If I leave will it be defeat? If I go, what will I do? Can I protect the team I have come to manage and adore? If I can meet expectations of those who hired me, those who wished me well to leave and of those who I respect.

 When you come to a new place, a new job, a new city, a new country, a new culture, you make adjustments. Not just adjustments to belong in the new setting, but a chance to adjust to the new life you can make for yourself. I moved to Santiago for 3 reasons. Number one, was for my job. Number two, was to learn a new language. And number three, was an adventure. So clearly, I would look concerned. I work 12 hours a day, 5 days a week and I want to succeed. I still own my house in Houston and haven't found a person to rent it. So with my savings, I'm concerned. I want to be able to speak the language, to feel comfortable in the world of Spanish speakers and to hold conversations. I'm concerned that I can't. I'm concerned that I won't be able to accomplish the job I came to do here. I have lost sleep because I want to be succeed. I have started going out to bars more and staying out later and regressing in my maturity of "clubbing". So I sleep less, drink more, and get louder as the night progresses. So clearly, I look tired.

 The worst of the comments, and while I am on this, why do people find it so okay to say comments about the expressions on someone's face, other than "you look happy" or "you look pretty" or "you look kind"? I feel like the only time I receive comments about my look is that of negative expressions. But I guess I am used to it, that's just the way I am perceived. Oh well. Back to my point, the worst of the comments is "you look worried". Now I am assuming people would rather look worried than tired, but the look of worry means there is something negative behind it. I gave up a life to come here. I gave up the comfort of seeing most of my family on a daily basis, of talking to them whenever I feel like it. I gave up the warmth of laughter with my friends whom I've had for years over a glass of wine, sitting in a pool, driving to a reunion or just texting to say hi. I gave up the daily expressions of excitement when I come home to my dogs who are now living with my parents in Texas. The reminder that no matter how happy, unhappy, hungover, sad or angry I am, I must get out and go for a walk, because that is the only thing (outside of being fed) that they request. I gave up my nieces' recitals, their birthday parties and the ease of getting to hear their laughter if I've had a rough day. I forfeited weekend trips to California to see my nephew and niece hunt easter eggs, or open presents on the hottest day of the year. I walked away from hugs from my dad and gentle looks of support from my mother. I did not give up my love life in Texas, so there's one point!  Pro/con list, pro has 1. I traded these things in temporarily for adventure, success and of course, stories.

 My look of worry is if I can make this work, if I can stick this out, if I made this trade off for failure. What will happen if I let go sooner than I expected? What will I do? Where will I go? Will the people I respect the most in this world, continue to respect me? Is it giving up if the chance to succeed was impossible? If I go back will I get in another rut? If I stay, will I risk the happiness I worked so hard to find within myself? I look worried, because every other day of my life in Santiago, I am worried.

Yesterday I had a blissful day sitting in the park with friends, enjoying a beautiful day and some good laughs. Today, I worried about what tomorrow will bring. I wish, one day, so very soon, someone will say to me "you look like you are at peace". Decisions are hard, follow through is trying and regret is a choice. I do not regret the things I have done, only those I have yet to do. I'm just a girl trying to make it in this world, and I pray that I will make it work the best way I can. And for you, may you spend today with security and tomorrow in peace.

One of those a's with the circle around it

I just can't cut him off…I can't seem to let Georgia go. For those of you who need a reminder, here is the link to the last time I wrote about this simple southern boy from Georgia who never seems to completely disappear from my life. Well we had weekly phone conversations that didn't last too long, but eventually made a plan to make an effort to meet up. After all this time I hadn't laid eyes on him since 1998, he had twice nearly died and every couple of years asked his sister to look me up on the computer. Because his computer skills were a bit below par…simple southern man. He was a hard worker and dedicated to making things happen for him, all the while doing so without the use of a computer, google or storing phone numbers in his phone. Months went by and we started actually talking about meeting up. And then, without warning, poof…he disappeared from my life again. No trace left at all. I googled him, i called and left messages and nothing. I was certain he had been killed. I left little to mourn because I did not really know him, I just had this, thing, whatever you may call it with him.

Well, sure enough, 2 days before I left my job in Houston, he called me on my company cell phone. What are the odds? You may ask. With him, they are pretty good. He has a knack for this. My first question to him after about 8 months of silence was "Were you in jail?". His response was "No, I've just been workin'". and I wish, I wish with so much that you could hear the deep southern Georgia accent he says this with, as well as the, calm essence of unsure why I would even ask. We start up our conversations again, after i told him I would have to call him back as I was moving to South America a week later. Well we talked about two weeks ago and he asked me to send him pictures from Chile of what it looks like. I had to request him to get an email address, as I was not about to spend the money to send pictures through snail mail. He said "yea, I got one of them, I just gotta ask my sister what it is". Well, today I got it and to hear him give it to me was so sweet and unfortunately made me burst into laughter. He said it like this "(his initials and last name) an a with one of them circles around it period c-o-m". Why do i continue to talk to him? Because though he is older than me, his innocence in the world of the internet is almost indearing. Plus, you can pretty much guaranty he won't ever end up meeting Chris Harrison from Dateline on "to Catch a predator"…my bet is that he is harmless.

Ahhh, here I am in Santiago, Chile surrounded by beauty in nature and in men and I just had a 30 minute conversation with someone who without question, will always be a part of my life, whether or not I ever actually see him in person again. Life…it is a funny thing.

Do I have stories of being single in Santiago? Yes…are they juicy? In some circles…Will I share them here? Without a doubt…wait for them, they will come...

Chivalry...

I was raised to believe that a man should act like a gentleman in order to receive my attention and at the same time I was raised to be an independent and strong woman. It has many times brought me to so much confusion on how things are supposed to be. For example, I could be carrying three large boxes stacked on top of each other and each arm loaded with bags, and if a man offers to help me carry them (in the states), I am often surprised and then for some reason, I immediately refuse it. I have never understood why I refuse so much help except of course, if the help is offered by my dad. I am truly a daddy's girl and have called him when a large green bug flew into my apartment here in Santiago and when a mouse (or as described to my father a very large cat size rat) came into my apartment in New York and I fully expected for him to assess the situation and to do something about it. Of course he always laughs and tells me to, and I quote, "buck up", but my first instinct is to have dad take care of the situation. From bugs to money, he is the man I trust to handle the situations. And when it comes to my heart breaking, he is the only man I will call for words of comfort. My father is the epitome of a gentleman. Unfortunately, he is also the one who instilled so much confidence in me to be able to saunter off to Santiago, Chile site unseen and take on this crazy challenge. 


The reason I bring this up is that this week alone, I have had 3 separate incidences that have both surprised me and made me think. The first being, well i should back track, i met a young fellow. We met on basically the expat version of online dating (I thought I was on it for networking…ha!). We met to go on a walk, I mean a real walk, sports bra and tennis shoes.  He was interesting, young, super cute, ridiculously smart and really into himself. I appreciated the attention. Anyway, we met up again earlier this week, just briefly. I was riding my bike and we walked over to where he lives and i pushed my bike the whole time. When I locked my bike up, he stood there and watched. Never offering to help. When I was leaving he asked, and again, I quote "Do you know your way out?". I gasped at his audacity. I made him walk me out, and I have not heard from him again. Bless the young ones and their arrogant stupidity. 


On Friday I went to lunch with a male colleague. We went and picked up sushi to go and he offered to carry my bag. And I thought it was strange and he said "this is what men are supposed to do, be gentleman". I have strange notions of a gentleman, I guess. I want a gentleman to open the door for me, guide me through a room, pay for dinner, care about what I am saying, but carrying my bags for some reason, I refuse to accept. It is the only thing that I have gotten offered in a way of help here and I trip over myself while trying to accept it. Literally, I tripped out of the place we got our food while I was trying to grasp why this nice guy wanted to carry something for me that in every aspect of it, I could carry myself. Later that afternoon I was leaving work and noticed a guy left before me and was standing there holding the gate open while I was getting my bike ready. I figured he was waiting for someone. When he stood there long enough and I was ready to walk out he said "You aren't used to gentleman in the states, are you? This is what we are supposed to do for ladies". Holy shit. Is it true? Am I too damned skeptical to recognize chivalry? 


Last weekend I went on an 11 mile hike, one of the dumber things I have done in my 30s and the guide, a man in his 60s, bet me I couldn't make it to the top. And if I did, he would buy me lunch the next day at this nice restaurant. I'll be damned, if someone dares me to do something and is betting on the side that I can't (with the exception of jumping out of a plane or from a bridge with a stupid rope tied around my ankles to "save me"), then, I will do all in my power to prove them wrong. This also explains the eyebrow piercing I got in college and later removed because of my father's choice words in response to seeing it. Anyway, I may have walked like someone who had lost a race while riding the underbelly of a horse, but I did it. We went to lunch the following day and it was lovely. But when he invited me to lunch again this weekend I cowarded. Because I am too stupid to know if it is a nice invitation by a gentleman, or if I am unknowingly getting into a relationship with a man who may be older than my father. What would you do?


Chivalry…where does it start? Where does it end?

Go ahead and name your horse

I have had quite a week here in Santiago. Thursday night I was invited to join some colleagues for happy hour. I was chatting with two of my them about my move here and mentioned I would be moving my two dogs with me in a few months. Unfortunately during the conversation that followed I was informed that I have inadvertently named both of my dogs in Chilean slang, penis and vagina. When I said my dog's name, Tula, I was informed that means penis or a slang version thereof. When I told them the other one's name, Concho they literally fell out of their chairs from laughing. Now the technical word is concha because a vagina is feminine, however, I still have to come up with new names when I am out in public with them. I stick out enough as it is with my big blonde hair and my crappy spanish, now if I start yelling out "Tula, Concho" at the dog park it will probably land me in jail. Imagine being at your dog park and seeing someone yell after their dogs "Penis, Va-jay-jay"! That's what it would sound like, only in Spanish.


On Saturday I went horseback riding with a group of people through the Andes Mountains and was told I could name my horse whatever I wanted. After suffering the trauma of my naming capabilities, I stuck with the name "I don't know" and her colt "I don't knowita". 


I thought stepping out of my comfort zone this week would be getting on a horse for the first time in 10 years, I was mistaken. 

Home?

I am doing everything I can to make it feel like home here in Santiago. I've bought bedding for my new uncomfortable bed in my fully furnished apartment, I've gone to Bikram Yoga and sweated my way into serenity and like any good Episcopalian, I've found my favorite wine shop. Yesterday I finally got connected to the outside world at home by installing WiFi and cable. Now I can fill you in on my daily activities, but unfortunately none so far involve hot single latin men whispering sweet untranslatable nothings into my ears. There are a few reasons for that. One being that I haven't met any and another being that my ears by the end of each day are exhausted. Yep, my ears. I can actually feel them breath a sigh of relief when I get home from work when they no longer strain to understand not just Spanish, but Chilean Spanish, known here as Chileanisms...they have plenty of their isms. 


In the south, we have a phrase when someone looks exhausted, beat up and ready to give up which is "You look rode hard and put up wet". The first time I heard this phrase, it was unfortunately directed at me, but it took me a few minutes of explanation to understand what it meant. For those of you blissfully unaware like I was 10 years ago, it is a metaphor to a horse who has been ridden all day and put back in the barn sweaty and exhausted and not hosed down. Imagine hearing phrases with similarity for all different metaphors for 12 hours a day. I try so hard to be a part of the conversations by nodding my head in aggreance or hiding my the look of WTF on my face, but let's be clear here, this is what goes on in my head when I am to be a listening to a meeting done completely in Spanish:


"What the f is he saying. Oh, he just said we need. What do we need? Man, he is talking so fast. Will I ever get this? My hearing blows. Oh, he just said for him to have something. What is that guy supposed to have? Oh wait, he's looking at me for a response. Nod, just nod. Okay, he must be done, he said claro, which loosely translates to of course, or right. Oh shit, now I have to respond." And aloud I say to the group "Mmm, hmm. Yes. Well, I actually didn't catch any of that except that we need something that he has". Disappointing looks and discussions of what I can assume of annoyance proceed to follow in Spanish. 


I work a lot here, the work hours here put the states to shame. Show up at 8:30, leave by 8 only because the building needs to lock up. I had 3 blissful weeks without a work computer, blackberry or internet and that has taken a drastic change in the last 2 days...so much for don't bring your work home. But I have no complaints, this is why I moved here. However, I am going to make a strong effort to get myself out more on the weekends. I have met some wonderful people and a super fun/sweet friends who are also a couple have taken me in, under their wing since I moved here. But it has come to my conclusion that if I am going to get out to bars and meet strangers, then I have to buck up and get it done. I can't only rely on friends and ask them to take precious time away from their loved ones to drink in a seedy bar with me. Shoot, it doesn't even have to be seedy, but just the idea of having to approach people is about as daunting as interpreting a conversation done completely in Spanish. It wont be easy, but it is my challenge. I'm grateful I have friends here, they are super fun and so similar to the wonderful people I left back home, they help make me feel okay about being here and as strange as it may sound, it feels safe. I'm lucky, but I also realize that I find myself waiting for things to happen and depending on others to make them happen instead of making things happen myself.


I am 3 weeks in to this crazy adventure, but I'm about waist high in pressure to make it all happen for me. It is my goal to take it one day at a time, I will continue to fill you in on this journey... be patient, the stories of being single in Santiago are sure to be good!