Mistake Making

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is Vanessa Long, here you can find other similar articles. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s Blog Carnival, please get in touch with me at dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com, and I’ll let you know how you can start participating!

I made so many daily little mistakes in the different countries I have taught in - cultural faux pas, language mishaps, that time I accidentally dropped all my underwear in my neighbors yard... 

In the classroom, I'm sure I made just as many mistakes. I made the mistake in the country of Georgia of doing an English "tournament". Well, I'm not sure if it was a mistake or not - the kids loved games, but those that were good at English were so absolutely devastated if they did not win. I thought the tournament would be fun for everyone and give the students who weren't the best at English a chance to win small prizes along with the better students.  Instead, I had a bunch of crying children - the good students who usually aced the tests- who hadn't been quick enough on the games and were now sobbing over it. I felt terrible. Maybe they didn't have the concept of "just for fun" competition over there? Lesson learned was to ask more if they had ever had a precedent of that sort of thing, and make sure to explain how it was for fun only, and not a reflection of how smart my students were. 

In the Dominican Republic, I was thrown into a Creole speaking pre-school classroom where I not only taught English, but Spanish, writing, and math. I had no idea what I was doing (I had signed up to be an English teacher in an immersion school, but that had fallen through). I came expecting it to be like Georgia, where I had support from other teachers and was told what were the classroom rules to follow, etc. Instead, my very first day there I was told to stand up and teach with no preamble at all. My mistake was not stopping right then and there and asking "what are the rules? What form of discipline do you use? Can I watch others teach for a day?" I should have been bolder and asked more questions at the beginning, instead of letting myself be rushed along. I struggled with classroom management every day and felt that I couldn't ask questions because now it may reflect badly on my organization. When I finally did ask questions everyone was happy to help - but I should have been asking from the beginning. 

So just ask a lot of questions. About everything, all the time. Take the risk of being that annoying foreigner, because in the end, that's what will set you up for success. 

What I've Learned in the ESL Classroom

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival please get in touch with me in the comments, and I'll let you know how you can start participating! You can read other blogger's posts from the carnival here!

I taught English to 1st through 6th graders in the country of Georgia, in a small town school that was often without electricity but did have a computer lab.  From there I went to the Dominican Republic, where I taught pre-schooler - 2nd grade in a one room, tin-roofed school house in a Haitian batey, where the heat gave you a headache by around noon. I also taught adults in the evening. Let me tell you, a lot was learned during this year. Now, I could go on about how inspired I was by my students, and I often was, and this could get really touchy-feely really fast - but I want this space to be an honest one, to tell it to ya straight. ESL can be hard, cultural differences are hard, and teaching was often one of the most difficult things I ever did. So with no softening, here are some lessons I learned in the ESL classroom.

1. how to break up fights

In Georgia, play fighting was normal and smiled upon, but it could get out of hand really fast. I had co-teachers that weren't supposed to leave me alone with the kids, but inevitably something would come up and it would be up to me to stop the escalating play shoving. In the DR, my little ones would fight over crayons. Distraction is key and also, being able to lift at least 50 pounds. Make sure you always have enough supplies for everyone and it makes things easier if they are all the same (like little bags of crayons for each kid with the same colors in them).

2. cultural push-back - sometimes you can't assimilate

In the Dominican Republic, parents would come by our open-door school house and if they saw children being rowdy they would tell me to hit the kids. No. I know that in that Haitian immigrant community it was normal and expected for parents and relatives to hit their children and often for teachers to do the same. I wasn't going to start a campaign for different disciplinary methods, but I certainly wasn't going to join in. Aside from my own ethical issues with teachers hitting kids, it would have been very, very inappropriate for a visiting, foreign teacher to do so. This was one cultural rule I was not going to follow. I stood my ground and parents looked at me askance, but there was no way I would lay a hand on a child in a violent manner. (Except once when I thought one of them was choking on a crayon...but he was ok!). While this was an extreme circumstance, I learned that cultural immersion doesn't always mean "just going with the flow", sometimes you have to make a stand for what is right for you and your work in the community.

But do learn the vocabulary that teachers use to tell their students to sit, stand, be quiet, etc. I didn't speak Georgian when I came to Georgia, or Haitian Creole when I went to live in an immigrant community. But I certainly learned command words fast!

Still I tried not to yell commands often, and instead of shouting and hitting, I used...

3. the power of smiley faces and stickers

My Georgian kids would do anything for the little smiley face I would draw on their papers if they did well. The better the work, the better the smiley face. I would also write little English phrases (great job! Good work!) that they would compare. Stickers also worked wonders to have the little ones behave - taking a sticker away from a 1st grader that won't sit down when you ask is a powerful deterrent.

4. energy, energy, energy

I think the only time my Haitian pre-schoolers were really engaged was when I was running around the concrete floor, over-heated classroom singing about baby sharks. It was exhausting. We played a lot of running games in our tiny space and a lot of "find the red card!" which I would hide around the room. I taught half the day (and worked in a shop the rest of the day, then taught in the evenings) and still needed a lunchtime siesta.

They expected a slightly more sedate classroom in Georgia, but those kids had just as much energy. So with my Georgian 1st graders I did "wiggle breaks" where we would all stand by our desks and wiggle. "Head, shoulders, knees and toes" and the "wheels on the bus" were also favorites. The more energy I could bring to the table, the better class went. And while this was most apparent with kids, it stood true for adult classes too!

5. be sassy

This is especially true for adult classes. My very first time teaching adults I stood up in front of 20 young Haitian men, a few who were probably there just to get a glimpse of  "la gringa flaca", and was shaking inside. But outside, I was firm. I demanded respect. I kicked one young man out of class for listening to his ipod, telling him that if his music was more important than what I was saying, he could go. When the young guys kept asking for ways to pick up women in English I told them I would not help them get a girlfriend and to stop shouting at gringas. After they understood that I wasn't the little skinny white girl who could be pushed around, we had a great time! I set the standard for behavior, and the class picked up on it - if you got teased for being late, you stopped being late. If everyone called you out for talking over me, you stopped talking over me. My adult class was my favorite ESL experience and I truly enjoyed my students.

6. you will make mistakes. It will be ok.

Oh man, the mistakes that were made! I would come home berating myself for not planning better, not realizing that activity wouldn't work, for forgetting some materials, etc etc. Mistakes will happen. Be flexible, be gentle with yourself. Teaching ESL is scary and you are human. Do what is best for you and best for your class and go home at the end of the day, have a good cry if you need it, and try again tomorrow.

7. dance

I love dancing. Guess what? So do most kids, especially when they are still young enough to not be self-conscious. Dance breaks got me through a lot of pre-school classes. Turn on some English songs and dance with your students. You'll feel better, they'll feel better.

9. be super flexible

I don't mean yoga. I would plan for class every day, and every day it would end up being different. Either my kids hadn't grasped the last lesson, or my adults felt it was more pressing to learn clothing related words than weather related words. Listen to them. You are there for them. I always held my plans loosely, and was ok giving up half the lesson for review. If they don't get the basics well, what is the point of me being there anyway? This lesson has carried over well into my current non-ESL life - make your plans, but don't hold them tightly.

So break up fights, navigate culture with a firm stance, bring energy, bring stickers, bring dancing, forgive yourself and keep it loose.

First Year Out

"August arrives, hot and breathless and full of all the things you held on to too tightly. and all the places that defined summer start to melt together, the sand that got stuck in your hair, and the bug bites you picked at too much, and the taste of every sunset that slipped through the open car window. somehow each summer is its own lifetime, we love and eat; and the sun will spin around us without fail." 

I have no idea who wrote that quote. I've searched, and I just keep coming up with anonymous. So, dear anonymous (who, according to Virginia Woolf, was a woman) thanks for that. 

Each summer has always felt like it's own lifetime. I have always defined my life in summers - "what year was that? Oh that was the summer I went to nerd camp/theater camp/New York social justice program/Oxford film program/DC internship/was a camp counselor/studied abroad".  During high school, anything exciting that ever happened to me happened in summer, usually at one of the myriad of programs I went to. Summer meant travel and learning and adventure and a summer crush. The end of summer left me nostalgic and a little bit heartbroken for the new friends I left behind.  In college, summer was a welcome respite, but I wasn't quite so sad when it ended - leaving behind huts in the woods for my air-conditioned university apartment wasn't the most difficult transition after months of bug bites, porta-potties and screaming children.  

August now doesn't mark just the end of summer, it marks the end of the craziest year of my life.  I spent this year in the rolling hills of the country of Georgia in Eastern Europe, on the beaches of the Dominican Republic, in the heat of Texas and sleeping it all off in my home state of Georgia. In one year I have been to five different countries (six, if you count Texas...). I have ridden buses and boats and airplanes and marshutkas and carritos and donkey carts.  I have jumped into cold mountain pools and been carried across flooded mountain roads. I have fallen in and out of love. I have slept in terrible hostel beds and taken bucket showers and used outhouses and made friends with lizards and spiders and Georgian grandmothers who hit me with their canes. I have sang '90s karaoke at a bar filled with smoke and cowboy hats and Texas two-stepping.  I have walked through blizzards, burned myself on motorcycles, and prayed in tiny mountain chapels, large city mosques, and dangerously foggy roads. I have felt rich and luxurious as I ate delicious meals in Greece, and hungry and poor as I found yet another can of beans full of maggots in the Dominican. 

I have been lazy and bitter and discouraged and scared. At times I have not acted, not connected, not reached out.  I've been humbled and I've been humiliated. I've been blissfully happy. I have learned the art of silence. I have relearned the art of dancing with new friends. I have counted people as friends, real friends, when all we could use was my few words of Georgian or Haitian Creole, dancing feet and smiles.  I have been very sick and maybe near death. I have had family members pass away. I have marveled in the rain and in the sunset and at the ocean and the mountains and at the grape harvest and at my students all full of the glory and wonder of the Creator.  And I have wondered, while holding a skinny, bruised child, at the plans of the Creator.  

I have been humbled by the kindness of strangers and felt unworthy and it was true and right to know I was unworthy and to accept the kindness anyway. I have been very angry. And it was sometimes pride and cultural differences, and it was sometimes valid, raw anger.

I have had more awkward moments then should be allowed in anyone's lifetime. 

This was my first year out - outside of an institution, outside of the protection of family or school system or university. And what a year it was. 

There is an image in my mind, more like a five second movie clip, of a little boy in the Dominican, my neighbor, four years old, wearing nothing but dirty yellow undies, running down the street with his arms spread like wings in the sunshine, laughing his head off.  And for some reason when I try to package my past year this clip always comes to mind.

 I have not done anything terribly different (a lot of new graduates teach abroad) and I have not done anything terribly conventional. But somehow I know, after all the great times and the hard times and the awkward times, that I did what I was meant to do. There were things I needed to learn and to see and to live. 

And so August arrives. And so August goes, and in My Personal Calender it is the start of another year. 

The Great Dominican Hospital Adventure

In which our heroine confronts curiosity, impractical underwear, and terrible nurses. 

Disclaimer: This happened a few weeks ago, and I am feeling much better now! Except that I climb hills like a weak old lady and am in desperate need of pizza. 

Do you know what Dominican public hospitals are like?

I do, because I had a lovely two-day visit in which I experienced the exciting sights, sounds and smells of a former cholera ward and its friendly workers and inhabitants. 

Probably the highlight was when I was hit on by the male nurse. I was hit on, by the nurse, while wearing an adult diaper. After two days in the hospital, no shower, I WAS HIT ON WHILE WEARING A DIAPER. I’m not sure if this is the greatest compliment I have ever received, or a testimony to the incredibly sexualized and often sexist culture here. I think the latter.

My Great Hospital Adventure began when my neighbor found me losing all of my fluids from both ends in the bathroom. I was starting to lose consciousness and shouting for help.  She helped clean me up, put on my first of many diapers, and ran to change her own clothes so we could get to the hospital. I waited from the safety of the floor for her to return. And waited. And waited. Finally she appeared with her make up done, her Dominican “bright and tight” uniform on (bright blue skin-tight jeans, low cut red top, sparkly red shoes) and her weave on. Now we were ready to go.  Not even extreme diarrhea will make a Dominican go into public looking a mess.

She helped me walk to the carrito. I sank down to the side of the road to wait for it, realized everyone could probably see my diaper and the ridiculously impractical lacy undies my neighbor had provided, decided I was dying and didn’t care, and vomited everywhere. Finally we got a vomit bag and me into the carrito where my neighbor proceeded to tell all of the other riders the story of my discovery in the bathroom.

We arrived at the hospital, where the triage was a young man in a preppy polo with a night stick. (Is that what you call those sticks policemen use?). Luckily for us, the combined powers of my curvy neighbor and my inability to stand up got us moved to the front of the line in no time. A doctor asked me what was wrong.

 “Yo nesecito un IV!” (I need an IV!)

“Ok, we’ll get you one…”

“I need an IV! I need an IV!”

 I kept repeating this command until I found myself on a plastic, uncovered narrow bed with a nurse poking all over me trying to find a vein. He found it, but my body decided that it was going to keep pushing out my weight in fluids, so a second IV was added.

“Where is her mother?” asked a concerned Dominican man. I must have been the only gringa in the hospital because soon a crowd of locals was around my bed.  “She needs to call her mother.” “Where is her family? What is she doing here?”

“She has no one but me,” my neighbor responded with not a little dramatic flair. “I found her in the bathroom….” And the story began again. I vomited up the few Gatorade sips I had taken.

I spent that night on a narrow high bed with my towel as a pillow being visited by a nurse named Pablo. He was a nice one: he invited me to church, instead of asking why I didn’t have a boyfriend.  I was all alone in a big open room, no curtains, open windows. My neighbor warned me to put my valuables under my head so they wouldn’t get stolen in the night. Great – not only did I have to focus on not vomiting, but also not getting robbed.

The next day visitors were in and out – two fellow teachers from my school, my roommate, my neighbor again, a coworker. Random locals who had been at the scene the day before came in to ask how I was doing and comment on my dramatic arrival. “She was really bad yesterday!” one Dominican man I didn’t recognize commented to my nurse.  When my roommate came to ask about the white girl who arrived the day before, the woman at the front desk said “Oh, Mari?”

A lot of people in this day and age get fifteen minutes of fame by going viral on the internet. I got mine by being the only white girl in a Dominican hospital. Unfortunately, other than the curious visitors, there weren’t any perks.

My second night I had a pillow, but I also had sickly neighbors, a nurse who refused to turn out the lights until midnight, and only one mattress (that morning I had been yelled at for stealing an extra mattress the night before). All of my bones hurt. I was on my last diaper. I had had nothing but Gatorade and some hastily snuck crackers. The creeper nurse kept calling me “dear” and trying to speak English with me. I wanted to punch him, but my hands were both swollen and slightly green.  The water was shut off some time in the night, and there was blood in the shower.  This glamour of this whole “famous in the hospital” thing had worn off quickly.

The next day a friend was supposed to pick me up, but for some reason the number wasn’t working and after multiple tries I gave up and decided to just get to the carrito myself. I packed up all of the goodies my roommate had brought me – two pillows, multiple books, extra clothes, and a going-out dress. (The last one was my neighbor’s idea – no surprise there.) A young Haitian guy who had been there for my arrival (and had handily placed a trash can to catch my Gatorade spray) popped up and offered to help me carry everything.  So maybe there were perks to this fame after all.  As we walked to the stop he asked me if I knew Jesus. I said yes and we walked in silence for a bit. Then he said, “he loves you” but I misheard and thought he said “I love you” and everything was a bit awkward after that.

I finally made it into the carrito and slumped against the window, my arms bruised and bandaged. “You’re not doing so great, uh?” the large man next to me asked. I was a little sorry my neighbor wasn’t there to tell the whole story and satisfy Dominican curiosity.

Finally I was home, and I spent the next few days showering the hospital off me, eating homemade soup and relaxing. That is only half a lie – the shower was a bucket, the soup was Ramen and visitors constantly interrupted my relaxation. My roommate said he couldn’t leave the house without the entire batey asking how his “mujer” (woman) was, and recommending something for a special tea. “This won’t be a tea much longer, this will be a sancocho (stew)!” He exclaimed, as he bravely took on bouncer duties, telling visitors I was sleeping or too tired to talk. 

I like to call myself a traveler, to carry this as my brand. This means that any experience I had was of course a “breathtaking” “insightful” “life-changing” one, and this hospital stay was no exception. Except for the fact that none of those adjectives are applicable, unless you call “not dying” life changing.

Maybe it was a little. After the doctors said that if I had waited two more hours to seek treatment I could have died, I sat and grinned for three hours. Yes, while in the loud, uncomfortable, sea-foam green painted former cholera ward. Just me, grinning like a fool and giggling when I thought of the absurd yellow lacy panties I had been given for my diarrhea crisis, or the looks on the faces of everyone in the emergency room when I came stumbling through the door. I grinned until I fell asleep, because life is a lovely thing and travel is still worth it. 

Stuff My Roommate Says

I live with a Spanish/Italian man who is one of the most easygoing, helpful and sassy roommates I have ever had the pleasure of killing spiders with. He came all the way from the north of Spain to teach little ones and regale me with his stories and zumba moves. He's fluent in English, Spanish and Italian and enjoys sharing his insights with me as we sit around eating our rice and beans. And now, I share them with you.

"They are always eating me with their eyes"
(about the local women)

me - "look at the stars! Doesn't it make you want to go camping?"

him- "to me, this is camping."

"A poop and a beer are the best things"
(I mean, it's the developing world...bowel movements, and all that.) 

"You're welcome for the pearl of wisdom. I always make pearl of wisdom."
"Pearls of wisdom. Plural"
"No, just one. It is a very big pearl. With all the wisdom."

About a man hitting on me on the beach
"He didn't actually want you to teach him how to swim... how to swim in bed, maybe."

me - "this door is like a barn door..I'm like a horse"
him - "a whore! hahhahaah!"
me - "that's not that funny..."
him - "to me, yes."

(As we tried to eradicate a certain smell using my perfume)
"Now it smells like sweet poops. This is what poops a princess."
"What?"
"This is what a princess poop like. Oooh, I made a poop! Oooh, it so sweet!"

(On free time and Americans)
"It is only for holidays, and they start to drink! You can't handle free time, you just start thinking and are like, ahhhh! Three hours of free time and you start making strange hobbies, like frisbee in the winter on the beach."

My New Home

It is a lazy Saturday morning as I write this, cloudy so our beach trip with a few students was canceled. I'm sitting around in my pajamas, drinking tea and reading travel blogs, as I do, when three little boys start giggling behind my open door, hoping to be chased.

Good morning, and welcome to my life in the Dominican countryside. 

A neighbor brought by a few pancakes for us to try and now the group of kids has grown to six - 

they sit in the half built compost toilet, looking at some books in English 

and fighting over who gets to hold the Garfield book.

My yard

View from my yard 

I haven't posted in quite some time. My little life in downtown Puerto Plata was suddenly uprooted and I moved to Muñoz, a town outside of the city, and was without internet for some weeks. Instead of car alarms, I now hear roosters and passing horses. The sun sets behind a mountain and the crickets can be cacophonous. There is STILL a bar near my house that plays music, 

but quieter and not so constantly. 

Specifically I live right outside of a batey (pronounced baah-tAY). A batey is a small community, usually very poor, that sprung up around a sugar cane field for the workers. Now most of the fields are shut down but the bateys remain. I live outside of the batey named La Grúa 

(which means crane, as in the building equipment, as far as I know).

Roofs of the batey

View from my school doorway

I now teach not only pre-school, but also 1st through around 4th grade (grades aren't very strict here...) Another teacher (for the older kids) and I share the one room school house. Somedays, the noise of two classes and too many energetic kids in a small space threatens to even overwhelm the strident singing and shouting of our neighbors as they do laundry, bake cookies or fry up some empanadas, all in the small main street. They casually shift their pots and buckets when pick up trucks squeeze by, selling bananas or scrap metal. It's a tight little community, in all senses of the word, and I sort of love it. While it doesn't have the amenities Puerto Plata has (no running water in the bathroom, no gym, no shops, cafes, nearby beaches...oh I do miss my daily walks near the sea!), the closeness is a comfort. I recognize the dogs that stand outside the school door and can always tell when our neighbor bakes shortbread. But my absolute favorite part is that I am recognized as a teacher - instead of being treated as a tourist, with the cat-callers and aggressive vendors and panhandlers. I have a place here. It's still a distant place, but I am known in my tiny batey. My neighbors call me La Flaca (The skinny), which is fine if it means the home-made peanut butter vender keeps giving me extra scoops to fatten me up.

My school 

Inside the school

I was lonely in Puerto Plata, even with all the noise and people. Though I spoke to many people, I never felt any real connection to them. Maybe because I was seen as just a tourist, yet another blanquita passing through. While I make no presumptions to being truly a vital member the community here in Muñoz I am, if peripherally, a member. Children play in my yard 

and neighbors come by to sit in the shade and chat.

While in Puerto Plata I wondered why so many people loved the DR. Ok, it has nice beaches and delicious street food - so do many countries. But now, in Muñoz, I see it. I love the nature here; the luxurious flowers and twisted jungle plants. I love the spotted baby pigs I saw on my walk back from church. I love the colors - the blue, green and pink houses, the "bright and tight" Dominicana style. (Or at least, I love the bright part, the tight is not for me.) I love that no matter where I am, a light sound of bachata can always reach my ears.

If you follow the main street through Muñoz, it eventually becomes a dirt road and wanders off into the mountains. Someday, I want to follow it for a few days. 

I'm told they might need to move me to yet another school (though I would still live in Muñoz) and I'm fine with that. If the DR is teaching me anything, it's to enjoy each present moment for what it is.

So now I'll go enjoy some lunch, 

as I try to ignore the sounds of the batey's weekly cockfighting extravaganza.

 I'll just turn up my bachata. 

My First Dominican Republic Post

Or January Was Insane and Now I'm Insane 

January of 2013 was welcomed in at an Irish bar in Athens, Greece and that month of new beginnings saw me cross four countries, by bus, boat, and airplane, and finally land in a fifth one, my new home for six months.

Scroll through the following pictures really fast to get an idea of how all of that felt:

Christmas in Istanbul!

Ferry in Greece!

More Christmas in Greece!

New Years!

Back through Istanbul!

Lots of airplanes!

Christmas at home!

Beaches and Spanish! 

Dizzy yet?

 I'm hoping February is slightly more tranquil.

It is high time I had a first post from the Dominican Republic. I've been here just over three weeks and let me tell you, from Eastern Europe to the Caribbean is a transition to be reckoned with. I left in a blizzard and arrived (with less than a week stopover in the USA) into heat and humidity.

Moving to a new country is always intense. Even more so if the last country hasn't left your mind yet. I feel like my Georgia experience hasn't found full closure yet (expect more posts about it, and my travels after!). I miss it deeply, much more than expected. I miss the food, my small town where everyone knew me, my adorable students, the music and the dancing. But I am delving into my new country as best I can, with the smell of khachapuri (Georgian cheesy bread) still clinging to my hair.

I spent my first week trying to forget Georgian, stopping myself from saying "bodishi" (sorry) and "sahd aris...?" (Where is...?) and other Georgian phrases. I didn't always stop myself in time but I'm hoping no one noticed the strange "flaca" (skinny girl - in Spanish) saying strange words. I sat in the beach and read It's Not About the Tapas, a hilarious book which I highly recommend about a woman biking across Spain. I got sun burnt, went for runs and felt tropical and daring.

I spent my second week trying to get used to living next door to a bar, where music plays from noon until midnight (or past it) every day. I was shocked when a Dominican colleague of mine caught a pigeon with her bare hands.  I read The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood, which was supposedly "post-feminist" and definitely brilliant but depressing. I mostly got used to the bugs.  I went to the market.

I spent my third week trying to remember Georgian (how do you say the days of the week?!). I joined a gym and made it through an aerobics class while a very sweaty man screamed at us. I think he was surprised the "blanquita" made it through. I finally snapped at one of the men shouting at me on the streets and told him very rudely to go away. I became addicted to Choco Rico, the very rich chocolate milk here.

Oh, and I also taught pre-school during this time, which deserves its own post entirely.

Lessons I've learned thus far:

1. When out for a jog, run fast so the cat-callers don't get even creepier.

It's great motivation! The cat calling, street hollering, general reactions here are insane. There is a thing called "sankies" in the DR - men who woo foreign woman to weasel out some money or to get a green card. It's the ultimate catch, my Dominican friend told me, to be taken back to the US with a wealthy American lady. I'm not sure if all the men who shout at me are sankies, but they certainly are enthusiastic. After spending 4 months in a country where no one gave me a second glance when walking down the street (I look very Georgian), it's strange to create such a stir when going to the grocery store. I am called "flaquita" "princesa" and "muñeca" (doll). I am told they want to take me to dinner, give me a ride, practice their English, get my number, etc etc etc. The worse is the strange "ssssssttt" hissing noise that never fails to startle me.

Of course, plenty of Dominicans are just friendly and helpful, such as the nice man who guards the museum beside me with a giant gun and shouted "good morning!" from across the street around 5 pm. And the cat-calling is mostly just a problem in the touristy board-walk area.  A nice older man told me he was surprised to see a white person walking around by herself - "like you don't care at all...tough!" because most "blancos" are afraid of "us brown people". Maybe that's my problem - I should ask my gun toting neighbor to walk with me.

This is the Malecón where I (and many others, both local and foreign) go for evening runs.

I haven't worked up to balancing food on my head yet though. 

2. Shake out your pants before putting them on.

Cockroaches will hide in them. In fact, all of the bugs of the area will find you and do their best to startle, sting and bite you until you have gone mad. This is just a test. Stand strong! (And buy the incense coil things for mosquitos)

3.  Motoconchos are magical.

Motoconchos are the motorcycle taxis. In Peru a motorcycle taxi looked like this:

It has a little compartment built on top with a seat and, if you're lucky, a door. (It's open air in the Amazon regions though).

Here it is just a motorcycle. I have seen 5 school children casually riding along, squished on the seat together, looking precious in their uniforms.  Two (fully grown) friends and I have piled onto one behind the driver, who then drove rapidly through town, over a small ditch, onto a bumpy dirt road and we didn't die or even fall off. Magic.


It's only the beginning of this new adventure, so stay tuned and I promise I'll deliver more interesting anecdotes, Dominican slang, and beach photos to make you jealous!

Not a beach, but the park near where I live

Looking down over a beach - I love the little jungle areas you can find nearby!