Seconds

I intended to take a full break from the internet and email this week. It's not that easy. It's a lot harder when you sprain your ankle when someone drops you salsa dancing and you can't go to the beach or to La Candelaria or to San Antonio de los Altos like you planned.

But you know what they say about plans...

The sudden change of plans turned out to be a rather significant blessing in disguise. This month, my dear friend, Ryan, has been attempting to do something new every day. These new things have very particular, but unspecified qualifications. For instance, eating a new food does not count. Eating Indian food that she made herself while wearing a bindi does count. You try to figure it out, betcha can't!

Right before I came to Venezuela, Ryan's task for the day had been to write some of the people she had left on bad terms. The goal was not to reestablish contact or rekindle friendships, but rather let them know that she was sorry that things had ended poorly and that she wished each of them well. Ryan came up with a list of four people. I scoffed at her list doubly. One, none of the relationships she had ended on bad terms seemed to have ended as a result of her actions (at least from my biased, Ryan-loving point of view). Two was that I honestly couldn't think of anyone with whom I wanted to have that kind of conversation, that I felt I owed that kind of explanation or apology or well-wishing.

Oh, folly.

Upon my return to Caracas, I remembered that my host, JO, was very good friends with another good friend's ex-boyfriend. By chance my friend had tried to set me up with her ex before they started dating and I had been a giant b***** to him. I guess I just wasn't having being set up, or I felt I had been tricked into it, or who knows. Regardless, I was mean, like really mean. And I'm not usually mean. Probably because it sends me into paroxysms of guilt.

Hanging out with JO, however, meant that I would come into contact with him. And my sprained ankle, which kept me from going to San Antnio with AM and the fam, also meant that I was invited to this guy's house for their Christmas celebration with family. His family and friends cooed over my injury, offered medical advice from all sides, as Venezuelans are prone to do, and fed me more food than I could ever possibly consume. His mom even gave me some soap, hecho en Venezuela, as a Christmas gift, and I had to ask her for tampons. Great.

As if my guilt could be magnified anymore. Good guy, nice family, and here I was a heartless jerk for no reason.

Tonight, JO and I ended up out with them again. A conversation about grad school ended with a serious Erin-and-friend's-ex heart-t0-heart. I apologized profusely for having been awful to him. It had been gnawing at me for four years, really. He was happy the mystery was solved. Apparently, the set-up part was unbeknownst to him and just knowing that cleared the air. We talked about his ex and how how he still has feelings for her and how broken up he was when they broke up. We talked about my just breaking up with my boyfriend.

I'm really glad that I got the chance to apologize to him. I'm also glad that we got to hang out and get to know each other a bit better than I was willing to allow the first time. I'm sad for him, of course, as I'm sad for my friend. We bonded a bit over broken hearts. I'm glad that I had the satisifaction of seeing my apology to its target. Though Ry's letters were probably more nuanced and noseque, this was a very satisfying way to follow through.

Here's to second chances.

I hope everyone is having a very merry, happy, sleepy and safe holiday.

RIP Paul

"I don't care who writes a nation's laws--or crafts its advanced treatises-- so long as I can write its economics textbooks."
--Paul Samuelson, MIT economist, America's first Nobel laureate in Economics, among other things.
/15/1915 - 12/13/2009

Una semana y un dia, una semana y un dia, una...

I've written here before about the curative powers of Venezuela. I've written of that feeling of belonging and relief and comfort that comes from stepping off a plane into a Spanish-speaking country. The anticipation is almost too much to handle. It's been over a year since I've been to a Spanish-speaking country. It's been three and a half years since I've been to Venezuela. I miss it so much. I miss my arepas. I miss the Avila and the beach. I miss speaking Spanish and dancing salsa until all hours at Mani.

The power of the human brain to forget the bad things always astounds. Whether leaving a relationship or a country or job, the uncomfortable parts seem to melt away and all we're left with is the good, the beautiful, the entertaining.

I do not miss dangerous streets, how I would hold my breath walking home at night. I do not miss expensive taxicabs and traffic that you would get stuck in for hours. I do not miss the bureaucracy or the seemingly endless supply of fakery. But if I try, I don't have to remember any of those things. I see an empanada stand on the beach. A packed crowd at the salsa bar. A lazy afternoon at El Leon watching baseball.

I hope you're ready for me, Vene. I'm certainly ready for you.

A Whole New World

I'm always amazed at the worlds that have a tendency to open up when others shut down. Last night, I was having dinner with Ry and she mentioned that her friend and former physical therapist, AM, was climbing at Spot in a competition and had invited her to come along. Less than a week ago, BF had convinced me to come out climbing, something I hadn't done in seven years, at least. We went to Spot, and I had so much fun. My forearms hurt for days afterward and I couldn't use my hands all day, but it was fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that I bought a pair of climbing shoes this week!

Spot was the last place I expected to end up last night and I really wish that I had had a camera. Of course, I ran into two students, but thankfully, not more than that! I think they were more embarrassed than I was, though it did feel a little weird to drink in front of them.

Regardless, the whole scene assaulted my homebound senses. Chalk in the air made it difficult to breathe. They kept the heat low to help those climbing. And climbing shoes, well, let's say they do not smell like roses. Ry was excited because there were so many cute boys with beards. I was a little more cautious, how many of these guys could be my students next semester!? Either way, watching people climb provided a sense of awe all around. Everyone seemed sweet and friendly. AM described climbers as socially awkward, athletic types, which made Ry want to meet one even more. Let's think about this: beards, socially awkward, built, active what more could a girl ask for!?

We made friends with T, a kids' coach and BVSD teacher, who gave us the low-down on "comp*" and "slacklining" and the whole process of the night. I had no idea such things went on. I had a really good time. Spectating can be a rather odd way to spend time, but watching AM and the other finalists "flash**" the "finals problem***" was mesmerizing and the sheer number of people who came out to comp overwhelmed a bit. (See my fancy new lingo!? I'm so cool and hip!)

A former student, whom I also happened to run into at REI this week, approached me near the end.

"I didn't know you were so into climbing."

I'm not, but maybe I could be.

*comp is short for competition.
**flash means to jet up the problem*** with little issue or delay.
***a problem is a route set up in a bouldering gym with certain holds for your feet and hands. They color-code them so you can stay on track and know how difficult it is.

Night running

For as long as I can remember, I have been scared to death of running at night. I really only started running when I got to college and it would be nice to say that Durham wasn't the safest of towns. I have so many vague recollections of stories of girls going running at night in the Duke Forest and coming back having been raped or assaulted, or not coming back at all. Those stories surely gain in horror and lack in believability as the years wear on, but that doesn't diminish their effect in the slightest.

Though DB was always my running partner through college, LB was always the one I talked to about running. She ran track for Duke, is with her current beau primarily because they both run and takes an intellectual approach to running that I really appreciate. Having spent time in a number of unsavory places and even more sensitive to frightening stories in the Chronicle than I was, LB's voice has always told me not to run at night. Even when I don't hear from her for months, it's still her voice telling me it's dangerous.

The business of graduate school and the waning daylight hours in the wintertime has been getting me and my running down. I used to be a morning runner and after two years of having my bedtime pushed farther and farther back and thus wake up time farther and farther back, I've lost the morning runner mentality. It's really hard to wake up in the morning, put on shoes and venture out into the cold. So, armed with BZ's assertion that sometimes if you want to run, you have to do it at any available hour, I headed out into the night.

It's supposed to snow tomorrow, and that was my primary impetus. If I skipped today and I would probably skip tomorrow, I would have only run one day out of five, which is unacceptable when one has as much time as I do and has recently, tentatively agreed to run a marathon next year. The moon is full tonight, or at least really close to it, and I figured that would be as good a time as any to start running outside.

And I live in Boulder, for goodness' sakes.

Of course, the clouds had already started to roll in and there was little hope of running by moonlight. It was cold and my jacket zipper whipped against my face. Note to self, get a new jacket for running at night. I started off a bit faster than I like to, but I managed to keep a similar pace my whole run. It was a short one, less than 3 miles, but nonetheless, it was peaceful. By the end, I was tearing off my gloves and hat; I was hot. And I'd barely seen a car or a person. It's quieter, the sun doesn't shine in your eyes and there aren't a million cars threatening to run you off the road. For all my worry, I might have even been safer than if I'd managed to go out before daylight expired.

I still want to try to go back to morning running. I'm going to swim in the mornings to try to ease myself into it, but I really liked running at night. It's not a bad option when I just can't swing it during the day.

42

This has been a strange couple of weeks for sure. A rocket launch, an exam, white sands, crying students, ridiculousness and unease. To top it off, I spent this evening watching a movie that I have heard about to a ridiculous degree over the last year and a half or so. So much that I was anticipating plot twists and dialogue of a film I've never seen about a book I've never read. Even odder is that none of the people so apt to mention it were present when I watched it.

I thought Sci-Fi night was over for good. I guess I was mistaken.

Lessons

The lessons you learn about love are different at 18, 20, 23 and 27. Perhaps that's a good thing, but perhaps it's more an indication of how jaded one becomes.