Finally, I've started the Spanish course at Los Andes. There are about ten students from about six countries. So far it has seemed fine, but it can be kind of a drag having to go downtown at 6 everyday, but it could be a lot farther and a lot worse. The campus is stunning: it was built on a hilly area in the old downtown during the 1940s. This was when the country was in one of it's worst civil wars, simply titled, La Violencia. The thing that made the campus unique was the lack of emphasis on political orientation.

The course is taught by a teacher who is ambiguously Colombian, at best. He looks, dresses, and speaks like a Frenchmen or some other European. Other students clearly share my suspicions. As soon as there was an opportunity, an actual Frenchman asked him where he was from. When he answered "Colombia", another student pressed further "What part?"

He speaks great Spanish and I can tell he knows a lot, but I still feel I am being taught French Spanish.

Yesterday, we were reviewing the syllabus, and there was a section that had 3 parts of the grade, worth, 30%, 20%, and 20%. It didn't add up to 100% and we asked him why. There was a section, at the bottom, that said 10% should be added to each of the three sections. In an effort to break the ice I summoned up by best Spanish to say, "For that reason, you teach Languages, and not Math." He looked at me, fairly unamused. Maybe it was the language, or maybe it was a bad joke. "Bromeando(Joking)," I assured. He rolled with it a little bit ",it's good, yes, I teach languages and not math." I could feel my face flush a little bit "Oh well, you gotta take risks," I thought. I could hear a few students snort at it, and another student turned around and flashed a smile. Toto, we're not in community college anymore.

Life in this city of bricks

I haven't figured out yet why so many buildings here are made of brick. From several people, I have been offered a few possibilties: tradition, the cost of wood, no need for paint, etc. Bogota's renewed safety and Colombia's recently strong economy has caused a construction 
boom.  Throughout the city, Cranes and work crews are seen ripping down old houses and
delipidated offices and usually replacing them with fancy brick apartments.

The contractors are certainly winning and hopefully everyone else is too.  One of my students' houses has recieved numerous offers from contractors who want to tear down the outdated houses, and in fill with more brick buildings.  

A couple weeks ago, I walked by some builders near the university in my neighborhood. Four
guys were struggling with a huge window, using suction cups to position it.  Below them, men of all ages had buckets of goopy mortar that they used to slowly build a wall around the bottom floor restaurante.  I felt a tinge of guilt knowing that I likely make more in 10 hours of English lessons than they do with 50 hours of masonry.  

As I watched, one guy made eye contact and smile.  He seemed just as curious of me as I
I was of them.  I explained in my best Spanish that I too, know the trades.  I couldn't go as far as "don't you hate how bad your hands get?" but I tried to build some
kind of cross culture commonality with my comment. I assume they have some impression that every tall white American has a life more like the charades of American pie or the luxurious drama of the Real Orange County.

I am quite curious what people must think about me.  What kinds of conclusions do they make? Is it maybe that I am just interesting to look at.  I have gotten acustomed to being some form of a minority.  When I enter a restaurant, people usually give me at least a glance, if they don't completly turn and stare.  I joke with Andrea I should make an announcement as I enter ",El gringo ha llegado!" "The gringo has arrived!"  

In the beginning I would cower in the face of stares.  After a month of accumulation 
I have begun to stare back aggresively, perhaps not the wisest move in Colombia.  When bums ask for money, I consider them lucky that I don't know enough Spanish to say ",not a chance 
in hell, bud."  

"Culture shock" was something I really thought I knew.  When I got off the plane in New Zealand I thought ", 'wow!' they put meat in pies, culture shock!"  In Costa Rica, culture shock was the fact that I smelled raw sewage at times or that a six hour bus ride only cost six dollars.   I know realize that staying in hostels, moving around with a friend shields you 
from real culture shock.  In my earlier travels I thought I felt it, but I see now
that I always had something to shield me from it.  I never had to get a doctors appointment or find an apartment in a different language.  

The culture shock in Bogota have made me bipolar at times.    The experience here is real and unguided.  Something as basic as catching a bus has become a hassle.  Whenever I am looking for a bus, I stand there and try to figure out the one I need.  See, buses in Bogota have a sign on the front that say approximately where they are going.  I often choose a bus I think will work, only for it to take an unexpected turn into some western or northern neighborhood completely away from where I had predicted.  During one of those detours, I conceited defeat but not without a free tour.  

That bus eventually led me up to a far nothern neighborhood,probably 80 streets away from where I really wanted to be.  I try to turn my mistakes into victories but the joy of being lost loses its charm when I am actually trying to do normal things like work or errands.  

Occasionally, I hit formidable lows.  A week ago, I think I would have started a fight with a bum if he had followed or pestered me for another moment.  I was still having waves of nausea from a Caribbean parasite in my belly.I guess was so disheartened that I felt I had nothing 
to really lose.  It is especially depressing to discover the huge contrast between the dream of making a new life abroad and the actual despair of walking down a strange, loud street, nauseous and lonesome.  

Nevertheless, as quickly as I can get down, is as quickly as I get back up.

A couple days after I nearly assaulted that beggar, I went out by myself to play ping pong during the night.  I arrived at the hall, excited, but still with the attitude of nothing to lose.  Upon entering, I walked up to a group of guys and asked if I could play.  Each of the five looked about 17, and they were sitting there joking and drinking.  They took turns playing me and I was elated to try to so many opponents.   After a couple games, the group welcomed me to sit down and help myself to the half rack on Costena.  I started talking, and like normal, my spanish made leaps and bounds in each sentence.  
 
My greatest memories have always been the kindness of strangers: the unexpected welcoming feeling of a group of people I just met.  Once in New Zealand, I walked off alone at night to investigate some noise down the road.  I discovered a mix of kids from all countries having a late night drinking session on the deck of their hostel.  They saw me walk by and started shouting.  I was curious, so I approached.  Soon enough, I was drinking with them and we were on first name basis.  It's when I am least expecting it and least looking for it, that those spontaneous connections occur.

That night in the ping pong bar, I had just came to get my sport fix.  After I was welcomed to the conversation, we began to talk about everything from culture, racism, America, Colombia, and everything else the language would permit.  It was fascinating to interact with them, across language, culture, and class lines.  I would mention a pop song, and the five guys would suddenly pipe up and give me their boisterous version of it at that moment.

They were actually 21 and had known eachother for years in Colegio (private school).  Within all their shouting and teasing, I noticed that touch was much less taboo for them.  They were clearly straight, but between friends it seemed ok to have your arm around your friend or your leg up on his lap when the group was sitting around exchanging stories.  I noticed the same in other cultures, in New Zealand I saw a guy sitting on friends lap.  I have also read that guy 
friends in India can hold hands.  Given that I thought Colombia was traditionally more homophobic
, that little example fascinated me.

For months I had been reading how incredibly easy it is to make Colombian friends and for once it happened to me.  They were enthralled that I knew their slang.  Eventually, the ping pong club closed, and we were all a little prendido (lit up).  

Out in the street, it was five Colombians and a tall blonde guy.  I think the fact that I was, by contrast, the ugly duckling, made people stare at me even more.  They wanted to go into a bar, but I was a little uncertain of the appearance.  They could tell quickly that I was apprehensive, and we backed out quickly.  "Hay que confiar (I should be more trusting)," I offered.  One guy, Christian, quickly corrected me, "No,no, no, hay que desconfiar todo el mundo" (You shouldn't trust the anyone).  We continued on towards my place.  They assured me to trust my instincts. 
One guy would repeat in English "no, no es goood, es goood."  

Upon arriving at my place, I gave them a quick lesson on a typical American handshake, with a simple touching of fists.  I said my goodbye, and hiked the stairs up to my apartment.  I crawled into bed with a slight alcohol buzz, but more with a buzz that comes from seeing kindness and having ones hopes renewed of making it abroad.