|
Follow Journal of an Evolving Teacher on social media!
Disclaimer
(This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and that the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.) I played Dixit for the first time at the Fulbright two-month check-in meeting. This open-ended card game features a collection of stunningly nuanced paintings or drawings on each face. In this version of the game, our coordinator prompted each of us to choose two cards: one that represented a moment of pride or joy and another for a challenge we faced in April or May.
My prideful card depicted a child walking through a forest green hilly landscape under a sunset sky. The child blows bubbles in the shapes of planets into the sky, which rise above the sunset’s borders into the borderless night sky littered with stars. In my card of challenge, a white daisy threatens to crack through the floor of concrete it grows through. The daisy’s stem yanks at the petals; a few are already missing. Two petals float off into the distant, dark cloudy background. What do you think they mean? I’ll give you a moment. . . Just checking in, are you ready? It’s ok. Take your time. I’m not in any rush. Alright, let’s continue. The prideful card signifies blowing out my ideas into existence. Each of the planets represent one project or idea I brought to life in the past two months: a video exchange system with a Spanish immersion school in Duluth, Minnesota, a children’s book guide, swing dance classes, and writing original songs to share with my students. Now, they float out in the universe among the stars. My ideas are strung together, constructing a constellation: a visual synopsis of my contributions and lessons. I hope the impact of this bubble solar system, this constellation, lingers after I depart Montevideo. The card of challenge is a visual representation of the first month settling into a new life in Uruguay. I scoured websites for volunteer opportunities, optimistically messaged contacts about course hours, and leapt out of my comfort zone to visit unfamiliar parts of the city. When I arrived in Montevideo, I was handed a white daisy of possibilities. Each event and bus trip to Ciudad Vieja was a petal. And when those fell through, or I realized the possibility could not blossom into reality, the petal was yanked away by the stem. Yank! Yank! Yank! Yank! One after the other, possibilities stripped away until I was left almost hopeless. Despite my routine misfortune, I kept going out, manifesting new possibilities. My gifted flower displayed layers of petals—it was nowhere near bare. And with time, the stem relinquished its tension on a few petals. The flower of possibility is not in full bloom anymore, but it is still standing strong because now, it is planted in soft soil of trust and relationships, not the crumbling concrete of uncertainty. Dixit was the prelude to a four-hour meeting of reflection and looking forward. As the calendar creeps closer to June, the sun inches closer to the precipice of setting on my time in Montevideo. Time is an illusion, it’s true. The second month passed in a flash. It is taxing to recall everything that occurred in a day. I championed reluctance every evening when I snuggled into my comfortable bed with four layered blankets for warmth. My journal was heavy in my hands, and sometimes picking it up and confronting the next empty page was too much of a chore. I am grateful for the chilly nights when I found the strength to write a bullet-point list of events that transpired. It is a resource I leaned on when crafting this post. And I know I will regret not filling in the spaces of two, three days in between entries when I backtrack back home. That being said, this post is my best attempt at recollection. My journal, “Favorites” photo album, and emotions serve as my comforting guides. So without further ado, here’s a reflection on month two. . . .May was the month of movement.
From school to school, province to province, social gathering to social gathering. On weekdays, my Airbnb was my afternoon sanctuary. I returned from school Monday through Friday at 1:00 to nap under my four thick blankets that entrapped me in a warm hug. I manifested energy to write, invested in side projects, or ran on my consistent loop along La Rambla. And sometimes, I ate an encouraging snack or sweet treat hidden in my first dresser drawer. Between 5:00 and 7:00, depending on the event, I departed from my heated living room to my social gathering of the evening. Uruguay’s humid penetrating wind pushed and pulled me between conversation clubs, theater shows, dinners with friends, and the swing dance club. In the classroom, I continued to float from first grade to sixth, following the flow of my mentor teachers’ routines and agendas. I could not, would not be contained to a chair, simply observing. So, I walked for miles simply by crossing classrooms. For four hours, I performed familiar choreography to various greeting songs and circulated cramped spaces to guide students' confused glances or eagerly raised hands. At 12:30, I finally recharged with a steaming plate of gnocchi, pasta with vegetables, or vegetarian empanadas one of my mentors picked up at her local bakery. Replenishing my grumbling stomach, I relished the twenty-minute break from movement. Until, of course, I had to leave to catch the bus. Ah, the buses. It is draining to depend on such an unpredictable system (I am referring to city buses only). The ETA on the Moovit bus app is more of a suggestion; instead, through trial and error, I grew to understand the time frame when each bus arrived. For example, the 192 bus I take on Wednesdays and Fridays always arrives at least five minutes late, if not ten (last Wednesday, it arrived almost twenty minutes late!). However, the G bus, which I take on Mondays and Tuesdays, arrives two minutes early without fail. Well, except for Monday the 27th, when it arrived at least ten minutes late. I am at the will of the bus driver. I am at the will of fluidity. Riding the go-with-the-flow wave
A view of the waves from the lighthouse in Colonia de Sacramento
In such a fluid culture, I do not know where I fit in. I come from a culture that prides itself on punctuality and efficiency. Some of my friends have their entire days scheduled out, hour to hour, with work, hobbies, and personal meetings. While I find these to be extreme cases, I admit I find comfort in knowing what comes next, where I need to show up, and when I must leave home and arrive. Long story short, I thrive on structure. But in Uruguay, time is an illusion; guests arrive at 10:15 or 10:30 when an event schedule states it will begin at 10:00 am. Uruguayans are very open-minded when making plans: wherever, whatever, whenever. However, I feel unstable, unable to maintain my balance when riding this go-with-the-flow wave. And, therefore, I become frustrated at myself when I cannot catch the wave and ride it out—letting go of any control of the what, where, and when.
In our group of ETAs, I established myself as the “planner.” I research restaurants for dinners hours beforehand and pose ideas for future gatherings. In my mind, there exists a fictional ticking alarm clock that signals when plans must be made. When we are all together, I hear the tick, tick, tick, what’s next? When the alarm goes off, I cannot silence the anxious ringing in my head. I attempt to hit snooze, delaying the inevitable moment when my desire for structure takes over. Ultimately, I choose the what, where, and when. But the muscles in my neck and shoulders remain taut because the only pressure that weighed me down was my own. And I am never fully relieved from it. I am never free from it. So when my morning meditation posed the question, “How do you feel when you objectively observe your discomfort and deeply let go?” my response was immediate. I feel liberated. Simple five- to ten-minute meditations frequently offer guidance when I lose my balance or myself in the thundering tick, tick, tick, what’s next?. My mind is quiet—my morning headaches smooth out as I slow down my breathing and just listen. During one session, on a slow Saturday morning, I practiced observing my discomfort as a detached spectator. Sitting perfectly still, legs crossed, back rested against my bed’s headboard, I felt strain in my neck and itches creep onto my forehead and cheek. And instead of instantly relieving these sources of discomfort, I leaned back into my new cushioned seat as a spectator. The immediate urgency for relief slowly melted away, until the itch or strain passed. My mind makes mountains out of molehills. But now I know the itches and strains I feel throughout the day are not urgent emergencies to be remedied; they are temporary sensations that will fade away in their own time. And the alarm clock? I just do not have to set it. After all, the tick, tick, tick, what’s next? is pressure, strain, weight I put on myself. I am in control of my liberation. I can deeply let go. Discomfort is temporary, just like everything else in our fluid world of movement. Gradually, I am finding my balance on the go-with-the-flow wave. Letting go is, indeed, dazzlingly liberating. Traveling beyond MontevideoThese 31 days of movement featured two excursions outside of Montevideo. One personal and one for work.
Colonia de Sacramento, Colonia (May 10th-12th) Colonia, a province two-and-a-half hours west of Montevideo, was a breath of fresh air. After over a month of transitioning into the new reality of living abroad, I finally began to feel at home. I established an inner circle of friends and eased my way into my local school communities. So, this weekend was my first chance to be a tourist in my temporary home: Uruguay. After school on a Friday in mid-May, I made a frantic trip to the Tres Cruces bus terminal. Allow me to pause and explain an exception to Uruguay’s cultural principle of “on time is early” (the opposite of what my high-school orchestra teacher preached). It is typical for most things (e.g. buses, Ubers, food deliveries) and people to arrive late. That is, except for intercity buses at Tres Cruces. For example, when my bus’s departure time to Colonia read 4:00 pm on my ticket, the bus actually pulled out of the station at exactly 3:59 pm. So, aware of these buses’ threatening punctuality, I almost panicked when I realized I had forgotten my bus ticket—which sat on my bedroom desk over a quarter mile away. Already in transit to Tres Cruces, I got off at the nearest city bus stop and sprinted—or, better put, ran as fast as I could with my clunky backpacking bag on my shoulders, the 0.3 miles back to my apartment. In fight-or-flight problem-solving mode, I snatched the ticket off my desk and opened the Uber app: my last hope. Thankfully, one was available to pick me up in six minutes, so I sat on the living room couch and took some deep breaths, soothing my racing heart rate. In the Uber, I continued this exercise as the driver and I encountered the post-work rush around the terminal. Luckily, with just five minutes to spare, I reunited with my friends, flushed and relieved. For the next two-and-a-half hours, I settled into the luxurious padded seats on our double-decker bus, watching the sunset over the highway from the fogged-up window. I share this anecdote to exemplify the natural bumps that appear on the road of living abroad. Problems spontaneously arise, and it is up to me to maneuver around or through them. Do I panic and give up, or do I take a breath, sprint the four blocks back to my apartment, and find alternative modes of transportation? Honestly, I still feel the temptation to lean into the former at times. But when living abroad, I am the only person who can pick myself up and out of the potholes. (And ultimately, if I had “given up,” another bus would have departed the following hour. So regardless of my decision, I would have arrived in Colonia on Friday night. In my own time—Uruguayan style.) Colonia welcomed me, Sam, Ryan, and August with cobblestone streets and Italian-style fine dining. After checking into our adorable hostel, we walked fifteen minutes to the historical district. On the walk, we passed through a plaza that hosted a photography display featuring black-and-white faces of local Uruguayans; touristy restaurants boasting big American hamburgers, and mouth-watering chivitos. Turning the corner to pass a looming church, the street was suddenly illuminated by candlelight that flickered on polka dot tablecloths covering pink and blue tables. “This is straight out of Italy,” I giggled to myself, reminiscing about candle-lit dinners of cacio e pepe and carbonara I relished in Venice. After ordering, the waitress brought blankets to cover our shivering legs. In and out of the restaurant she went, delivering a basket of dried pieces of bread, biscuits, and mayonnaise (a common side instead of butter), an unapologetically generous glass of red wine, lemonade with mint and ginger (Ryan’s beverage of choice), and beer for the boys. Over the next two hours, our streetside table was filled with wide oval plates of tantalizing pizza, salmon, seafood gnocchi, and mushroom Sorrentino (large ravioli) soaked in a vegetable cream sauce. It’s safe to say we made ourselves at home as the steam from our luscious sauces played with the light emitting from the center of the polka dots. To conclude, we floated on plates of flan accompanied by dulce de leche (obviously) and chajá: a traditional Uruguayan cake with peaches, dulce de leche, and merengue. The following day, Saturday, the sun welcomed the rest of our compañeros (besides Denisha) with warm, open arms. Meeting the rest of the group outside the hostel was a homecoming of sorts. With our hearts now filled to the brim, the group strolled back to the historical district to fill our grumbling stomachs with cappuccinos, toasts, and sweet breads. Laughter was easy as we turned to one another, cracking jokes and sharing updates from the past month and a half in our respective sites: Rivera and Montevideo (and later, Flores when Brody arrived). The rest of the day, we toured the historical district, snapping group photos under the original stone entrance to Colonia de Sacramento and el Calle de Suspiros (Street of Sighs). I separated from the group to traverse through a small art gallery. Jacqueline and I took turns climbing a stone wall to view the faro (lighthouse), the wind crashing into our eardrums like the waves against the rocky shore below. A few hours later and with almost one waiting in line, the girls and I climbed the condensed spiral staircase to summit the faro while Brody and the rest of the boys ate lunch nearby. The wind whipped up our hunger, so we reunited at a restaurant by the shore. My compañeros and I warmed our hands with a submarino (hot milk with chunks of chocolate inside) and more stuffed pasta in cream sauce. Saturday was structured between an interplay between eating and walking. Or eating to find refuge from the biting wind and cold. Just fittingly, before returning to the Italian restaurant for dinner (for Jacqueline’s birthday!), we decided to take a calm amble by the water to watch the sunset. The resting neon orange ball of light acted as the gorgeous predictable conclusion to a day of unpredictable movement. . . .Minas, Llavaja (May 14th-15th)
“Where are all the cows?”, I inquired as the department’s white van whizzed by empty green fields and hills. Nico, one of my mentors, chuckled, as he easily does, and turned his glance out the window. “Honestly, I am not sure,” he sighed, scanning the horizon. For a country whose cows supposedly outnumber their human citizens four-to-one, the interior’s landscape appeared barren of white and black spots. “Hmmmm,” I mumbled in acknowledgment, continuing to stare out the van window at the passing countryside. Two hours later, the cows made their subtle debut. The van had just pulled into Minas, the capital of Lavalleja: a province slightly northeast of Montevideo. Although Minas is more of a small town than a city, the surrounding sierras (grand rolling hills) and grazing cattle painted a strikingly tranquil welcome banner. I snapped a photo of the herd to send to my found little sister, Sophie (she and I share an admiration for this species of ruminant). However brief, this two-day trip was an enlightening introduction to the interior of Montevideo. For weeks, I heard Uruguyans label the territory outside of Montevideo as “different,” and I always tilted my head with confusion and curiosity. And I can confirm: it’s different. In Minas, no city buses were pulling over at every city block. The commotion of 18 de Julio (one of the main streets in Montevideo) subdued to hilly, crisscrossing small town streets littered with local ferias and alfajor shops. Tranquil, quiet, slow. Unlike Colonia, this trip to Minas was not solely for pleasure, but for business. On typical Thursdays, I work with two teacher trainers, Nico and Ceci. These two carry a lot of responsibility on their blazer-padded shoulders. They oversee hundreds of primary English teachers around all of Uruguay. Over the school year, they attempt to travel to every school to observe, interview, and consult with each English teacher. I admire their charisma, careful attention to detail, and gentle strength that they carry into every interaction with teachers, principals, and supervisors. Along with Nico and Ceci, the van hosted their boss and two other teacher trainers. We were a full crew that arrived intending to visit all eleven teachers in the province. During the 14th and 15th, Nico and Ceci divided themselves between all of the associated schools; I took turns accompanying them. So from the moment we arrived in Llavaja, our crew was on our feet: walking between classrooms, tapping along to “Hello” songs, and finding available chairs in hidden-away closet spaces that served as temporary conference rooms. Here is a sample schedule of a day in Minas:
When we returned to the hotel, I relieved my weary feet and sat in silence on one of the room’s two queen beds. This was my time to rest, recharge, and recuperate before a “night on the town,” in tranquil Minas: alfajores and asado (dessert first, of course). At 9:00, Nico, Ceci, and I braved the brisk autumn air and walked to a local parrilla. We talked for hours over the melted provolone appetizer, sausage, traditional asado, and glasses of wine and coke. Work was off the table, so we laughed over life stories. The stress of the busy day melted away like the sizzling, gooey cheese we scooped out of the tray with our forks. I got to know both of them as parents, travelers, Uruguayans—not just mentors. They showed me photos of their children and of each other at friends’ weddings. I reminisced about life in Minnesota; they plan to visit, just not in the winter. Asado always fills both the heart and stomach: it is a meal meant to be shared with family. And Nico and Ceci supported me, encouraged me, and guided me like any loving family member. Good food with good people. What is more filling than that? Well, alfajores. These dense, delectable, dulce-de-leche-filled delicacies are trademarks of this Sierra valley city, so much so that Minas has its own brand of postre: “Alfajores de las Sierras de Minas.” There are two flavors to choose from—dark chocolate and nieve, or merengue—and each alfajor is about an inch and a half tall and wide. They are huge, sweet macarons filled with a generous scoopful of dulce de leche. Once I start eating one, es un camino de ida (a Rio de la Plata Spanish phrase). There’s no turning back. Satisfaction is achieved only after licking all of the leftover chocolate covering crumbles off the wrapper with my finger. (I bought a pack of six—three nieve, three chocolate—to share with my compañeros in Montevideo. Most of the alfajores were enjoyed while sitting on the edge of Ryan’s sofa, watching the drama unfold between Penelope and Colin in Season three of Bridgerton.) In just two days, Nico and Ceci lifted the curtain from the territory beyond Montevideo. Although the trip was packed full of movement, evenings were tranquil, slow, and sweet with dulce de leche desserts. An eager sponge, I soaked up the novelty and hours in the classrooms hosted in renovated crowded mobile homes. I listened to my mentors’ presentations on competencies and lesson planning in the front row of the workshop, sharing space with other Llavaja primary English teachers. Since leaving Llaveja, I have run into a few of those teachers at other workshops. We embraced warmly and exchanged kisses on cheeks before settling into our chosen seats facing the screen. So, to conclude this section: thank you, Nico and Ceci, for revealing a window into a part of the Uruguayan interior. It was a pleasure to share meals, car ride conversations, and joyful reflections over alfajores with you. I cannot wait to venture out to Salto with you next week! me muero de cansancioI hit a wall on Friday, May 24th—oh, and I also had my first big cry. Hooray?!
After the check-in meeting, four hours of deep emotional assessment in reaction to the past two months and the two months ahead, my body felt both heavy and empty. I missed home:
April and May were transitional months—I did not allow myself the time to miss home, even on the phone with friends. I was intent on being present in Montevideo, planting and nurturing seeds of home and comfort in my quiet neighborhood. However, if I avoided the feelings long enough, they would come back to bite me fiercely, all at once. And that’s exactly what they did. The only resolution was nurturing my body, mind, and spirit—a necessary recharge and recognition of my weariness. Homesickness is a cloud that hangs over your head; sometimes it sprinkles, sometimes it pours, but it is always there, lingering. Instead of combating it, I eventually had to stand in the rain and let my feelings puddle at my feet. . . .
June will conclude my experience in Montevideo: a city of glorious sunsets that signal the beginning of frigid nights. The last two months in this welcoming, dessert-loving, hospitable city were full of memories, confusing emotions, and unforgettable experiences with the most loving, adventurous people. All of the locals I met ensured I felt at home in their country, offering rides to tourist locations, invitations to birthday parties and post-swing cocktail hours, and weekly dulce-de-leche delicacies (thank you, Ceci). I am apprehensively relieved to admit that Montevideo feels like home. After all, I will be picking up my life and moving all over again in just over one month.
I adore Montevideo and all its quirks. Yes, thoughts of home and the people I left behind uncontrollably flow in and out of my consciousness. I lament the graduations, birthdays, and other cultural events I missed and inevitably will miss with the changing seasons. However, living and teaching here in Montevideo is a dream come true. I would not trade this experience for anything. In just two months, I have met hundreds of Uruguayan students; traveled the country for business and pleasure; mastered three types of Swing dance steps; immersed myself in Uruguayan dessert culture; and traversed Ciudad Vieja’s cultural events (e.g. ballet, jazz club, theater productions); enjoyed solo picnic dates in Parque Prado and Parque Rodó; and nurtured connections with international millennials over cozy empanadas, unsalted fries, and impromptu Spotify karaoke parties. That being said, I will maximize my remaining weeks in this mate-fueled capital. June will be a full sprint with travel, presentations at teacher training workshops, more solo exploration, merienda and swing dance routines, and preparation for farewell lesson plans and celebrations. I will cherish each sunrise outside my apartment window until all too soon, the sun sets on this three-month chapter. All too soon, I will welcome the intimidating change that awaits on the other side of the door. DId you enjoy this post?Consider sending a Venmo payment to the Journal of an Evolving Teacher business page!
I spend at least 3 hours on every blog post, from writing the first draft to creating accompanying graphics for social media. Your small contribution will serve as compensation for all the work that makes this blog possible. Thank you! Thanks for joining in the chaos!
2 Comments
Dad
6/9/2024 07:41:07 am
Re-reading this I noticed a couple things I missed when I proofed it. First was the unintentionally hilarious image of you (literally!) resting ON a plate of gnocchi at noon at school (resting or recharging WITH)! The second was “almost one” line to climb the lighthouse. Sorry!
Meghan Hesterman
6/9/2024 08:28:37 am
Thank you for the suggestions! Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMeghan Hesterman (she/her) is an aspiring educator, storyteller, and traveler. Through regular posts and commentary, she candidly reflects on her evolution as an educator and young adult. Categories
All
Archives
February 2025
|
RSS Feed