I've Got You

This weekend I went climbing. As in, up a mountain. You may recall that I'm from Ohio, where the highest point in the state is in Bellefontain; 1549 feet. Here in Quito I trudge back up the hill to my apartment each day, and a height of over 9000 feet. The top of Mt Rucu (which I have yet to see personally) is 15.500 feet.

Since I've lived here I've often thought that the altitude gives me a small idea of what it must be like to be asthmatic. And yesterday, while struggling to keep going up to Rucu I think I got an idea of what an asthma attack might be like. My fingernails turned blue; I gasped for every breath, even while taking breaks in redicuously short intervals. There was nothing to do but keep going. Keep stepping. Keep gasping for air.

(side note: It is newly my opinion that people who are out of shape shouldn't try to climb mountains)

The climb itself, outside of my cardio-vascular-unpreparedness, was pretty easy for a long time. It wasn't until we wound our way around to the highest peak that I started to have any concern about safety. Before you get to the skree (a new word for me- it's an area of loose rock, and in this case, it's pretty steep. You have to switchback your way up it, sliding down a step for every two up) the path winds around the mountain, with a pretty steep drop off. For awhile, even with the drop-off it was pretty easy; I was even in the lead of our group of four when the path ended. I mean, we're traipsing along and suddenly the path stops. So I stopped. "Hmm," I said. "It seems the path is gone now..." We traded places and our leader took the lead. From that point until we turned back there was much less walking and much more climbing. Lots of precise foot-placing, coaching, and helping.

Whether I was dealing with dizziness from the lack of oxygen, or if it was from being so far up with the big drop looming on the right, I'm not sure. I do know that I didn't feel nearly as sure-footed as normal, and I found it a little ironic, since being on the side of a mountain is a good time to be sure-footed. We kept on, over rocks and mud and old rockslides. After awhile we stopped for some lunch. I mentioned that I wasn't feeling hungry (which pretty much never happens to me :) ) and that scared the rest of the group. Apparently that's another symptom of the dreaded altitude sickness. The only cure for altitude sickness is to go down. It's a big deal here. But we decided to eat and see how I felt afterward, and then decide whether to keep going.

After lunch, as snow-ball-sleet stuff started bouncing off of our bodies, one of the others decided she wasn't feeling well, and she thought we should turn around. I was disappointed to face the reality of not making it to the top, but also really relieved to start going down. So in the sleet, we turned around and started picking our way back down.

At several points in the return trip, the two men in our group helped hand us down in steep and slippery places. There was a time that we were going down a little wall of rock, maybe 5 feet high. The sleet had stopped, but the rocks were wet, and my shoes were muddy and I was feeling a little stressed about the huge drop-off that started about 2 feet behind me. The guy at the top took my pole from me and offered me his hand. We grabbed each others' wrists, and as I started down he said to me, "You're ok; I've got you."

"You're ok; I've got you." Simple words to remind me that I wasn't alone. I wasn't strong or smart or experienced enough to do it myself. But that didn't matter, because I was with someone who was.

I love living here. I love my job, I have great roommates and new friendships with lots of promise. But sometimes I feel very much like I'm alone. There are lots of people who would help me if I needed it, and I am really thankful for those people. But no one is looking out for me. No one checks in on me each day or night. I'm an independant person and I enjoy the freedom that comes with that. But sometimes it's good to be reminded that someone else has got me. God's got me. He knows when I lie down and when I rise. He knows when I can't sleep and when my students are making me crazy and when I miss my family so much that it hurts. And He's got me. He is stronger, smarter, more experienced. Everything -er than me. And I'm not alone here in Quito. Even without my coworkers and roommates and students, I'm not alone. I know.

Sometimes it's good to be reminded by someone with skin.

The first picture is taken by a cement thing that marks a point higher than any place in the continental US. In the background you can see the mountaintop disappearing into the clouds.

The second picture is as much of the peak as I got to see. Those of the group who made it all the way up reported that the clouds kept them from seeing the awesome view. In our group we mentioned that it reminded us of Moriah from Lord of the Rings.

My Dad

What's this? Leslie, writing two blogs in one week? What is the world coming to?



Fear not, faithful reader. All is well with the world. I am writing today because it's September 22nd; first day of fall AND the birthday of my father, Mr. Thomas B. Foster. In honor of Dad's birthday, and because he is so good to me and I love him mucho much, I wanted to write a few words about my dad.



(ahem)



My earliest memories of Dad were often riding with him in the pickup truck. The truck was, even in the early 80's, a rusty white clunker. The floor had rusted through on the passenger side, so we kids were always careful to step on the frame of the door rather than on the plastic floor mat. Stepping on the mat would result in falling through to the driveway gravel. This is especially painful when your leg isn't as long as the distance between the truck floor and the driveway.



Anyway, after sucessfully getting INTO the truck, Britt, Josh and I would usually vie for the seat next to Dad. Because SOMETIMES, if you were lucky, Dad would let you shift the gears. We would sit up as close to the edge of the seat as our seatbelts would allow, both hands on the gearshift, listening carefully for the sound that meant it was time to shift. If you shifted at just the right time, you usually earned a word of praise. If not, a horrid, jarring screach sounded somewhere in the mysterious bowels of the old white truck.



Other times we would get to ride in the BED of the truck, which was roughly equivalent to a minor holiday. This almost never occured on the road, although once or twice I think I rode to the Zeller's in the back. Usually it was a trip up to the house from the back barn or maybe the woods. Those trips were dangerous adventures, indeed. Or so they seemed in my little pre-school mind. The drive from the front barn to the back one was bumpy. A kid who wasn't paying attention could fall off. Dad always warned us before we took off, "Hold on tight!" When I was really little I imagine my knuckles were white from my grip. I was afraid that I might fall off and a wolf might come attack me.



Yes, a wolf. And yes, I grew up in northwest Ohio. I can't recall a single wolf sighting in our area in my entire life. What can I say? Little kids aren't always logical. Anyway, after a few years we got Scooter, a little yellow mutt that was as loyal as the day was long. After she started tailing the pickup, I was much less concerned about the wolves.



Once in awhile I got to go to the elevator in LaFayette with Dad on a Saturday morning. I don't remember much about those trips except that the people there were a little scary and I was glad Dad was there to protect me. You may not know this, but when I was 4, my Dad was pretty much the biggest, strongest person in the world. He could pick all three of us kids up at the same time. I was pretty sure his head touched the clouds sometimes.



Some of my favorite Dad memories took place while we were on vacation. When we went on vacation it was always a holiday. Miracles happened. For example, when we would go camping for a few days at Indian Lake and we kids asked if we could have ice-cream, the answer was yes! I mean, not 'no' but 'yes'! Or if we were at a store picking up a couple of things and we asked if we could have quarters for the gumball machines (aka for a little piece of colored plastic junk) the answer might be YES! Until I was in my early teens I thought that "camping" and "vacation" were the same thing, but we had a good time camping because Dad and Mom always made it a special time.



One more endearing Dad-memory before I close. Mom was never a morning person. When you woke her from a deep sleep it took about 40 minutes and a strong cup of tea before she was coherant again. I remember one night when I was sick with who-knows-what childhood ailment, I was awakened from sleep by my father. He was holding a plastic, aligator-shaped liquid medicine dispenser full of some nasty pink concoction. I was so tired and I managed somehow to convince my father that I could successfully swallow said pink grossness from a horizontal position. I'm not sure if Dad was just too tired to see the truth, or if he was just inexperienced enough to trust his angelic daughter, but in either case he gave me the dispenser while I was still lying down.



Imagine, if you will, three-year-old Leslie, sick and in her pjs in the middle of the night, smeared from the shoulders up with pink liquid antibiotic. Imagine as well my bed, smeared equally liberally- sheets, pillow, the whole nine yards. And finally, imagine my weary, exasperated father, starting at the brightly colored mess in disbelief. This 3 minute mid-night job just turned into a 20 minute fiasco. Wash kid, change the sheets, find new jammies and put them on kid, give kid a glass of water, and THEN get back into bed. I bet he had never imagined how much fun daddy-hood could be.


So may this be a banner year for you, Dad. Thanks for all you've done for me through the years, and all you continue to do. Thanks for loving my mom. Thanks for being around and working hard to provide for us. And thanks for loving me.







This is the Christmas after I got back from a semester in Russia. Note the fur hat I brought home for Dad. He's a fan of a weird hat.







Photo circa 1982. Curtains and couch, circa 1970.










Dad's Christmas gift from Mom of a new pair of coveralls. I liked the way they made him look like a kid in a snowsuit.

Proof that Dad could hold all three of us at once.

Dance

Last night I went out with some friends (and some strangers) to a club in the city, to watch a live band. One of our number happened to play guitar in the band, and his girlfriend, a friend of mine really REALLY wanted us to come. Her intensity was the primary reason for my decision to go.

Clubs have never been my scene, which will be a surprise to only strangers reading this blog and those on the farthest end of the clueless spectrum. I don't dance; don't even like to watch people dance. It makes me feel awkward for two reasons:

1. If you sit at a club for long enough, people start to think you're not dancing because no one has asked you, and so someone inevitably sets about making it their own personal challenge to coerce you onto the dancefloor. Any number of reasonable, honest refusals will not be enough to convince such a well-intentioned yet annoying person to leave you alone.

2. Watching people dance the free style that you tend to find in clubs, at weddings, and in peoples' livingrooms in the US is painful. If you're dancing, you probably don't notice, (often your reason has been tained by a little alcohol) but from the outside you look stupid. I don't know how to dance like that (although people regularly tell me you CAN'T not know- you just move) but even if I thought I did know how I wouldn't be interested. Pride. I think they look stupid, and I KNOW I would look stupid, and as a general rule, I try to aviod looking stupid, whenever it is within my power to do so.

But all that being said, I had a great time last night. Know why? Because people here don't dance like that. HelLO Latin America! Salsa, rumba, mambo, more salsa, other things I don't know the names for, all mixing together in a whirl of high heels, black hair, low-cut shirts, bongo drums, excitement, and blue jeans.

It's contagious. I was tired and my lungs were turning black from the secondhand smoke, but I couldn't help tapping my fingers and smiling as I watched the crowd of people on the dancefloor. I kept trying to watch the steps, but it made me dizzy so I eventually gave up. They were having a great time. And I was too. The first time I ever enjoyed watching other people dance.

I like the rhythms. I liked the variety of ages on the floor- everything from a 10 year old girl to couples around my parents' age. I liked that brothers and sisters dance together. I loved the music. I liked the way the people move their bodies (I'm not sure my body is capable of moving like that...maybe white bodies can't do that?). I liked the atmosphere of having fun. Just having fun.

Another Week Gone By

Wherein the author is interviewed regarding noteworthy situations in her life.

Interviewer: So, did you come up with this idea for a blog on your own?

Me: No. I am unabashedly stealing it from my amazing friend, Brooke. I highly recommend that you check out her blog: africahome.blogspot.com. Just try not to notice how much better her blog is than mine, please.

I: You just finished week three at Alliance. How's it going?

L: Really well. This week (which is actually the second regular week; the first being just Thursday and Friday) was much better than last week. I think the kids and I are settling into an understanding.

I: Understanding?

L: Yah, like "here's the line. Cross at your own risk." It really reminds me a lot of babysitting. They're just testing out the boundaries. Some test harder than others. In spite of my repect for confrontation, it's stressful for me. But I trust that the first few weeks of being firm will result in the remainder of the year being easier. I'll let you know how my theory pans out.

I: Tell us about this picture.

L: This is Lori. She's the director of the Skills Center and therefore my boss. This morning she went with Cherie (a fellow teacher; lives across the hall in my apt.) and me to The Swiss Corner for breakfast. In the picture Lori is displaying my super-delicious-European-style roesti and omlete. While I was backpacking in Europe, Megan, Katie and I ate many a roesti in Switzerland. This one wasn't quite as good, but considering it got transfered over so many miles, it was still quite lovely. Incidentally, we sat next to a famous Ecuadorian musician at the restaurant. He was H-O-T-hot.

I: You and your roommates hired a maid this week?

L: Yah. That was an experience. Good practice for my Spanish. It seems my vocabulary in the area of household cleaners leaves a bit to be desired. But when it was all said and done our house was clean, she was paid, and life was good. I'm pretty excited about the whole thing, especially since we can leave her ingredients and a recipe, and she'll leave supper behind when she goes!

I: This picture begs some explanation...

L: (chuckling) So this sign is posted in the FACULTY bathrooms at school. I took the picture not only because it's funny, but because it made me think of all the various toilet or pseudo-toilet situations I've been in in the past. For example, this sign is obviously not posted in Russia, because it pre-supposes TP. It is not in Dominican, because it pre-supposes flushing. It is not in China because it pre-supposes a toilet. I DO so love traveling!

I: So, for those of us NOT living in Quito, why is this sign necessary?

L: Oh! Because here it's assumed that you throw your used TP in the trash can. Most of the plumbing can't handle the TP. Thankfully, the plumbing at the school is up to the challenge.

I: Back to your classes. Any class in particular you'd like to talk about?

L: Well, I teach seven different groups of kids, but lots of them overlap, and I actually only teach about 25 kids total. My biggest group is my Home Base group (11 students), which is the homeroom set up for the middle school. I only have 8 desks in my classroom, so I had to find some extra chairs for them. They come in from 8-8:10 each morning except Wednesday. That day we have chapel schedule, so there's no Home Base, but in the afternoon I teach the same group in "Impact", which is more of a character-building class than an academic one. We talk about things like attitude, responsibility, citizenship, etc. Here's a picture of my Home Base group:

Notice the various displays of attitude. It's an interesting mix. The windows above the kids' heads are my classroom windows.

I: Any funny jr. high stories you'd like to share?

L: Always. Which to choose? Let's begin with the Pentateuch story.

In my Bible class, we're learning the books of the Bible. We're starting with the Old Testament, and this past week I introduced the idea of the books falling into seperate catagories. So I had one kid write the first five books on the whiteboard. Let's call him Nate. I explained to everyone that these books are all part of the same group called the Pentateuch or Books of the Law. We talked about what "pentateuch" means, what law it is, etc. I told the students that the same man wrote all the books and asked if anyone knew who that man was.

Before I recreate the dialogue, it's important for you to know that one of the students in this class, whom we'll call Sandy, has Asburger's Syndrome. For the sake of my classroom, that boils down to her social skills are way behind for her age, she has little awareness of her volume and usually speaks really loudly, and she has trouble staying focused for long. She has a full-time aid that goes with her to every class and helps to keep her on task. Sandy is a sweet little girl, and VERY smart. She also tends to be very literal.

L: So, does anyone know who wrote these five books?

(Students randomly responding): God? Jesus? John the Baptist? Luke?

(in the meantime, Sandy's aid is asking her the question personally)

Aid: Sandy, do you know who wrote the books of the pentateuch?

S: What?

Aid: Do you know who wrote those books on the board?

(long pause, as Sandy takes in the question)

S: (matter-of-factly) NATE!

I couldn't help but laugh. She was indeed right. Nate HAD written those books on the board. Teaching Sandy is always a challenge. But I like it. I would take special needs over big attitude any day.

I: It sounds like your students keep you on your toes.

L: Definately. It's exhausting, but I love how much face time I get with them. Many of my students I have for two or three classes a day, and I'm trying to make the classroom a good balance of secure enough for them to feel relaxed and comfortable, and structured enough that I don't lose control.

I: Anything else you'd like to share with the readers?

L: I think that should do for now. Oh, except to say that I really like this city!

I: You? City? How can this be?

L: I know! But the mountains are so beautiful and they dominate every part of the city. Plus the traditional culture here is fantastic. The music, the dancing, the colors and vibrancy. I love it. I'll leave you with a few pictures from today. They make me happy. I hope they make you happy, too.

Reflections from the Week

I am ti-red. Very, very happy that it's Friday afternoon, 4:53pm. It was a good week overall. Lots of learning about students and their needs, quirks, challenges, etc. Lots of lesson planning. Lots of funny Spanglish. On Wednesday, the whole middle school (which is just 7th and 8th grades here) went to a camp about an hour from the school for a daylong team building day. Here are some pictures from our day:



Here's the pool and a glimpse of the mountains. Even through it was probably 75 degrees and the water was freezing, a good number of the kids got in. You have to hand it to junior highers- they're ambitious...

Here's my bus, right before we left the school. These are all 7th graders. The woman in the front on the right is Miss Moore; she's the full-time aid to my student with Asburgers. I'm enjoying getting to know her.

When we arrived at the park, we spent about 30 or 40 minutes doing some crowdbreakers, like this one that required the students to get their classmates' signatures on their papers. This provoked a flurry of melodramatic activity (as do many things in the middle school wing, I'm finding...)

Here we have my very own Impact group. Impact groups meet for homeroom each morning, and also for a once-weekly class on topics such as responsibility, morality, leadership, etc. The whole middle school is divided up into six impact groups. Here, my group is working on a teambuilding game, where they're required to walk around an obstacle without letting the soles of their shoes lose contact with the soles of the next guy's shoes. I've done it before, so I know it is a difficult task. But I'm pretty sure that if my groups' lives depended on their ability to complete this game successfully, none of them would be with us now.

E for effort.

Next up is an example of the ever-popular "cross the swamp" game, where your team is given 4 paper plates and you must all cross over an area without touching the ground. Except since we're in Quito, we were crossing a molten lava field instead of a swamp. But I'm sure you could tell that from the picture.

The blind leading the blind. This was my team's second try; about 3 minutes after they all went crashing down the hill in a sprawling, sightless heap. I was proud....

So there are some highlights for you. The trip was exhausting, but it went well. If nothing else, I nailed down the last few names in my group. And I came back with a sunburn, in spite of my diligent sun screen application that morning. It seems that SPF 15 is no match for the Ecuadorian sun.

In other news, I started my Spanish lessons yesterday. There's a woman who works in the administrative office at the school part time, and spends the rest of her time tutoring all the gringos in Spanish. She's so cute- obviously an experienced tutor. She always speaks really slowly and clearly, and makes you repeat things, even if you're not in a lesson. :) I even bought a Spanish notebook. Now all I have to do is, well...study.

Tomorrow, after I sleep in as long as humanly possible, I will be joining a group of other new American ex-pats for a pot luck lunch at the Ecuadorian ambassador's house. We had to RSVP in advance so they could do a security check on all the guests.

A: I'm pretty sure I've never been security-checked before

B: An exclusive pot-luck? Really? The US couldn't spring for some burgers and hotdogs?

But I'm not really complaining...I'm excited. Never been to the ambassador's house before! I'll let you know how it goes.

Ok, off I go to dinner at a friend's house. Yay for the weekend! Yay for someone else cooking for me! Yay for friends!