There’s a thick fog covering my hometown. The intense dark is only broken by the reflection of orange streetlight in the mist, giving an eerie, quiet glow to the streets I used to know so well.

I drove through it in my new car, my beloved dog on my lap, as I went to pick up my take-out drunken noodles from my favorite local Thai place. I felt like I should have felt something.

I didn’t.

Since I’ve been home now, I feel like I’m not feeling anything right. In the past week I’ve gotten a job, I’ve gotten a car, and I’ve found a place to crash for my first month in Seattle. Rather than feeling happy that everything has fallen into place so nicely, I’m suspicious, and panicky, and quietly worried.

“It’s happening too fast.”

“It’s not supposed to be this easy.”

“Something has to go wrong.”

“They’ve made a terrible mistake in hiring me. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

…are all things that I’ve been repeating this past week.

I’m not normally this pessimistic, so I don’t know what’s going on there.

I feel like I should still be adjusting here after 10 months abroad. While I was there, my friends and I would speculate the different ways that we would be culture-shocked. So far, the only things that have been true are that I keep forgetting that I can flush the toilet paper and I tend to say inappropriate things really loudly because I forget that the people around me speak English and can understand me.

Instead, I sometimes forget that I was even living in Santiago. Are there really these people that exist, that I spent so much time getting to know?

While I’ve felt completely and utterly happy when all of my friends are gathered, such as at our New Year’s Eve party, outside of that I felt something missing. Something not quite right, that rubs me raw and drives me crazy. I can’t pinpoint it.

I just know that I’m feeling it all wrong.

I’m terrified of failing. I feel like there’s so much at stake, but there’s not.

I’m excited to move to Seattle. I desperately don’t want to leave my family here.

I’m completely at odds with myself.

Someone tell me how I should be feeling.

My Spanish is clumsy. Words fall from my lips before I have a chance to correct them, convoluding my meaning and clouding any understanding. It’s not graceful, it’s not pretty, and it’s not how I like to be seen.

But I’ve come farther with it than I ever expected. Spanish was never something I factored in completely when I deicded to come to a Spanish speaking country.

–”You’re really brave to come here without knowing the language.”

–”‘Stupid’ might be a more apt description.”

It’s a typical conversation I had in my first few months here. I think it’s pretty spot on. I haven’t come out fluent (not that I ever expected that), but I’ve come out of it functioning. I can get by, I can have short conversations. I can function. I’ve become enamored with the thought of learning more, though.

One thing this dual language world of mine has done has inspired a small passion for words — it’s made me appreicate my own language immensely, and has kindled a curiosity for another that I don’t want to die once I return to the US in 40 days. It makes sense. I’ve met many people who claim a love for words, and when I think back on it, most of them speak more than one language. It makes you think about connections, about how words are formed — it makes you think in a different way. I’ve been reading more, writing more, playing around with words in my own language that I did before.

I dunno. Just a thought.

I’m feeling sad today. Rhyme? Reason? None. Maybe it was seeing that “40 days” countdown on my phone. Maybe it was the Duoc party last night that reminded me that while a lot of this is total bullshit, the relationships and the community we’ve built are real and will be broken in just a few weeks.

I got incredibly lucky with my school. For one, it’s location is amazing, just a couple blocks from the presidential palace. We have everything around here, and I rarely need to leave. And, it’s an old mansion. It’s ancient feeling architecture inspires visions of the lives this place has held before, and boy do I love to just think about it when my students are busy working at it.

But on top of that, my coworkers are really amazing, from the other gringos to the young, wonderful Chileans I’ve come to love so much, the relationships I have here keep me smiling throughout the day. They completely make up for some of the not-so-awesome aspects of this job.

Duoc is an odd place. Sometimes it feels like chaos. Sometimes I want to strangle everyone. Sometimes I hate my students. Sometimes I imagine the medieval methods of ruler slapping and dunce caps aren´t such a bad idea. Sometimes it smells like a ridiculously disgusting dump.

And then other times, I can´t stop smiling. My students can be pretty cool. They’re funny, they’re clever, they’re so sweet. It’s funny, really, because when I first got here, I did not, did not, did not give a crap about the teaching thing.

On one of the training days, one of the guys in my program came up to me with a video camera.

“Why did you want to teach English in Chile?” he asked me.

“It was a means to an end, but don’t tell TeachingChile that,” I’d said with a chuckle.

“Just wait until you’re finished. You’ll be singing a different tune,” he told me.

And I’m not finished yet, but I’m already singing a different tune. I’ve gone from hating this job, to tolerating, to loving it, and all up and down the same spectrum, over and over and over.

I felt like a traitor on day one of classes. After seventeen years of being a student crammed behind a desk, there I was, standing in the front. I was going to be the one assigning homework. I was going to be the one  marking attendence, giving low marks, and failing students.

Here are some of my favorite moments from this past semester.

Today, intermediate 2: I’m looking over rules that students are writing for staff and passengers on their imaginary cruise ships.

Staff can take drugs, drink alcohol, and do orgies in the jacuzzi.

“I think that you mean ‘can’t’ here,” I told him.

“No, eso. Lo pueden.” Uh, okay then.

Staff can throw disgusting people in the sea.

“I don’t think I want to go on your cruise….” I said.

“No? Okay, I change it for you.”

Three weeks ago, basic 2: Me: “Okay, guys, what does ‘beautiful’ mean?”

Them: “Hermoso!”  “Bonito!”  “Lindo!”  “Delicioso!”

Me: “Hold up, hold up, hold up. ‘Delicioso’ does NOT mean beautiful.” I proceeded to tell them about my hatred of the word. You see, sometimes (every day) when I walk the streets of Santiago, men leer. I’m a pretty blonde girl, and they like pretty blonde girls. I really hate it, but I’ve gotten used to it by now, but one thing still gets to me. Men will walk by and whisper in my ear, “Deliciosaaaaa.” Delicious. Fucking “delicious.” They think I’m DELICIOUS. They want to taste me. It skeeves me out, and it’s gross.

My students got a kick out of it. They thought that was hilaaarious. So I’d made it clear: if you pass an English speaking girl on the street, don’s say that.

Later that day, we were going over adverbs.

One kid: “Miss, you are extremely, extremely, extremely beautiful.”

Another, nodding. “Sipo. Delicious.”

I about died.

October 5, intermediate 2: A student brings me a birthday present. Lots and lots of chocolate. Wrapped up in proper wrapping paper. Blushes when I hug him and say “thank you.”

Those are just a few. Do they make me want to be a teacher forever? Nope. I don’t think it’s for me. But they add to this experience so much more than I expected them to, and I love them for it.

Eso. Nothing else to dwell on.

i was actually writing when i didn’t have my laptop. here are some notes from the void.

[august 27]

already, i’m finding that to travel, you have to be ready to tear your heart into pieces. on top of that, you’ve got to be ready to leave them scattered where they fall — in your best friends, in a desert valley, an azure waterfall enclosed in a forest, on an immense lake of salt, in the heart of a thriving city, in impossibly tall waves on the beach, and, sometimes, though luckily not in my case, in a boyfriend or girlfriend.

i’ve seen my friends leave all of it — leave love, leave friends, leave this landscape, this city. and it’s never been easy.

and now, more than six months in, i find myself counting toward the end, rather than from the beginning. with that change comes a clear realization: i’ll soon leave all of this behind.

and, objectively, without the thought of what awaits me when i return, i loathe the thought. i have grown a love for this thin little country that is rather hard to explain.

six months into my year in olympia, i’d have jumped at any opportunity to leave. six months in and i’d developed no real connections. there’s not one piece of my heart that remains in that little town. incentives to visit? sure. but love,  that will to be there, that longing? there’s none of that.

but of course, the circumstances are entirely different. coming to chile through teaching chile guaranteed that i’d have a circle of friends. i work in a place where there are plenty of young, friendly colleagues — who speak english. so, sure, i’ve had help in making a wonderful life for myself — a much happier life than olympia ever gave opportunity for.

in any case, i’m going to have a hell of a time leaving here, saying goodbye — possibly forever — to some of these people. because as much as i entertain the idea of my best chilean friend meeting and marrying one of my american friends, the truth is, that is a future entirely sculpted out of selfishness and hope. could it really happen? maybe. will it? maybe.

[while we're on the subject, anyone wanna marry this beauty so we can stay bffs? please?]

her name is carolina and she is my chai latte twin.

this reality is, and always has been, temporary.

as a result, i find myself walking the streets of santiago a bit slower, eating an empanada a little more often than i should, and trying my best to appreciate this world. there’s no doubt i love it here — hell, my heart’s already been left all over it. and — i still have more to see. i’d better get to ripping.

“]

one piece here (bolivia)

“]

one piece here (valle de la muerte, san pedro de atacama, chile)

“]

one piece here (la serena, chile)

four pieces here.

and more.

[september 11, 2011]

in being here, i’m losing my grip on reality. my reality, the very real world lying in wait on the other side of the world.

and the reality i’m losing is that nothing is sitting around waiting for me. the world hasn’t stopped turning while i while away my time here. one of my best friends is getting married. my boyfriend is starting something new and exciting. my niece is growing. my family is completely fractured.

my family is COMPLETELY fractured.

do i need any clearer indication than that? any more indication that this world hasn’t stopped turning? probably not.

there’s a love naivete in growing up. we are at the centers of our own worlds. our parents, our families, our friends, our studies — they orbit around us. they don’t even exist without us. it’s a bit of a blow when we realize how untrue that really is.

but being on the other side of the world and watching home through facebook has an odd it’s-a-wonderful-life like aspect to it. I’m seeing day-to-day life without me.

of course, the difference being that my family and friends do miss me. but, they still have their own lives to live. i watch as they make plans, follow through, and then post pictures afterward, and talk about it in comments later.

and it’s little things i don’t know that get to me. someone i know got a new phone months ago. my friend’s brother got his dream job. things i would hear about if i were home, talking to me friends and seeing them on a day-to-day basis. i’m reduced to catching what i can on my newsfeed, and that’s bizarre.

and what’s odd is knowing that when i leave here, i’ll do the same thing with the friends i’ve made here. i’ll watch them from afar, wishing i could hear their stories first hand.

[and that's all i have to share for now. g'night.]

42 days. Just a few minutes ago, it was 45 days. And a week before that, it was 90.

Down to 42. Tomorrow is the six week mark. On my boyfriend’s birthday, we’re heading into the 30-some days mark. Then it’ll be a month.

Don’t mistake me — I’m unbelievably excited. But I just wish that I had more time. And I wish the time I did have wasn’t wasted here in between my two lives.

You’ve likely noticed my absence by now. I’m hiding under a rock till the election is over.

Funny things:

• I’m constantly in a state of “What day is it? What’s the date??” But I can tell you exactly how many hours I have till election results start rolling in.
• Doorbelling, sign waving, and phone banking sure are making me feel full. In a satisfied with the job I’m doing kind of way. I’m looking forward to the end of this election like some kind of fat kid simile that I would totally make up if I had any brain cells dedicated to creativity. As is, they’re all turning over poll numbers and planning my locale for the next 11 days.
• I think I’ve got a plan for the next few months before I leave for Chile, and I’m so very stoked, even if it means living like a pauper.

Things I plan on blogging about:

• Driving and my love hate relationship with it.
• On being a girl. And especially being a girl involved in politics.
• Doorbelling, and what the people really think, based on my analysis on the doorstep. (HINT: every politician you’ve ever heard is wrong.)

See you all on the flip side! Hopefully I’ll have some good news for (well, really, myself) come November 3rd.