New York, New York-- Hostel Takeover

New York makes me tingle. I love the smells (hot bagels, exhaust, expensive perfume, fishy markets, crispy Peking duck, even the moldy pee of the subway, believe it or not). The sights (and sites) from uptown to down; the fantastic people watching; randomly overheard conversations on the train-- all of NYC is a feast for the senses. Her attached price tag, however, doesn't feel so nice, less of a tingle and more like a punch in the nose. In a city where a bottled water is $3-4; a deli sandwich easily $12 and a two-star hotel begins at $150, it's hard, in these strict economic times, to imagine jaunting off to the Big Apple for a quick weekend getaway. But I did just that recently and did it all for under $200.

The first and most important aspect of staying in the city is finding safe, clean and affordable accommodations. Sure you can break the bank and hunker down at a 2 or 3 star semi-skanky Days Inn in China Town or Times Square for under $200 and hope that your matress hasn't been hemmorraged on or that the slightly-human shaped brown stain on the floor is the result of an enormous coffee spill and not some unspeakable drama. But why would you when there's a plethora 0f fantastic hostels dotting the city from Battery Park and the Financial District to Harlem. Unfortunately, I've found that hostels have a short list of negative connotations for the adult traveler, most of them unfounded:

1. Only young'ns go there (or the very old, if its an Elder Hostel)

2. They're underfunded, undercleaned, over-crowded and located in hard-to-access, unsafe locales

3. Dorm-style sleeping is uncomfortable and unpalatable (this one is debateable but I'll get to that in a minute).

Hostels have been the mainstay of travelers backpacking through Europe and Asia forever, and in the past 20 years, they've caught on here in the states, too. Certainly there are horror stories that abound: scary neighborhood locations, loud, creaky bunk-bed sex at 3 am in the room you're sharing with 8 other people you don't know; cold showers, stolen belongings-- the list goes on and on. But the truth of it is, in this modern world where the internet can provide all the information and first-person accounts of a place, there's no reason not to do a little advance research and try a hostel on for size. These days, many are funky, fun and provide all the services of a boutique hotel, like my favorite in NYC, The Broadway Inn and Hostel, located on West 101st St and Broadway near the park in the Upper West Side.

For $18 bucks per night (for a 10 person dorm, the prices go up from there depending on how many are in your room-- check hostels.com for exact rates) you have a small, clean bed in a small, clean room.  There's a modern kitchen, two tv lounge areas, an extremely helpful and hardworking staff and a safe, quiet, interesting neighborhood on the the 1 train that runs the length of the city. It's a no frills abode, certainly, but the city has all the frills a person could want, you only have to leave your dorm to find them. Of course, you'll also have 4-8 roommates but really,  that's the best part. Random interactions are the pulse of any traveling experience and random people make them that much more memorable.  I've met people from all over the world while staying in hostels.  You go from being strangers one minute to walking around with furry teeth and sleepy seeds in your eyes, chatting about life, the next. You only have to remain open-minded and curious to cross the bridge from stranger to part-time friend.

  I know, I know.  Hostel life it isn't for everyone.  If you don't like the idea of sharing a bathroom; if you need terrific privacy all the time; if you can't listen to six smelly German boys snoring in unison after a night spent guzzling beer-- then perhaps you should stick to expensive hotels.  But if you can remain open to the possibility of expanding your boundaries and your mind, you just might learn a few things about tolerance, the world and yourself.

Back to the Homeland

It's been a bit since I posted and for those of you who've been following, I apologize.  I'm back in Maine for the summer and enjoying the delicate beauty of spring in New England.  Look for some Maine travel posts in the near future-- I know where to go, when and how to do it on the cheap.

I'll keep you posted!

The Children of Las Terrenas

The Dominican Republic ranks among the worst in the world for education.  And here in the country, Las Terrenas has the worst public school system.  Most children do not begin public school until they are 7 or 8 and though education is free, they are required to purchase uniforms and books to attend.  That in and of itself creates an insurmountable difficulty-- if parents cannot afford to purchase these things, then kids remain uneducated. For those who can attend, classes often have 45-50 kids and one teacher-- one who usually carries a big stick (literally) and spends her days yelling, hitting and generally overworked and frustrated.  Ingrid, my roommate, recently visited the public schools and what she saw-- violence from the teacher to the kids; student violence against one another; a lack of respect and discipline coupled with varying ability levels and attention spans-- left her sick and deeply, deeply concerned for all involved.  It is something she cannot stop talking about and cannot comprehend.

At la biblioteca, we see kids wearing uniforms too small and ripped, dirty.  Some kids have to wear the same uniform for 5 years, purchased too large to begin with so they can grow into it and held up haphazardly with belts, safety pins and rope.

But these are the lucky ones.  The children I have been connecting with are the street kids-- mostly orphaned boys who work the streets cleaning shoes, or stealing.  These boys are lively, intelligent and very curious.  From my first experience with one who begged me to buy him some juice (he was probably 6, with a black eye and snot running from his nose) to the boys I see regularly near the beach at the gazebo whom I speak with regularly-- they all want to learn.

On Saturday, I had two boys clean my leather sandals, giving them each 50 pesos (nearly 10 times the going rate) and they told me a little about their lives.  These kids are generally abandoned or sent out into the world by parents who cannot afford them when they are very young.  They live together wherever they can-- a sort of gang of roving boys, very Charles Dickens.  They can read, some of them, a bit.  Some have spent some time in school and all want to.  Every time I meet a few of them, I invite them to the biblioteca and this week, they have arrived, finally, in droves.  They come with their shoe cleaning kits, which they hide for fear of them being stolen, and then we sit and read, or play puzzles or draw.  Later, they will play soccer or swing on the playground.  These are hardened little beings who would just as soon steal out of your pocket as smile at you-- but at the library, they are simply children again.  Smiles and curiosity; laughter and affection; helpful natures and frustrating defiance-- all wrapped up into perfect little boy packages. Sure they get angry and they will fight with the other, "educated" kids, but they are still only children.  Nothing in my life has felt as good as seeing them shyly approach the gate each day with a bubbling, excited energy that infuses us all with a special kind of spirit.  The spirit of discovery, I guess.  Or perhaps just the resulting energy of giving pure human love to another person.  I'm so lucky to be able to experience it.

A Fortune in My Face

"Erectile" Vomiting, My Very Own Sanky and Motoconchos in the Rain

Well, it finally happened. I am officially in the Domincan Republic, greeted by the joys of an extreme case of Las Touristas, or the Dominican Bug.  After meeting my adult students,  I felt a sudden stirring deep in my loins (and not my favorite kind, either).  Mind you, I've been suffering from severe stomach distress since Santo Domingo, but I knew at the first rumbling that this was  going to be special.  Within three hours, I was prostrate on my bathroom floor-- a tasty place to be to begin with-- with my face in our moldy, smelly bowl.  For nearly 24 hours, I "erectile vomited", as Ingrid, in her lovely, mistaken English announced while my back end kept up the pace with aplomb.  In between bouts of that, I lay in my bed, clutching my innards, asking myself why I would do such a thing as this to myself-- come to this place and put myself through such emotional, physical and mental torture-- for what?!.  Ostensibly, it was to write my travel st

ory and to inspire myself to mimic Wigeria's adventure so my book might ring more true for Pam and the folks at Viking and all its potential readers.  But when alone, sick and crying, I began to wonder if it was purely insanity that brought me here.  I considered my life closely; love and friendships; past and present; potential future(s) and my dreams.  I decided it was right, I was exactly where I was supposed to be and a well-timed call to my rock (Thor) confirmed this.  I'm sure how long I'll stay here, depending on work and writing productivity, but I should let myself go and enjoy it in its true Dominican essence, to its fullest, while I can.  And last night, I finally did, I think.

The girls, of course, were ready to go out by 9:30 and I decided, since I was feeling much better, quite empty and sick of being alone with my own thoughts, that I would accompany them.  We ended up at a Domincan beach bar, La Dune, where dancing was the only thing on the menu and that's where I met Rudy, the adorable boy in the picture above.  Rudy, a 19-year-old sanky who wouldn't take no for an answer (as I'd heard was how all sanky's were, and he stayed

 true to the rumor) taught me how to Bachatta and in between bouts of stulted dancing on my part, he told me his story.  It starts with the death of his parents at 12 and time spent as a shoe

 boy in the streets of Santo Domingo, then some time in the military at 16 and 17, and ends with him in Las Terrenas ostensibly working as a sanky, but not having much luck.  Rudy is short, maybe 5'5 (note the pics of us dancing) which he says is a problem for most white ladies. He is also, he thinks, too honest.  And he falls in love to easily.  Apparently so, for when I first met him, he was staring at me so intently that he tripped when he got up to come over to us.  The first thing he said to me in Spanish was that he loved me; my hair, my eyes and my beautiful, small lips shaped like bow (Dominican men pour it on thick, ladies.  Heinz 57 thick). He grabbed my hands and started singing.  He wanted to know where I was from, what kind of flowers were my favorite, if I liked to lay in the sun.  So funny.  I blushed and told him I had a boyfriend whom I cared for very much and though my man was open minded, fine with flirting and a professional flirt himself,  falling for a sanky wasn't something he'd appreciate too much so thanks but no thanks.  The girls only laughed at my discomfort and reminded me that here,"tengo un macho novio" means nothing to Dominican men, especially sankies.  With Ingrid's help (she speaks lovely, perfect Spanish), I got the picture across, he dropped the smarmy romanticisms and we just chatted in his broken English I in my choppy Spanish, with Ingrid as interpreter.  And then we danced.  And wow, could he dance.  He was very patient and kind.  He didn't laugh when I stepped on his feet and eventually, I got into the Dominican groove of it.  And what a groove.  Hips and thighs, hands in the air, laughter, smiles, singing.  It was joy, even though we were one of only a few couples moving around the floor.  The girls sat and laughed at me, with me, and Rudy was, I think, very happy.  Very proud. Perhaps a bit star struck, even. At the end of the night, he kissed my hand and thanked me for listening to him, for dancing with him and he said he respected me for being true to my man, as he hadn't found a women yet who had been true to hers here; whether Dominican, American, French, German or Italian.  I got dance lessons and a real view of what a Sanky's life is like and I'm glad I did.  Another part of the adventure fulfilled, I guess.  

Then we went home, via motoconcho, in the rain.  The sky has been pelting us with rain intermittently for the past week and last night it opened up and drenche

d the world.  We were about two miles from the house so we flagged two conchos, climbed on, and went screaming and holding on for dear life as the driver went through

 traffic down a one-way street.  The rain got in our eyes and our ears, our driver laughed as we giggled and we passed by throngs of Dominicans in the streets, dancing with one another in the rain.  They sure know how to live here, and I'm going to

 figure out how to do it to.  

Soy Triste y muy cansada en Las Terrenas

It has only been a pittance of days in Las Terrenas and it feels like a lifetime.  Between battling roosters that live in my back yard and on the roof (yes, the roof) who squack all night, keeping Ingrid and I awake, and the sheer lack of communication with the outside world (sometimes the internet works; sometimes it does not and NO ONE from the states seems to be able to reach me on my Dominican phone)-- I feel as if I have been cast into another dimension; a planet formerly undiscovered.  The language barrier is so great, despite my grasp of Spanish (Dominicans speak a frenzied, mumbled and jumbled kind of Spanish that is hard to interpret, at it's best) that culture shock is beginning to set in and it is crippling.  Part of the day I find myself smiling and energized; the rest of it I am crying secretly and trying desperately to reach loved ones. The one outlet I thought would tether me to my own "real world", teaching, has become, in these first two sessions, practice in self-torture.  The children cannot speak English, I cannot understand their Spanish. They make fun of mine, asking me if I am retarded (I speak too slow, too "estupido", they say).  The state these kids arrive in-- half-starved, some of them, covered in sores and bruises; ciggarrette burns, administered most certainly, by parents or caregivers-- is astonishing. Their eyes are still bright but they have a deeply seeded anger that explodes at the slightest provocation and it is apparent that their innocence itself is teetering on abyss.   Their curiosity, however, is still intact. They touch me all over-- they want to smell my hair, touch my lips ("mas pequenas", they say), the color on my toenails, the moles on my back.  They cannot read, most of them, though they love to hold books and be read to.  They do not know how to swing or use a teeter-totter, two things that were recently installed at Biblioteca.  They are loud and loving and friendly and they make very happy and intensely sad.

But what doesn't make me sad these days? Culture shock is a term I'd heard thrown around by friends who have lived all over, but I never thought I would experience it.  I figured that since I am extensively traveled; I know the culture here, somewhat at least, and have a tenacious grasp of the language-- I would be fine in the face of such enormous change.  Fuck, was I wrong. Let me say, though, that I am not homesick-- I miss my family and friends, certainly, and I long for my idyllic time with Thor in St. John every day (he has become a rock of sorts for me, a place to find solace and a person who knows the exact words to say no matter what my erratic mood; a stable mind to match my crazy heart)-- I am not longing for McDonald's or Walmart or the ability to flush toilet paper (none of that here or HUGE repurcussions await).  I am fine with being crusted in street shit and layers upon layers of bug dope.  I can live with the roosters; the cockroaches, the smelly water and the diarrhea.  I acknowledge the prostitution and turn away from it.  I have learned to deal with the men-- I gird myself every morning against the onslaught, though the men in my neighborhood have recently stopped hissing and now refer to me simply as "La Princessa Rubia" (the hair again). I am ok with these things and more.  What is hard is the lack of communication with the outside and available world.  I am a woman who needs to be able to talk; to say directly how I feel, what I need; my goals and dreams and wishes---I cannot, to anyone except my lovely housemates, girls whom I judged too quickly because of their age but WOMEN who are teaching me what sorority is all about.  Not being able to communicate, in English to those I love (at least not regularly) and not in Spanish, at least confidently, to those I barely know, has rendered me a stranger unto myself.  I am a woman without words and no words es igual de muchos tristes y cansadas para mi. I am sad and tired, almost all day, every day.  Jose and Annette, the couple who run FMG, are saints if they are anything, and they offer hugs and patience; food; dictionaries and kind words.  They tell me to wait and let this world open itself to me.  To try new things, but not too many at once, and to value my own strength above all else.  This, I am trying to do.  But my trying sometimes leaves me yet more sad and yet more tired. This is my biggest challenge in life to date.  And if I know one thing, it is this:  I am a woman capable of anything.  I have faced innumerable difficulties and I always come through yet more strong, more educated; more capable and more understanding than before.  Nothing has ever stopped me and this, I am sure, won't either.  It it what I longed for-- the chance to extend my boundaries beyond anything I thought previously possible; to ask myself to take what I know, and what I don't and synthesize them into some recognizable whole.  I think I'm on my way, but right now the way is dark and confusing. How I wish I could see so much more.  Thank the gods for writing, as it is now (as it ALWAYS has been, my whole life) the only tie to a self and a life I once knew.

Las Terrenas-- first impressions

I have reached my intended final destination and let me tell you-- I'm pretty let down so far. Las Terrenas has been advertised, by Gueros and Domincanos alike, to be paradise.  So far, all I see is shit hemmed in with over-priced, over-advertised first-world consumerism and a beach that I wouldn't sit on for a minute; literally COVERED in trash of all varieties, from dirty diapers, broken glass and plastic cups and bottles to what looks like industrial waste barrels and oil containers.  However, I've only seen a tiny, tiny portion of a town that seems to be surprisingly larger than I had originally anticipated.  

Getting here was a cinch. The trip on the guagua-- a minivan, essentially, that is converted into a bus for public transport in the city that goes all over the countryside-- was fabulous.  I'd heard so many horror stories about being a ingle white female traveling on one and none of them were true.  I paid the same amount everyone else did; I was treated with much respect by the men and women on the bus and I had tons of fun.  People were curious about me, certainly, but we chatted in Spanish about America (lots of questions about Obama, something that is becoming more and more common as I get ballsier and able to chat openly in Spanish with strangers); we bumped the whole way to VERY loud merenge; shared tostones and generally had a blast.  I would suggest it to anyone-- for a 3 hour ride, it cost me $7 bucks.  No better way to mingle with the locals and see the countryside.  

On the way into town, after we passed over the cleft of some very high mountains at a snails pace and I got fantastic views of the Samana Peninsula below, we began to come into Las Terrenas and I saw just how in flux this place is.  There was tons of new construction-- big homes, bigger hotels interspersed with prostitution hovels and little huts propped up with sticks and held together with, yes, duct tape.  In the town itself, there are Ferraris and dirty ATV's; parillada stands and five-star restaurants; a rolex shop and thrift stores whose wares look to be covered in grime and full of holes.  I can see why The Gandhi foundation is here and I can't wait to begin work, on Monday at 10.  

I found Casa Paz easily enough and met my neighbors.  The house was advertised to be in a safe part of town but I would highly disagree.  I had to literally scream and stamp my foot at one man who would simply not leave me alone as I was trying to find the house and he only laughed.  I heard that the man situation was much worse-- there's a type of predator called Sanky-Pankys  that refuse to take no for an answer-- and I think he was one of those.  The level of poverty here makes everything seem a bit sharper-- people need more, therefore they will not be afraid to take more.  I will be super-aware, however.  I'm certainly using my voice and body to project an air of "Go Fuck Yourself-ness" and I think it is working. Back to Casa Paz....

The house itself is lovely.  A nice kitchen, tiled bathroom and bedrooms.  I met two of my roomies, Ingrid, whom I share a bedroom with from Norway and Katie, from London.  Both young (under 21) and like I was at that age, they seem to love to party.  The first thing they asked me was, "Are you rested, because we're throwing a party tonight." Oy. They then told me they only just gotten out of bed, at 2 pm.  That being said, they were both very friendly; Ingrid had laid out bed clothes for me (even though I brought my own sheets) and Katie offered me everything from peanut brittle to clean sheets. I think we'll get along, even though I'm an old lady.  And as a little aside here-- my closest friends know that I generally get along much better with men than women and that every attempt at living in a house full of women has gone terribly, woefully wrong for me in the past.  Well, here I am, essentially living in a sorority house.  Me?!!  Thor and I were discussing some of the things the universe is asking me to learn on this adventure before I left-- patience, faith, the ability to release control of things, etc.  Well, here's another-- get along with girls. And somehow, I think it's all going to work out fine.

I have great access here so  I will try and post each day, if possible.  Wish me luck in what feels like yet another entirely new planet....