The Peculiar Beauty of Discord

The stony slope was mocking

and pitiless.

The chirping greens

and browns below

could not fathom my

lifeless, grey choice.

The high-pitched scree

erased my progress.

The frenzied beat

of my thoughts

out-of-sync with my body.

Fling a boot forward,

gasp. swear. shriek.

shift my weight

this is what I deserve

plant and push

cry. grunt. SCREAM.

swing the other leg,

fuck it all

slide back oh so close to where I started.

But not quite.

Eventually,

the ground leveled and cleared,

and quieted,

and began to descend

the other side of the mountain,

and I found

the peculiar beauty of discord

is when it stops.

At the entrance to a wood, I stood

in the silence between the songs.

********************

Distant falsettos and bass lines,

scattered drum-taps,

gather and gurgle on the wind,

unhurried,

congealing into chorus;

the rain begins its hiss-patter percussion

on the leaves overhead.

My breath escapes, is replaced; I kneel

to put the cover on my pack,

a crinkled blue forcefield,

and I walk;

a hushed football

on the mossy undergrowth

of a dampening forest.

Going the Opposite Direction in this Too-Big World

Well, fuck.  If I'm going to quote Jack Kerouac in the title of the post, I should probably attempt some kind of stream of consciousness and live with the results.  Live with, but maybe not publish.  See, he needed less discipline, having written on a roll of toilet paper, and backing up and editing being quite problematic.  He also likely needed more command of the English language, as I have already cheated and fixed more than one typo.  No matter.  The road is life, and so are your thoughts.  

I was anticipating recounting some of my latest adventures, which I will inevitably do, but this may be more of a drunken ramble than anything else.  Yes, drinking and writing go hand in hand more often than I've cared to admit.  So has writing and staying up too late on a work night.  Fine...so has drinking and writing and staying up too late on a work night.  

I've been thinking as I've been plotting my next entry that this blog has become a little too well-crafted.  Too much memoir and too little of what I'm thinking at a particular point in time.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, but some balance may be in order.  

Stormy skies at the Kotor Fortress

I will paint the picture of myself at this moment.  It is 1:27 am as a type this sentence, and I am sitting in the bar in the common area of my hostel.  I am in Zagreb, Croatia.  Wiz Khalifa is playing.  It smells of...pine? There are 6 people still up with me, and they are smoking and drinking and seem for all intents and purposes to be good chums, supported by long, sordid histories.  But I'd be willing to bet any sum of money that none of them have known each other for more than a week.  As for myself, I am drinking a beer called Ozujsko, which I have repeatedly failed to pronounce correctly to the bartender, and have given to tilting an empty bottle in his direction with pregnant glances of longing whenever requesting another.

How did I get here?  Well, short version is that I hitchhiked from Tirana to Shkoder, then got a cab to Kotor, Montenegro, where I stayed for 2 nights.  From there, I bused to Dubrovnik, Croatia, where I stayed for 4 days before hopping up to Split for 2 days of rotting on a beach and watching movies, and now here I am in Zagreb. 

I'm 90 percent sure this was sunset...

*That brief version of events has skipped kayaking my way into a group of no-good Irish who were inappropriate at every turn, and stole my heart.  It missed skinny dipping in the full-moon shadows of Dubrovnik's ancient walls.  It missed cursing my way through Split's historic old town, barely registering the impressive remains of Diocletian's Palace because I was seriously concerned that the volume of back sweat I was generating would soak everything in my pack before I found my Airbnb.  It missed losing my bathing suit and towel at my hostel.  And my watch on Cwytch Beach.  And my sunglasses...somewhere.  And a raincoat.  

It missed getting caught in a thunderstorm, alone, inside Kotor's ancient fortress on the top of a mountain, and later that day hearing a complete stranger telling me that I was beautiful, and that at some point in the night she was going to kiss me.  I blame (and thank) translation and alcohol.  It also missed going our separate ways just after, and likely not seeing each other again.   And the cuts on my foot (see: Dubrovnik) that have been dogging me the whole way.  That at some point, after getting to know some really great people, we all started going the opposite direction in this too-big world.  

With a little CGI magic, this becomes the Red Keep!

Kayaking around Lokrum Island

Shane and Heather, a couple of the aforementioned Irish rascals.
See you back at Scum Bar?

There's no denying it...even with full summer crowds, Dubrovnik
is fucking cool.

It has also missed the fact that little to none of this outside of, "Hey, I should head to Montenegro and Croatia while I'm still in the Balkans this summer," was planned.  That it has been an exercise in letting go; in not managing all of the details.  

It never seems that way, though, once the ink has dried.  Of course you met these people, and of course you did those things.  With enough time, you'll even start thinking that you intended to do it all.  At the very least, others probably will.  To bring it back to Kerouac: 

"I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.” 

I don't find existence as hellish as old Jack, but I've sniffed the edges of that emptiness, and I can feel the distance between my actual nights and the nights that reside in memory.  In writing this blog the way that I have been, I've given an impression of things being planned, and somewhat orderly, and making sense at the time.  I wrote an entire post trying to make sense of my failure to summit Cotopaxi after five tries.  That's bullshit.  It didn't make a goddamn bit of sense when I was standing on that mountain, nauseous, weak, and questioning my resolve.  Five fucking tries!  You can attempt to make sense of it all later, but in the moment, you often have no clue what you are doing, or what the point of it all is.  Why am I in Croatia, not knowing a soul?  What am I doing here??  Is it to meet new people?  To experience the world?  To test myself?  To feel utterly lost amid a thousand languages?  The truth is, I don't know, but maybe I will.  Tomorrow, the next day...just as long as I don't start thinking that I did when I got here, I think I'll be alright.  

Entrance to Diocletian's Palace in Split

The narrow streets of old town Split

*Disclaimer: Okay, so the whole stream-of-consciousness thing was fun, but I had to go to sleep.  The rest of this is an uneven mixture of rough, drunk ideas I had scrawled at the bottom of the page and what's been written months later.  I wasn't actually going to publish any of it, but what the hell :)

To Live By Our Own Gumption

Dear The United States of America,

Hey there.  How are you doing?  You've been getting a little weird lately with your new boyfriend Donald, but that's not what I'm here to write about.  The more I try to stand in your way, the more you'll just be drawn to him, so I have to step back and trust you for now.  

There is a saying that goes something like, "You don't know your own language until you know another," and that is true of countries and cultures, too.  My last five years in Ecuador and Spain have made me truly appreciate you.  I know I talk a lot about how much I have enjoyed my time abroad, and I know that I have just left once again, but I wanted to let you know just how important you are to me.  

First and foremost, you contain all of these people that I love.  You are seriously just littered with them, and you have so extravagantly lain them about that I could spend all of my time just bouncing around from coast to coast.  The rest of the world has been thrilling and fascinating to discover, but it's quite large, and thinly populated with people that I know and care about personally.  I'm sure there are a lot more wonderful people out there, but trying to find all of them can be exhausting.  For every exciting new encounter, there are at least 10 lonesome and frustrating stretches of stagnation, no matter how much I seem to be moving around.  

Javi, responsible for coining the title of this
post

This past year back in Maryland was not a year of firsts, but it was a year of first-in-awhiles.  For example, it was the first real winter that I've had in 6 years.  Not only that, but we were fully snow-bombed at the end of January, and it reminded me of what a communal event a blizzard can be.  Everyone was watching the weather, buying too many groceries, and exchanging knowing glances with friends and strangers alike.  And as it turns out, 100% of cashiers are aspiring meteorologists.  By the time 3 feet of powder had hushed and blanketed Walkersville, I had watched The Martian with my mom and step dad, gorged on black bean soup with tortilla chips, twice, and thrown on all of my mountain gear to hike less than a mile to a friend's house with a bottle of wine and some bourbon.  The parallel universe inside of Call of Duty is still recovering.  On my walk (okay, stupor) back home the next day, I learned that at some point in my absence, everyone, EVERYONE, had bought a snowblower.  The sidewalks were better than the roads, and I couldn't help grinning at how the whole neighborhood was outside and interacting, with a European casualness, as if Spain had stopped by to ironically say hello through inclement weather.  

You are never too old for building snow ramps!

And even before that, there was Ethel's wedding.  Where do I begin with that one?  My sister's wedding was not the first wedding I've been involved with, but it does mark the first time that after months of thoughtful and meticulous planning and preparation, a hurricane swept through and totally destroyed almost every detail, save for the participants.  I would like to stress that I am not being figurative here.  A fucking hurricane hit fucking Delaware on the fucking weekend of Ethel's fucking outdoor wedding.  In October.  On 3 days notice, we had to find a new venue and alter every single catering arrangement that had been made for 150 people, and do so with flooding and tidal highway closures.  By "we" I mean mostly my sister Joy, but still it was all hands on deck.  It was stressful, and crazy, and new shit was going down every 5 minutes.  And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.  

Expectations of an outdoor wedding by the beach

Reality

So, America, why have I left?  Partly, it's because for a time, I have once again chosen to live near those who share some of my recent experiences.  People who will, shuddering with laughter, describe the time that they, too, accidentally ordered and ate raw shrimp.  Or horse.  Who are likely to have also spent an entire day walking around town and gesticulating for "bed sheets" in the dullest game of public charades imaginable.  Or who, when facing the arbitrary rules set forth by banks, post offices, and vehicular agencies, are okay being left not only with the leisurely question of "why?" but also with urgent and dumbfounding questions of "how the fuck?"  Already in Durres, I seem to have found a pretty good group of these people.  More than any of that, though, my leaving comes down to a simple worldview.

Imagine that someone is offered a job.  For the sake of argument, let's say it's the exact job that they were looking for, and that they feel both very good doing it and very qualified for it.  And now let's imagine the interviewer saying, "As a global service, this is actually a job that you can do from anywhere you want.  Where would you like to work?"  Some people may hear this and say, "Perfect, I'll work from home!"  And why not?  The commute is unbeatable, and the flexibility is a dream.  

Others when prompted with the question, "Where would you like to work?" may instead respond with something in the vein of, "Umm...Mongolia?"  For good or ill, this is my kind of answer.  There is nothing inherently good or bad about either one, it's only that neither group can really fathom why the other doesn't agree with them.  Both groups seem to find their choices obvious, and their explanations superfluous. 

Sunset from my new apartment in Durres

This kind of choice requires us to trust ourselves.  It requires us to live by our own gumption.  The hardest choices are the ones that we cannot explain to the satisfaction of others, yet still seem to feel are right.  I don't mean here that decisions should go unexamined.  Living by your own gumption is about what we do after we have exhausted thought and reflection and still have no clear idea of what we should do next.  It is trying to make the decision that you would make if there were a gun to your head...only there is no gun to your head.  There is only a vaguely familiar voice whispering things that you already know.  Is it the voice of reason, or some sad monologue of fear?  Or the deep, rumbling call for indiscriminate change?  Or the giggle of excitement?  Living by your own gumption is the choice you make once you realize that even delaying a choice is making a choice.  

I guess, America, I am leaving so that I can do it right this time.  Because by choosing this, I don't feel like I necessarily have to lose the closeness that I've rediscovered with friends and family back home.  In my first blog post on here, I described the tug-of-war I have felt between wanting to explore new places and missing people I care about.  I'm beginning to suspect, though, that perhaps I don't have to sacrifice one for the other.  Perhaps there is a way to do this that won't leave me torn.  Perhaps it's just a question of priorities, and of living in a way that keeps people close even when I'm far away.  This is what the voice is whispering to me now, and regardless of whether or not I can pull it off, the only way to know is to try again.  I hope you are doing well, and I will be seeing you very soon.

Sincerely,

Andy


P.S. Seriously though, Donald's no good for you.  Get your shit together.

Cheers to many Sharknadoes still to come.

"Did I Really Save the Dalai Lama?" and Other Metaphysical Musings

Here we go again!  I have officially accepted a new teaching job, and will be revitalizing my role as an American Expat in...

Hang on, hang on.  What am I doing?  I've given no context.  I've developed no mood, no setting.  I'm jumping straight into the climax of the story without building even a modicum of suspense.  I can't just give this stuff away.  Instead, I will provide a series of photo clues for my intrepid (and largely imaginary) readers who may appreciate a bit of intrigue, sleuthing, or just downright guessing.  And for those of you left wondering, "How on earth did you end up there?" I will explain a bit about the vagaries of recruitment in the world of international teaching along the way.

Clue 1: This country is comprised of 70% mountainous terrain.  Seventy
percent of the mountainous terrain, by contrast, is comprised of my drooling
anticipation.

Clue 2: Though ranking easily outside of the top 100 countries in
total area, this country still boasts about 342 km/225 mi of
coastline.

Clue 3: Ruins of this Greek amphitheater can be found
alongside the remains of Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman
structures in the south of this country.

The first step for teachers who want to take their show on the road is to apply for an organization such as Search Associates (Search) or International School Services (ISS).  Sure, you can go rogue and just start emailing your cover letter and CV out to any school that catches your fancy, but there are some major drawbacks to this.  Schools will use Search and ISS to vet potential hires, because they require an application process that ensures the candidates are credentialed and experienced.  Similarly, teachers can rest somewhat easier knowing that Search and ISS have standards for the schools that they advertise and promote as well.  This doesn't foolproof the system on either end, but it can give you a leg up on the competition, and it will also mean that the school is at least legitimate.  For teaching candidates, membership costs around $200 for either one and will be good for three years or until they get you a job, whichever comes first.

Once accepted, you will need to update and upload all of your important documents.  CV, cover letter, copies of degrees and certification, letters of recommendation, confidential references...the works.  You will have a chance to do all of this and get your ducks in a row before the schools and hiring committees can see your candidate page.  Once you go live, then you can start searching for jobs by continent, country, school, and/or position.  Many international schools start posting their vacancies in late November, and the game is on.  

Clue 4: Personal safety seems to be pretty much...personal.
Do you.

Clue 5: This contraption apparently seats 9 and is described as a 
"moped-driven tricycle."

Clue 6: Ffs

Clue 7: Okay, so there will be bears in my new city.  At least its umbrella
game is strong.

This is when the craziness begins, though it is a very peculiar strand of crazy.  Every teacher will come into this with some dream school or dream location that they see when they close their eyes and someone says "international school."  The prospect of this place has likely tantalized the applicant for many months or years, and this place, without fail, will never ever ever ever hire you.  It's a rule.  You will not end up here.  I'm not being cynical, because this isn't necessarily a bad thing.  It might even be you that turns them down in the end.

In the moment, though, there is nothing more frustrating.  You will diligently check the "vacancies" page on Search or ISS every morning, and every morning you will be greeted by the news that there is no position that you are qualified for at your dream school.  In the event that you are, you will receive no replies to your masterfully composed inquiry, your polite follow up, nor your blatant pleading.  Your mind will go to dark places, and you will firmly believe that you have missed something, and that there is something you have done, or haven't done, that is causing you to be overlooked.  You begin to widen your net a little.  Okay, I might not be able to get hired at that school, but maybe I could get hired in the same city.  Okay, same country?  Continent, then.  Somewhere with mountains?  Hills???

And then you will get a message from Chad.  Not like "Chad Higgins in HR", but the country, Chad.  "Fuck," you will think, "I'm fucked."

"Oh wait...$30,000 per year in savings, you say?  Well hello, Chad.  Yes, I was just about to call you..."

Clues 8 - 12: Beginning in the 1950s, the leader of this country
ordered the construction of over 700,000 bunkers to protect
them in a war that never came.  

While these bunkers may or may not have been effective in battle, they have
proved sturdy over the years, having been largely re-purposed into restaurants
and small shops.   

According to my Lonely Planet guide, the leader and  "Supreme
Comrade" of the country tested the reliability of the bunkers by
having the chief engineer of the project go inside of one while it
was shelled by a tank.  His survival of the episode indicates that
it was probably a larger one than this.  

This one, now found on a playground, belies the paranoia
responsible for its construction.

I'm not sure if it is adventurous or absurdly cautious to book a
night at this bed and breakfast, but sign me up.

Chad?  Can you sell out like that?  This has zero of the things that you were hoping for.  "Yes, but what about those other zeroes?" you ask, torturing yourself.  "I've been meaning to pick that saxophone back up.  I haven't played since 8th grade, but this would be a great time to develop some hobbies."  And while you are pondering the adequate compensation for 2 years of living in a tiny, incestuous expat bubble while stranded on some sweltering Saharan compound, you will hear from China.  And then Vietnam.  And then Latvia.  And so on.  That dream job is still denying your very existence, but at least now you can step back from the ledge a little bit and think more rationally about everything.

Just kidding.  Instead, you go all Walter Mitty on it.  You haven't actually interviewed for a single position, yet you have swum in 4 different seas, mastered 11 new languages, and discovered a subterranean Roman ruin.  You have summered as a tour guide in Dubrovnik, where you met Emilia Clarke playing Daenerys Targaryen on the set of King's Landing, fell in love, and named all of your children after her dragons.  You have saved the life of the Dalai Lama, and have written a best-selling metaphysical memoir on whether or not you really accomplished anything by it, given that he would have promptly reincarnated.  You have been unanimously declared "teacher of the year" by no fewer than 7 different educational foundations, and all of your students have received full rides to Yale under your tutelage.  

No, no, no...K.I.T., keep it together.  Take an ordered approach.  Make lists, create charts, compare curricula, read reviews, visit tourism sites, talk to friends with teaching or travel experience in the region.

"Greetings from South Africa!" will then appear in your inbox, and suddenly you are considering the likelihood that Nelson Mandela has only faked his death so that he can pursue teaching in Cape Town, unmolested by his fame.  "I bet he's Department Chair by now..."

Clue 13: Eastern and western cuisine mingle in this cross-roads country, and its overall mild climate allows for the growth of olives and citrus fruits.  A popular dessert is baklava, and the alcoholic drink of choice is raki, usually as
an aperitif.

Clue 14: The most famous author of this country
was awarded the inaugural Man Booker
International Prize in 2005, and is frequently
discussed as a candidate for the Nobel Prize
in Literature for his body of work.

Clue 15: For centuries, this country's "Kanun" guided social  norms and
interactions in the absence of a centralized government.  It is
responsible for both its reputation for hospitality and kindness
as well as for its decades-long blood feuds between families
that force many to remain prisoners in their homes.

Clue 16: While this country didn't exactly exist when she was born, it is the
nationality of Mother Teresa, aka Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu.

And don't get me started on job fairs.  Many teachers will be able to find jobs exclusively through email and Skype, and I say go for it if you can.  If , however, you prefer to meet in person or if you really want to see what can come out of left field, then you can sign up for one (or more) of the job fairs offered all over the world.

Once there, you will be based in a hotel, convention center, or school, and on the first morning of the fair, you will sign up for interviews.  This sounds nice and calm, but the reality of it is that each school will have a booth, and for about 2 hours you and all of the other teaching candidates will line up at the schools you are interested in, hand them your CVs, and convince them in about 2 minutes that you are deserving of an interview.  Choose carefully, though, because you can get caught in the lines of popular schools for 10-15 minutes or longer, while all of the early interview spots everywhere else are being populated by your competition.  It's intense to say the least, and it doesn't get any less-so when you take a look at the marathon schedule of 10 interviews that you have assembled for Saturday alone.  Or, even worse, you didn't get many at all and you are now in panic mode.

But enough.  You get the picture.  It has been a quietly wild couple of months inside my head, and I have now accepted a new teaching job!

Have you guessed it?  Have you scrolled down here already to look ahead?  Either way, the answer is..........

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ALBANIA!

I will be living right on the coast in Durrës!  Photo Credit

Durrës at night. Photo Credit

I will be moving to Durrës (DUR - uhs), Albania for the next 2 years. I will teach History and Humanities at Albanian College Durrës while I explore the Balkans and beyond.  Albania, though, was not on my radar when I began searching in the fall.  Actually, I was pretty sure that I would be heading back to South America.

Which I suppose is exactly, as explained previously, why I'm not.

I had some disappointments early and often in that region, and the more I looked into Albania, the more I opened my mind to it. Or maybe it wasn't my mind. Yes, I went down the checklist and it got all of the "rational" points: exciting professional opportunities, amazing access to the outdoors, great location for international travel, an approachable language, and good savings potential. But so did some other places I was considering. I was not actually contacted by a school in Chad, but there were some other suitors, and some other schools that I had reached out to.

Ultimately, all of those aforementioned trips into inner space were not mere idle driftings of the mind.  It was my subconscious attempt to somehow grasp the magnitude of the impending changes.  It was fumbling with a decision that carries every ounce of my coming routines and adventures, my yet-unknown friendships, and the entirety of my professional and personal life for the next two years.  You can't figure that out from a checklist.  Just let your mind wander through it all, and see where you end up.  I let my daydreaming run free as I marveled at photos of Albania's beautifully diverse landscape, its quirky culture, and its fascinating disregard for convention.  And when it came down to it, it just felt right.

As for my time back in the US and leaving again so soon...those thoughts are more complicated, and are forthcoming in my next post.

I don't want to do long distance either, Emilia.
I'll scout some filming locations in Albania
for season 7.  Photo Credit