The wind is delicately provoking the floral print curtains that drape across the open window of the room that I share with two other women. A tree continuously hits the roof of our abode with the rhythmic tunes of the winds' nighttime music. A movie is being watched downstairs. Two girls are smoking cigarettes with the ease and class of 1940s movie stars. The dorky history majors of the group are gathered in their respective rooms reading the optional articles about revolutions in the 1970s. Ants are crawling across the floor in search of substance, probably the chocolate from one of my roommates' open luggage. I am drinking pineapple juice. Herein lies the next leg of my journey: El Salvador.
With El Salvador comes the much anticipated study of Liberation Theology. A new focus on economics. The fourth Harry Potter book. Rural weekend homestays. One house for 18 people. Early morning jogs. Hot weather. The continuous lack of middle class. An attempt at conquering more of the Spanish language. The Pacific beach. The Catholic Church. Numerous insects, illnesses, laughter and ice cream.
Four weeks and oh so much to learn.
Alright, so at this moment I am struggling with this whole blogging world. I say that often, but I feel it much moreso down here in Central America. I wish I could write better. I wish I could come up with a new word for adventure. Or a new word for new. I wish I could adequately, or at least accurately, describe the beauty and struggle of this small section of the world. I would like to be able to fluidly discuss the string that connects the politics, culture, language and beliefs of Central America. I would like to have funnier stories and richer descriptions. But for some reason, I feel a great sense of lacking. I do not have the words to illustrate the faces of so many who have been influential in my time here. I cannot form the sentences that would make up the paragraphs about the sights and aromas of these countries. For that, I apologize because these countries deserve some fine writing. They deserve to be known in their most raw and real states. They deserve, at the very least, for people to care. For people to become aware of their struggles and their attempts at a decent livelihood. Start reading the newspapers, the BBC and history books about revolutions. It will astound you and make your cringe, but maybe just maybe, you will see a little sliver of why we should care about these fascinating and strong people.
Thoughts from a girl who has not slept in a while and whose thirst for knowledge only continues to grow...