The Joys of Unemployment

So today has been long and drawn out and has consisted, primarily, of finding people who will pay me for various services.  Not those kinds of services (perverts).  At least not yet. 

When I initially quit my traditional job, just three short months ago, I had known that the time spent finding a career that made me truly happy would be daunting and involve many nights spent balancing check books and generally worrying about finances.  But I hadn't expected being employed only temporarily and sporadically. Since I was fifteen I have worked with few gaps in my employment and now, as I near thirty, I am wholly unaccustomed to being unemployed for more than a couple of days. So having not worked last week, and knowing I will not be working this week, is genuinely off putting. 

However, I am persevering. I have waitressed and bartended. I have signed up to collect petition signatures for pay in Rochester.  I have signed up to substitute teach. I am volunteering with two organizations that I am deeply committed to and in love with-- one as a sexual assault victims' advocate, and the other as a tour guide, et al for a historical site. I'm spending time with family and friends.  And most importantly I'm learning.  I'm learning what I love and what I don't love, what is important to me financially and what isn't, and what I'm looking for in a job and a career.  In general, I am happy.  Happier than I've been in years in fact.  Yes, I certainly still worrying about grown up things like bills (which are, at this moment, paid and up to date...... Somehow....), but for the first time in my adult life I feel like I'm working to live rather than living to work, and, for once, I don't feel like all I'm doing is paying bills until I die. 

Life is good. 

Tell Me I Wouldn't Look Good Under a Bridge!

In any company that sends people to fix things there are people working behind the scenes called “dispatchers”.  I currently work for a fantastic company where I dispatch service technicians to fix people’s furnaces.  (Side note:  I will refer to The Company, here, only as “The Company” because a.) I respect people’s privacy and b.) libel suits are for wussies…. NOT for unemployed former dispatchers with a BA in history rather than something more employable such as finance or probably underwater basket weaving at this point).  

Dispatchers at The Company, and anywhere for that matter, tend to wear their time like badges of honor:  

“I’ve been in for six months and they still haven’t upped my blood pressure meds!”     

“Seriously?  Two years and I’ve only considered committing myself twice.  Sit down.”

Kind of in the same way that rednecks hold lit matches in their fingers for as long as they can just to prove... something... to someone.... 

This isn’t necessarily a reflection on any company that hires dispatchers, it’s a reflection on the profession of dispatching itself.  Dispatching is pretty much telling service technicians where they need to go to do their job next.  It’s also customer service front lines.  Sounds pretty straight forward and sunshiny, doesn’t it?  It’s not.  On any given day you can be assured that any given decision you make will piss someone off almost immediately.  It requires thick skin and no fear of being considered a bitch.  Both of which I have, except for that last one, which I don’t have… I think… Anyway, I’ve excelled at dispatching.  However, I don't remember what that something I was trying to prove was, nor to whom I was trying to prove it... So, I have decided to quit my job.  

I didn’t so much “decide to quit my job” as I did talk about quitting my job as soon as circumstances permitted in order to attempt to find a career that I enjoy and that I can actually generate income doing.  Apparently in the world in which I reside (and French fries don’t have calories!) “as soon as circumstances permitted” loosely translated into “as soon as my boss and I got in an argument and I told him I’d rather be broke and homeless than continue doing this job”.  Nothing but mature professionalism there, I assure you.  The argument was over something so trivial that I don't even remember what it is now.  But the fact that I could feel my blood pressure rising shot me into a "what the hell am I doing with my life" tailspin.  So in my purely legitimate rage I quit my job.  

A lot of people have asked why.  Was it because The Company wasn’t treating me well?  Did it have something to do with the fact that I refer to my boss as “Ghengis” in my blog posts?  Was dispatching slowly eating my very soul at a rate so alarming those around me were getting whiplash?  No.  To all of the above.  Not really.  I seriously went all Office Space and decided to quit because I just didn’t want to do it anymore.  I’ve been stressed out for far too long about things that no one will really remember in a week, and I’m tired of arguing about things that don’t really matter to me.  So I quit specifically due to an out of nowhere mid-life crisis at 29, and set out to do what no one has done since 1964:  find myself.  

And not in some weird hippie, patchouli incense sort of way.  In a much more modern, kick ass, I need to find an actual career that I like and I need time to do so, sort of way.  Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.  

No, I do not currently have a steady form of employment lined up.  Yes, I’m aware that I should be far too smart and mature to quit my job with no prospect for employment in the worst job market in a generation.  No, I wasn't planning on leaving.  Yes, I am freaking out a little bit because my stable income is ending in a week.  No, I still don’t regret the decision.  Yes, I’m looking forward to catching up on Maury.  And, yes, I’m looking at serious options such as grad school, interning, volunteering, part time jobbing, taking off my clothes for money, etc.  Okay not that last one.  Well… Maybe that last one… I dunno… Talk to me in a couple weeks… 

So basically this is a blog to inform you all that you will be seeing more blogs from me soon since I will undoubtedly come down with a horrible case of the stir crazy by next Tuesday. 

You’re welcome. 

Maturity In The Bread Aisle

My nearest and dearest delight in regaling anyone nearby with stories of my shitty decision making expertise (I have this shit down to a science).  Nothing, evidentally, is funnier than the string of developmentally delayed exes I ran through in high school, or my tendency to say wildly inappropriate things at the most unfortunate times (I once, straight faced, tried to convince a cop I had witnessed a body being thrown in a dumpster.  It didn’t end well).   The art of screwing up royally has led me down some pretty interesting paths that typically all end in the middle of the city of Awkward.  Population me and, normally, some poor unsuspecting bar douche that bought me whiskey once.  

Today I ventured down one of those paths.  This path began with a bad decision I made a few years ago and then continued making for about four years.  I'll call this piñata of sleaze Chris (No, that’s not his real name, I don’t need him suing me for using his name in vain or defaming his character or what not.  I’m still an unpaid blogger (unfairly, I contend), and Genghis the furnace salesman doesn’t pay me that well at this point).   

Chris was, in fact, a douchey bar guy who did, at multiple points in our sordid, on again/off again history together buy me whiskey.  Alas, he had discovered my weakness, the intricate combination that unlocked my heart: over confidence in one's own mediocrity and alcohol.  

Chris and I met and fell madly in casual sex with each other.  Bet you thought I was going to say love there.  But it wasn’t like that in the beginning.  We were both in committed relationships with others, Chris had just gotten married and I was living with someone (NO judging!).  So it wasn’t love, it was sex.  People do stupid things when they’re in love, but if you really want to get yourself into a handicapable situation, get your genitals involved.  So Chris and I had occasional casual sex for four years. 

And then we both suddenly found ourselves single.  It was an odd situation.  We’d never been single at the same time.  I realized I didn’t like this whole single thing and decided that I would do what any slightly neurotic, slutty when tipsy woman with inadequate respect for monogamy would do: I fell for my emergency penis.  I approached Chris with the idea of having a real big people relationship and was promptly told that I was not to be seen in public with Chris.  He had a reputation to protect.  

I was crushed.  And furious.  And I felt a little bad for Chris because I’m pretty sure the inability to recognize awesome of this magnitude is an actual disease that requires some pretty expensive treatment.  

I didn’t scream and yell, I didn’t throw things or glue his penis to his stomach or boil his pet rabbit.  Instead I accepted the fact that Chris was an insufferable douche incapable of truly appreciating the fact that he was lucky enough to catch my eye.  So I spent a couple days cursing his name.  I took my frustrations out on my liver, which, let’s be honest, I was probably going to do anyway.  

From there, I saw Chris only sporadically, usually at bars where we’d awkwardly hug and say hi after we had had enough shots to make that seem like a good idea.  The last time I saw him he apologized to me and I ugly cried, which I immediately hated myself for.  And I haven’t seen him since.  Small towns being what they are I had heard that he was engaged and had spawned and I was genuinely happy for him though slightly afraid that Axe Body Spray would come out with a toddler line soon.  

So, back to the present day. Last night a few friends and I decided to celebrate a birthday by drinking a serious amount of beer and eating entirely too much.  Waking up this morning was a spectacular shit show that started with someone screaming that my car was getting towed (it was actually getting a $25 parking ticket) and ended with hearing myself blink.  As I picked myself up off the floor, literally, it dawned on me that I had responsibilities that needed attending too, namely, another party to go to.  One that I was required to bring cupcakes to. 

Shit.  

 I threw my hair in a pony, downed a cup of coffee and headed to Walmart.  

Walking into Walmart hung over is a time honored tradition in the self made family of friends I have chosen to surround myself with.  Generally, it involves avoiding eye contact by texting your friends that didn’t come with you about how much you hate being hung over in Walmart and trying to get out as quickly as possible.   

Like black ops.   

Hung over black ops.  

With spectacular savings. 

I felt like and looked like an old mattress that had been beaten for hours with a beer soaked cat and as I walked in texting I foolishly looked up.  Maybe it was kismet that made me look.  Maybe it was the all too familiar smell of cheap cologne and bad decisions.  Regardless, standing at a cash register, looking douchey as ever, with his baby mama (who I’ve been told is his fiancé), and his kid was Chris. In all of his Long Island Iced Tea swilling, ultimate Frisbee playing, oversized button up shirt wearing glory.  

As soon as the severity of my situation dawned on me I did what any reasonable woman who was in front of the man that broke her heart while looking like a dead squirrel that had been marinated in beer for two days would do:  I audibly said “oh shit” and I ran.  

Like an over grown, foul mouthed seven year old, I ran and hid in the bread aisle.   

Smooth doesn’t even begin to cover it.  None of you out there in reader land can even begin to understand what a badass I looked like hung over and running through Walmart wearing nothing but the cigarette smoke absorbing clothes I had slept in, a terrified expression and obscenities.  

I hid for a few minutes by pretending to read the labels on bagels.  Then I got my shopping done and went home to text my nearest and dearest about my near miss.  

 One would think I would be able to handle these awkward situations better, what with my level of experience and all, but oddly no, I don’t.  Which never ceases to amuse those closest to me.  

 I guess the moral here is that if you can’t be good at life you can at least be entertaining.  You're welcome. 

The Inspriational Qualities of the Snopocalypse

The city of Buffalo and Mother Nature have an odd relationship.  It is abusive and competitive.  Mother Nature is the natural enemy of Buffalo and its fair residents; she thinks she is better and stronger and tougher than us and we maintain that she is wrong.  Being the type of people we are we respond with middle fingers, expletives and flat refusals to be afraid of something as silly and trifling as the forces of the very planet we depend on for survival.  We’re a tough people, we scoff at… Well… Pretty much everything.  Due to this constant fight against the bitch that Mother Nature tends to be we tend to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to warnings that others would consider “dire” or “important” or “urgent” when it comes to weather.  Thus, very rarely are there driving conditions so horrific that Western New Yorkers will stay home rather than risk driving.  After all, you have to drive to get to work, or, more importantly, the bar.  Typically, Western New York drivers will drive in any and all conditions—snow, rain, sun, drunk, sober, tired, awake and any combination of those….  But what hell was visited today on the Western New York region was beyond what most of us expected.  

Snow is far from unusual in this area in fact, the absence of snow actually worries us more than the presence of snow at any given time.  It is seriously more “normal” to all of us to see a slight frost in August than it is to see green grass in December.  So when the National Weather Service informed the area that we were about to experience what is called a “polar vortex” most of us shrugged it off… In the interest of honesty, most of us didn’t know what a polar vortex (after a highly unscientific poll the polar vortex has now been named the Snopocalypse) was, nor did we care.  The blizzard warnings were also shrugged off, after all, they were probably all coming from meteorologists in San Francisco or somewhere who believed a few inches equaled a blizzard.  We got this.  Sit down.  

After the second time I went in a ditch on my way home from work yesterday I began to think that perhaps I should have listened to the meteorologists in San Francisco.  Driving during a polar vortex (most of us still don’t know what the hell that is) is pure, unadulterated hell that only a place like Buffalo can visit upon a population.  The snow blows across the road in 45 mph wind gusts and visibility ends at your hood ornament.  The slowest head on collisions in history tend to occur at this time as visibility also ends at the lines on the roads so “lanes” become a mere suggestion at best and an intangible dream at worst.  I know this because I was involved in one of the slowest head on collisions ever today.  Myself and another car hit, head on, at 10 mph.  10.  We stopped briefly, swerved, shrugged to each other and kept driving to escape the frozen hell that Snopocalypse has conjured.  

Naturally, as I was driving 7.5 mph and realizing exactly how creepy it is to see headlights emerge out of white nothingness or, worse, watch the snow blow in and the tail lights in front of you disappear, while I was squinting to see the nearest telephone pole ten feet away to determine if I was, in fact, on a paved road, I began to think of this blog and the final parts of the Gringa Chronicles (which I’m well aware need to get finished sooner rather than later).  So to warm myself up, here’s more Gringa Chronicles. 

                                                                         ***
After the ill fated market trip, lunch with my step mother and baby brother, and some dire warnings about soliciting cab rides in Peru, the Rock Star, Little Sister and I departed (in a hired cab from an actual company) to the mall in Lima to make dinner reservations and take in some scenery at the nearby parks.   
We watched the ocean for awhile and marveled at the intricate positioning and imagination that can only be described as "dexterous" of the very well endowed Statues in El Parque Del Amor ("Love Park" for those that don't speak Spanish. Google it.  Seriously.).  As we made our way up the stairs (because everything in this country is somehow up a flight of freaking stairs) to a balcony overlook I noticed a small book wedged between a garbage can and the wall. As I am the curious but lazy type I had my sister pick it up.

I realized I may have handled this situation wrong when the Rock Star’s face turned red, his eyes got wide and in a low-key yet somehow still simultaneously terrified and angry voice he whisper-yelled “Put it down!  Put it down now!  Now!”  He sounded like something out of a badly made horror film. 

Little Sister and I stared at him blankly.  We looked at each other.  And then continued staring.  The Rock Star opened the book and pointed to page upon page of what looked like financial transactions.  It dawned on us both, simultaneously, that we were currently standing in a mall in the largest cocaine producing region on earth holding a hidden book full of financial spreadsheets.  

We promptly put the book down.  And then we giggled.  The Rock Star’s face got redder.  And then we noticed the heavily armed security guard also picking up the book and looking, suspiciously , in our general direction.  Ever creative, I began describing what I imagined a Latin American women’s prison looked like.  Lots of green paint for some reason (not sure why), no indoor plumbing and angry Hispanic women with lots of scars filled my head.  As my sister and I discussed the probability of my vision being the Rock Star again turned red and started gesticulating and horror movie voicing wildly.  He pointed out that the well armed, suspicious security guard probably speaks English because he was still staring and didn’t find my imagined description of Latin American prison funny at all.   

Moral:  Latin American security guards have no measurable sense of humor. 

Tour of a Latin American prison successfully averted, we set off the next day for Cusco. 

                                                                                ***

Cusco, Peru is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world, it is the former capital of the Inca Empire and it sits at an elevation of around 11,000 feet.  To put that in perspective, Buffalo, NY sits at an elevation of 600 feet.  Cusco is simply beautiful, and for a history nerd like myself it is nothing if not the perfect place.  Altitude sickness hit us almost instantly, which meant migraines, nose bleeds and light headedness and it was quickly determined that taking us from 600 feet to 11,000 feet nearly instantly wasn’t going to work out well so we set off the next morning for Machu Picchu to see the ruins and work our way back up.  

After a long and scenic drive through the sacred valley we jumped on a train.  After the train we climbed some stairs (seriously) to the heart of the city of Machu Picchu (not to be confused with the ruins).  The city sits on the banks of the Urubamba River which was a major lifeline of the Inca emperor, used for everything from cleaning and drinking to transportation.  The city does not allow for actually traffic besides trains and foot traffic.  Everything is brought in by train to the city and then transported throughout the city by hand.  Even, as my cousin’s husband related to us, building materials when new buildings are constructed, as he found out when his hotel was remodeled.  To his credit, the remodeling, hand carried materials included, was a success and the hotel was beautiful-- a large dining room and sitting area on the main floor, beautiful rooms upstairs and a gorgeous hot tub downstairs.  We spent the first night having a wonderful dinner, catching up and relaxing before heading off to the ruins the next morning.

 

The ruins at Machu Picchu are awe inspiring.  The city unfolds between two mountains, Machu Picchu (hence the name) and Huayna Picchu, I refer to it as a city because that is the most typical explanation for exactly what Machu Picchu was—a city like estate for the emperor Pachacuti, arguably the most influential and certainly the most famous of the Inca emperors.  Other theories include a late capital after the Spanish “discovered” Cusco and its thousands of inhabitants, or possibly a site of worship.  

The Spanish never came to Machu Picchu during colonization and the city was abandoned in the late 16^th century only to be “discovered” again in 1911 by Hiram Bingham, an American explorer and history nerd extraordinaire.  Since the Spanish weren’t around to destroy the city and rebuild it to their liking, Mr Bingham found the city comparatively well preserved.  Locals were growing corn there but, for the most part, weren’t really disturbing much.  Least of which the unreasonable amount of stairs. 

I’ve never met an ancient Incan, but I can surmise from seeing their cities that they had calves that could be used to crack a walnut if walnuts grew in Peru (which they might).  Anyway, the city includes multiple temples, an urban sector, an agrarian sector, sacred rocks (yes, plural) and a sacred sun dial.  The views from the mountain are breathtaking and no city on earth has as much cardio seamlessly worked into its civil engineering.  

My brother gave everyone in the group mild coronary events through his running off.  Nothing on earth moves as quickly as the excited six year old offspring of a man that was adventurous enough to have passed away chasing possible drug runners through the South Pacific.  Nothing.  My brother talked miles per minute to our guide, ran and jumped and played and climbed.  And sometimes he did these things on the side of a cliff.  Latin Americans have little use for silly things like guard rails as they obstruct the view.  This sounds like a trivial concern to those that haven’t climbed forty eight flights of stone stairs to see said view. But in between huffing and puffing my jiggly butt up ancient stairways, nearly vomiting blood every time I could find my brother and touching the sacred rock you aren’t supposed to touch I was able to spend so truly awesome quality time with my family in a simply magnificent place.  

As the bus wound back down the mountain to the city (Rule #1 of travel in mountainous Latin American nations is do not, under any circumstances, look downward out the window of the bus.  Ever) I was able to reflect on the trip.  We had only been in the country for a couple of days and had already taken in so much.   

But, more importantly, we felt like a family.       

The trip ends in the next Chronicle (promise!).  Stay tuned!

The Gringa Chronicles Part 2

Our plane was set to take off at ten am Saturday.  At seven pm on Friday I got the email that our flights were canceled due to weather in Newark, our connecting city.  After coming up with some pretty creative (if I do say so myself) obscenities with which to describe the city of Newark and its mother, the camel it rode in on and its fine inhabitants, I did what every well seasoned traveler loathes:  I called the airline.   

Nothing is more frustrating than calling an airline not long after a mass cancelation.  Hold times are simply ludicrous (I was on hold for an hour and a half, I wish I was exaggerating here), customer service reps are tired, fed up, bitchy and have English skills that can only be described as “sketchy”, and solutions to your problem are few, far between, unsatisfactory and typically expensive.  Luckily, I got through to a relatively helpful and empathetic Indian customer service rep that spoke and understood English fluently (I know he was Indian because he told me, don’t make me block you for posting accusatory comments).  However, options were at a minimum.  All flights on the East Coast were grounded, the rest were sold out.  Just when it looked like we were either going to A.) miss two whole days of our trip or B.) have to drive to effing Indianapolis to catch a flight to Arizona, to connect to Mexico, to have a layover in El Salvador, do a little dance, click our heels three times, spit, pray and pay off a local to catch a flight to Lima (I’m only slightly exaggerating), an idea hit me. 

It was like a ray of light, a message sent down from the gods of good travel, a vision from a mystic dream of a world where turbulence doesn’t exist, airline associates are pleasant and layovers are few (okay, now I’m exaggerating):  We’re within driving distance of Toronto! 

We caught the last two flights out of Toronto and away we went!  Thank the travel gods for the land of moose, crappy hockey and poutine!

We arrived in Lima late Monday night to find that my cell phone doesn’t work internationally.   Which would have only been a mild inconvenience except that when we arrived we saw no one we recognized and my Spanish was rusty…. A less than ideal situation to be in.  We searched the airport for my cousin or my sister, since we really didn’t know what anyone else we were meeting looked like (I’d never met my step mother at this point).  Latin American taxi drivers, who I am convinced have chips implanted in their brains so that they have access to radar that zeroes in on lost and confused gringos, swarmed the Rock Star and I almost immediately.  Since the Rock Star had never traveled before he was, adorably, attempting to be polite. 

“You’re going to have to learn to be an asshole here, just for sanity’s sake” I said to him, frowning.

“They’re just trying to make a living, I don’t want to be rude!”  How cute is that?

“Suit yourself, but you’ll see.”

Within ten minutes he had found the ability to be rude.  And all it took was the same taxi driver asking us if we wanted a taxi six times. 

Alas, I found my baby sister with my cousin standing right behind her!  We got to the car where I met my cousin’s husband (cousin in law?) and we ceremoniously cracked four beers and headed out, across the city of Lima to my cousin’s house.

Lima, Peru is an interesting city.  My personal theory is that all major cities look the same.  New York looks a lot like Miami (sans palm trees), which looks a lot like Tokyo (with only slightly more English), which looks a lot like Denver, which looks a lot like Rome (minus the ruins).  Lima didn’t necessarily change that theory.  Lima looks a lot like New York.  It is bustling, hot, dirty.  There are good areas, bad areas, street merchants, beggars and bars.  What really differentiates cities is their character and Lima definitely has character.

Contrary to popular opinion, Lima was not the capital of the ancient Inca Empire, that distinction goes to the city of Cusco (more on Cusco later).  After the Spanish took over Latin America in the sixteenth century Lima became the capital of the viceroyalty of Peru, which it has remained.  After the Conquistadors sucked every major resource out of the region, Peru took well deserved independence and Lima became the capital of the now sovereign nation and economic stagnation set in.  Throughout much of the early twentieth century the military sporadically took over the Peruvian government and instituted harsh policies and repression.  “Agrarian reforms” (read: land redistribution) undertaken by military dictator Juan Velasco Alvarado plummeted Peru into poverty and kept it on the brink of civil war.  Democracy returned in the 1980s and by the mid 1990s an economic boom had begun (this is a ridiculously synopsized version of Peruvian history, for a more detailed version READ A FUCKING BOOK).  Lima is now home to one of the hemispheres most burgeoning economies and one of the largest urban populations in the Americas. 

All of this history is visible in Lima.  There are still economic slums.  There is still a vibrant indigenous Andean culture and there are upscale restaurants and gated communities, of which we were guests.  The city is truly beautiful with palm trees, genuinely Latin American calles, phenomenal food and a local culture that allows gringos (assuming you don’t wear the word “tourist” on your metaphorical forehead) to blend into the background rather well.  But crime is still a thing, as in any major city, regardless of hemisphere. 

I have always maintained that in Latin America you need two things to obtain a taxi ride:  1.) about ten American dollars, converted to local currency and, 2.) no fear of death.  With this experience and the knowledge that the Rock Star has never ridden in a cab in Latin America under my belt, we (myself, my sister and the Rock Star), walked out of the gated community we stayed in and hailed a cab. 

I still have the Rock Star’s nail marks in my knee.  Driving in most of Latin America is driving through the creative use of horns and apparently this was a bit of culture shock for the Rock Star.  His face was actually green when we arrived at our destination: Inka Market. 

Inka Market is pretty much a market like one finds in most Latin American cities:  walking only, cheap souvenirs, some mid-range souvenirs, and lots of haggling.  Haggling is an interesting thing for gringas traveling abroad.   Imagine walking into WalMart for to buy a camera.  The price tag says $100.  You call the poor, probably high school aged, underpaid and overworked counter associate (assuming you can find him/her) over and proceed to offer to buy the camera for 30 bucks.  That’s pretty much haggling and it’s a ridiculously foreign idea for most of us (we would find out later that my cousin is the world’s greatest gringa haggler, but more on that later). 

After a couple hours walking around the market, working on our Spanish and changing over dollars to soles with a seriously sketchy guy sitting under a tree (hey, the shop keeper said he was legit), we hailed yet another cab and headed to my step mother’s house. 

My step mother was, unbeknownst to us, five minutes from calling the cops at this point.  Apparently, taxi kidnappings are still a well known problem in Peru and no one knew where we were, nor had any way to contact us.  Visions of the Shining Path guerillas and the horrible things they would do to three unassuming white Americans that don’t speak Spanish ran through her head and nearly ruined the day. 

But alas, with many apologies and big hugs I was finally face to face with my Dad’s final wife (he had had three, all told).  Shortly after a bouncing, energetic, ridiculously adorable six year old boy bounded up to me and wrapped his arms around my legs.  My brother.  The main reason for the trip.  The final piece in the international circle that is my family.  He spoke quickly and excitedly and gesticulated wildly .  

 All in perfect Spanish.   

This might be an issue.   

But it felt like home, and it felt like love, and I have rarely been so happy. 

Stay tuned for Part 3!