Cositas

I originally posted this rant on a blog I didn't even know I had. I'm sorry for the delay, but here it is now.

It's 2:03 a.m., and I have an exam in the morning.

No, that's an understatement. I have part two of an exam tomorrow morning. I already completed the first part on Wednesday, along with a rather large Media Law exam right after it. And a paper. And about 20 pages of Latin American Art reading to discuss in class. And another revision review with my Advanced Reporting professor and adviser.

I'm taking 18 credits this semester. And teaching English. And interning at the State Attorney's Office. And continuing as a mentor for Young Life. And....

Shhh.

Be still, Jenna. Please just be still. 

OK, Jesus. Thank you. I was getting tired of hearing my own voice.

Yes, daughter. Me too.

***

There are small issues in this world, and there are big issues. The space between them is filled with a lot of hot air.

I have a test tomorrow morning. May I propose that although education has value, that's a small issue? But a girl I have that class with has started to confide in me. That's big.

I'm low on gas. That's small. I'm low on gas because I've been driving around my Young Life kids and pouring as much love into their lives as I know how. That's big.

Small issues. Big issues.

I was driving some of my middle schoolers home a couple of weeks ago when they began to complain over who I dropped off first. Well Syasia should have to go home first. No, Ziera should go home first. Jenna, please don't drop me off right now I don't want to go back. That's not fair! Var should have to get out first!

So after a couple of minutes had passed, I decided it was time my kids got a bit of a talking to.

"There are big issues in the world, and there are small issues," I said, not bothering to introduce my speech. "This is a very, very small problem."

One of my kids started to object, so I quickly continued, "You are sitting inside a car safe from the rain and cold. When I drop you off at your homes, you'll walk inside yet another roof and eat dinner. You may not like what it is, but you'll probably have food. But you're about to bust each other's faces because you're worried about who gets dropped off first."

"Children," I concluded, "Your problems are very, very small at the moment."

It was quiet for a minute, and then Syasia took a stab in the dark, "Jenna, is this about your kids in Guatemala?"

"Yes, Syasia," I said. "This is about my kids in Guatemala."

But it's about those same middle schoolers, too. When they're alone with me, they talk about their real problems. Problems like abuse, like losing their virginity at the age of 12, like smoking pot because it "makes the pain go away," like joining the gangs in their neighborhoods because their families really don't give a shit.

I always leave those conversations thinking the following, "And I didn't want to drive out here because I had a test to be studying for. My stupid little problems."

Let me stop here and say that I'm not implying that God doesn't care about the little things. Because he does! I'm just saying that maybe we could use a little perspective.

Somehow, our society says that things like getting a good job or finding the perfect house are the big things, but then turns and says "Aw, it's the little things" when watching a stranger help another stranger.

No, I would argue. Those are the big things.

I met a very animated Mexican man a couple of weeks ago who spent an hour explaining to me his view of the United States. In his rant, he said something that I found to be quite interesting:

I hate it when people here tell me they have to check their agenda

first. What do you mean? You need to check to see if you have 

enough time for me? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.

Woah. I've become that.

I used to say that there is no such thing as not having enough time to have a conversation with a stranger. I didn't care what was going on- if somebody from class or the grocery story or wherever I may be wanted to talk, I needed to stop and talk.

A month ago, I stopped one of my classmates mid conversation and apologized profusely because I had a really big thing to get to. A couple of weeks ago, I flat out just avoided a conversation I felt I didn't have time for. And just about every night, I get home and all I want to do is sit, eat, and not talk because I feel too tired for my roommates' energy.

So maybe I need to take a step back every once in a while and remember that relationships, that loving others is really what matters. That those are the big things.

Maybe I need to take a step back and remember that there's a bigger picture.

***

I was hanging out with two of my Venezuelan students when Daniel began to talk about another one of his English teachers. He was trying to describe him, so when he couldn't pin down his personality, he began to tell me about his line of work.

Ah! I said, interested. He studies anthropology! That's my minor!

Daniel threw his free hand in the air, exasperated. But you know what his research is? He asked. He studies how young children perceive adult words in foreign languages. The university is paying for him to move to China for a whole entire year.

But that's so cool! I practically squealed.

"Americans," Daniel said, shaking his head. "They're interested in the stupidest things. We have a world filled with children dying of hunger, and Americans are worried about moving to China and seeing how little kids perceive the English language." (original quote in Spanish)

***

So let me see if I can tie together my point here. It has been... *drum roll please*.... five months since I last blogged after all. My communication skills might be a little lacking.

There are big issues in this life, and there are small ones. My test tomorrow may look and feel big, but I feel pretty confident when I say that- in the grand scheme of things- it ends up looking pretty small.

And yes, the small things matter. In fact, I would argue that things our society calls small are actually big.

Big. Small. 

When a group of football players in Ohio decided several months ago that their status as athletes gave them rights over the body of a 16-year-old girl, they weren't worried about the big things. They were worried about a party. They were worried about their popularity. They were worried about their own needs.

And when things came to light, even their community was wrapped up in the small things, panicking about the loss of two football stars in the midst of a girl trying to process being raped. 

It's an extreme example of not only rape culture, but also this incredible loss of perspective that I've been going on and on about.

And I think it's time that we get back to what's important.

I think it's time that we- and a whole lot of I- remember what is big and what is small.

Desnuda

I know. It's been a while.

 

But meet Marcus. 

Marcus has got to be one of the most refreshing people I've met in a long time. That's pretty incredible considering I met him on a weekend known for the intense hate that goes along with the long-lived Florida-Georgia rivalry.

But Marcus is different. He doesn't really care about any of that hate stuff. 

He first approached my brother and I as we were packing up our backpack and said something I couldn't quite understand. Marcus doesn't speak very clearly, so you need to listen closely. Which we did. He mentioned something about being gator fans and something about the game and then put his precious hand up to his face and struck a pose, "GQ," he said. 

When we laughed, he did it again, this time insisting that Jed take a picture. So Jed took a picture, and then another, until Marcus was sure we had captured true "GQ material." Then he told us to come visit him once we got inside the stadium, telling us that if we visited him he'd take us up the elevator.

"It's better than the escalator!" he said, throwing his hands in the air. "Yeah, you visit me, and I'll take you up the elevator."

And then he walked away, only pausing a second before telling three other perfect strangers to wait up. The guys, who were in their early 20s, ignored him at first, but that didn't bother Marcus. In fact, the next time we saw him he was still talking to one of the guys in the group, although the others seemed to be ignoring him.

I had a couple of revelations that day. First, I realized that I have a tendency to be everything that Marcus isn't. And then I realized that God was trying to speak to me through my new friend.

Here is what Jesus told me through Marcus: 

"Be vulnerable," he said. "You are precious. You are beautiful. You are loved. So be vulnerable, dear daughter. Let down your walls and please just be vulnerable."

You see, when it comes to being vulnerable, I imagine that Marcus is somewhere near the top of the list. Even though he was being ignored, maybe even pushed off by people, he continued to love and share life with those who didn't really appreciate it. Marcus doesn't worry about seeming to care too much, about appearing too desperate, about loving too much. 

He doesn't worry about approaching a group of strangers, and he definitely does not attempt to do it in a manner that seems to be "less awkward." He isn't worried about the way people perceive him when he's pouring his love out to them.

He just does. 

Which is so different than me. Yeah, when I'm in Honduras or volunteering or at Bible study it can be so easy. But real life? I'm about as guarded as you can get. 

I want to text someone and ask to hang out, but I don't because the past couple of times they said they were busy. I don't want to look too desperate. I want to text one of my guy friends and encourage him, but I don't because I don't want to send the wrong signals. I don't want to be misunderstood. I meet a new person and really want to get to know him/her more, but I make them take the next step. I don't want to be too overwhelming.

I. I. I.

Since when is it all about me?

What if I would love like Jesus? Without boundaries. Without expectations of anything in return. Without pride. 

Ah. We're onto something. 

My pride is ugly. My pride is real. My pride has kept me from forming relationships and delving deeper into relationships and maintaining relationships. My pride has been a barrier between me and God.

My pride has been a barrier between you and me.

I don't tell you when you have hurt me, and I don't tell you when you have encouraged me. I don't communicate with you how deeply I care about you, and I don't ask you how you're really doing even though I want to.

I answer your deep questions with shallow quality. I don't trust you unless I feel you deserve to be trusted. I do love you, but I don't always tell you. 

And I'm really sorry for that. 

I'm just looking at Jesus' life and realizing he was one of the most humble, vulnerable persons to ever walk this earth. And by that I mean he was the most humble, vulnerable person to ever walk this earth.

 Oh. You're going to deny even knowing me three times? Start my church. You're killing people who love me because you hate me that much? I'm going to give you a new name and a fresh start. You're going to ignore me and then bash your sister for spending time with me? I'm going to speak words of life to you.

You're never ever ever going to give back a thousandth of the love that I have showered on you?

I'm going to give my life for you.

Vulnerable. Humble. Loving.

Jesus.

Make me more like you.

Agradecida

I am thankful. 

// for rules that were made to be broken.

// for partners in crime and spitting contests.

// for tiny creatures with incredible strength.

// for delicate wings and intricate detail.

// for a new perspective.

// for this walk.

// for homework.

I am thankful for the ability to learn new things, for the opportunity to try new things, and for the courage to follow through with them.

I am thankful for classes and last minute projects and new material and the chance to change, the chance to grow. I am thankful for the power to document, the power to communicate and the power to explain what you see with the adjustment of a lens and the click of a button.

I am thankful.

Te doy gracias, Señor.

In my last blog, I finished up by reassuring you all that I really am happy to be back in the USA, and then I told you that I'd share about that sometime, too.

So here is a little something I wrote once I got back from Spain on July 10. I spent five days at home until I left again on the morning of the 16th, and they were nothing but wonderful. That goes without saying, though, because I think you'll gather that from the following words:


I love Sarasota. I love Florida. I love America. I love home.

I just can't help but smile over how friendly everyone is here. I love that my friends and I spend our time playing beach volleyball and swimming. That our nights are taken up by hot tubs and truck rides and conversations that make my sides hurt from laughing so hard. I love that I really could care less what I look like, but I know that I'm sure as heck comfortable.

I love coming home to my family. I love eating. I just love it. I want sweet tea every day. I can't pass by a restaurant- be it taco bell or DaRuMa's- without craving whatever food it might hold inside. I eat too much because I can but then regret it later because my stomach isn't used to so much food. I beg my mom to make cookies every day and then eat chocolate chips in the meantime.

I love country music. I love being able to hop in my car and drive wherever I want to and whenever I want to. I love waking up at a decent hour and having a full day. I love going to bed around midnight. I love my piano and singing as loud as I want. I love my dog.

I love the way my friends say my name- I love the way it sounds like they've know me forever. I love the love in which I hear my family say my name. I love feeling loved and safe. 

I love, and I am loved. It's good to be home. 
 

I smile at the passionate words that were most likely the result of three weeks living as a gypsy. It turns out that traveling by yourself, wandering from hostel to hostel, not showering enough because there is none, and living out of a small bag can get to you after a while. Needless to say, I was so grateful to be home. I told someone the other day that I'm not sure if I've ever been more grateful in my life.

But here's my problem with that: Why don't I feel like that all the time?

I know. Only certain situations can really open your eyes to the blessings that you have, but I feel like it's so common for me to not appreciate a place until I'm forced to leave it.

Take, for example, Gainesville. Two weeks ago I moved back up here to start my last year of school, but it wasn't until a couple of days ago that I realized how ungrateful I was to be here. I couldn't figure out why I wasn't happier to be back, why I felt so lost and out of place this time around.

Ungratefulness. That's why.

My mom gave me a book to read before I left, and I decided to get back into reading it last week. The title, One Thousand Gifts, didn't catch my attention, but the caption did.

 "A dare to live fully right where you are."

Duuuuude. 

When's the last time I've woken up and felt 100 percent content to be where I am? Why do I instead wake up missing Honduras, Spain and Guatemala all at the same time? Why do the faces of my friends far away flash across my mind while I'm hanging out with my friends here?

I've come to the conclusion that a little bit of that is normal, but I do believe that a lot more is ungratefulness.

Ann Voskamp addresses the ugliness of ungratefulness in her book and talks about the barrier it puts between us and God. She also talks about the importance of giving thanks for the small things, whether that be moonlight on pillows or mail in the mailbox. In fact, she argues that simply saying we're grateful for everything but not naming those things leaves us, ironically, ungrateful.

"I discover that slapping a sloppy brush of thanksgiving over everything in my life leaves me deeply thankful for very few things in my life," she explains.

So I decided to latch on to that and start being grateful. In other words, I've started to grab pieces of paper and write things like this: 

Jesus, I am thankful.

I am thankful for Christmas lights, even when they don’t all work.

I am thankful for a globe filled with countries I’ve never even seen.

I’m thankful for the mystery of life.

I’m thankful that my growling stomach can be fed right here and now.

I’m thankful for friends in other countries, even when I miss them so much it hurts.

I’m thankful for opportunities so wonderful they can’t even be grasped until they’re gone.

I’m thankful for clean windows and sunny days.

I’m thankful for the sound of wind chimes flirting with the wind.

I’m thankful for red wine and the beautiful people who make it.

I’m thankful for music- the way it brings me closer to you than I ever thought possible.

I’m thankful for McDonald’s sweet tea and all of life’s other eloquent things.

I’m thankful for silent celebrations.

I’m thankful for people who love me when I’m at my worst.

I'm thankful, Jesus. I'm thankful. 

And in scribbling my humble thanks on scrap pieces of paper, I begin to heal. I feel as though I'm remembering again the beauty of my world, of my Savior. And then I realize that thankfulness brings me closer to who I am, brings me closer to those around me.

I begin to feel whole.

***

So I want to apologize for not being thankful. I want to say I'm sorry for not living fully in the moment. And I want to stop such nonsense because life is beautiful, and I don't want to miss another moment seeped in thanksgiving.

Most importantly, I want to give thanks to my father for loving me, for taking care of his ungrateful daughter even though it's the last thing she deserved.

Can you imagine giving your daughter all good gifts, for lavishing your love and even giving your life for her, but not getting anything back in return but an ungrateful spirit?

Heck, I'm thankful God doesn't just zap me.

I'm almost frightened to write this because I know how hypocritical it is. I'll fall asleep tonight with every intention to just be overwhelmed with a grateful heart, and then I'll somehow wake up forgetting all that I'm blessed with. And by the time tomorrow night has rolled around, my ungrateful self will have missed out on a thousand gifts my dear Jesus had sent me that day. And I will sigh, sure that I'll never get it right.

But if practice makes perfect, then I want to practice. And if it takes me 22 more years to get there, then I want to spend every day of those 22 years thanking more, loving more.

And that starts today. That starts now.

I'm thankful for clean sheets and moonlit nights. 
I'm thankful for quick smiles and my beating heart. 
I'm thankful for this moment, even now. 

I'm thankful, Jesus. I'm thankful. 

Hasta Luego

Walter found the words I couldn't say.

Some people call them "travel days." It's a churchy mission-trip word and a good one at that, but I hate them nonetheless. Other people refer to them as the "last day," capturing more intimately the goodbyes that come with them. And I still hate them. Still others simply say "I go home on the __" and follow it up with a date. I hate those dates.

I hate them because I hate goodbyes. I hate goodbyes because I suck at them.

My date was July 9th. And July 16th. July 20th. July 30th.

Goodbye to Spain. Goodbye to Sarasota. Goodbye to Guatemala. Goodbye to Honduras.

If you're wondering about the multiple goodbyes and seemingly crazy schedule, this blog should explain my recent travels. If you're wondering how I feel about said transitions, this blog should help give you an idea. 

But what isn't said is how I feel about the people I leave behind. What isn't said is how much I really do hate leaving, how I hate having to say goodbye. What isn't mentioned is how I really suck at it.

What I didn't admit is the only place I really properly give a goodbye is here, where words come easy but are never to be spoken out loud.

***

July 30th. My most recent goodbye.

Goodbye to Honduras, a little country full of people who have stolen my heart and filled it up so much more than I ever knew possible. A country full of soccer, the sound of laughter and beautiful kids with bright curious eyes.

Brothers Bryan (22) & Aldo (20), myself, siblings Yonis (21) & Oneyda (17)

I was so blessed to be able to spend as much time as I did with my friends the 10 days I was there. I was even lucky enough to have them travel with me to the airport on travel day. My last day.

We used the little lempiras I had left to buy our group of five baleadas. One each person. We laughed about how little they filled us up. We walked around, exploring the airport that marked the end of my trip and another flight back to the USA.

And then one by one, I said my goodbyes. Goodbye to Yonis, to Cesar, to Oneyda, to Bryan, to Aldo. And then I said goodbye to my younger buddy Walter, a 16-year-old punk that, over the past couple of years, has won me over with his hard exterior and soft heart.

He had paid the bus fee to come say goodbye to me, an amount that was, in American reality, so little but in his reality, so much. He sat with me, talked with me, joking around like we always do.

But when it came time for him to say goodbye, he didn't say anything. He just gave me a kiss on the cheek and silently hugged me. And then my favorite tough troublemaker started to cry. I felt his strong frame start to shake with the sobs that were taking over his body, and I panicked. No, Walter, I thought, I don't cry in public. Stop it stop it stop it.

After a moment I pulled him away from me, wiping the tears that were rolling down his face. I told him that I knew he was getting mixed up in things he shouldn't, and I told him he needed to behave this next year while I was away. I told him to start going to church again, that there was nothing to be afraid of. I told him everything I thought I could say without crying rather than what I really needed to tell him.

I needed to tell him how proud I was of him and how much he had touched my life, but I didn't. I didn't tell him how much I loved him or how much I would cry once I got on the plane. I never told him that I would do anything to stay in Molaloa with him to make sure he'd grow up to become the godly young man I knew he had the potential to be.

I put my walls up, and I kept them there, even after he started crying harder, drawing me into another hug full of unfiltered Honduran emotion. Only then was I able to whisper that I loved him so much.

So I left him, my little Honduran teenager who I had worried over so much the past year. I left him crying alone, and got in line to get on the plane.

And it was then that I realized Walter hadn't said anything the whole time he said goodbye other than a simple I love you. Yet Walter had found the way to tell me that I meant so much to him, that life changed so much when there weren't Americans helping his village every day, that he was dreading the monotony that followed our departure, that he cherished our friendship, and that I would be missed.

And I think out of everything that bothers me the most, it's my goodbye with Walter. Because I can only pray that he knows I feel the same.

***

I can't wrap up my summer because I don't know how. This is my third attempt at writing a blog, and it still doesn't feel like I can completely explain myself.

I don't know how to explain the way I suddenly feel alone at times. I can be surrounded by people- heck, friends for that matter- and just feel really lonely out of the blue. And I wonder if that's because someone's always missing.

Some of my Sevillan teammates and our fitness trainer.

My Sevillan basketball team was missing this past weekend. I kept thinking about how much they love to dance to Ai Se Eu Te Pego, and about how much more fun it is to dance it with them.

My sponsor child was missing on the car drive home the other day. I thought about how much he loved being in the car, and about how excited he would have been to use a sun roof and listen to music.

My Honduran friends are missing everywhere I go, but they were especially absent the other night when I walked the beach with my parents. I couldn't stop wondering what kind of ruckus they would be causing during such a peaceful sunset, and I couldn't help but laugh when I imagined what kind of game they would create with sand, water and a soccer ball within such close perimeters.

The truth is, someone's always missing.

I am so fortunate, though, that for every person missing is someone else willing to take their place. And it's not like they can do that, but they try all the same. And what I end up with is a lovely group of extremely unique and special friends who are all over the world.

And with that comes a lot of lessons, laughter and goodbyes. I just need some work on the last one.

One of the things I love about Spain is that the Spanish people never say "adios." Instead of saying the word "bye", they almost always say, "hasta luego," or "see you later." Which I love.

So in keeping with custom...

Sevilla, España.

See you later, Sevilla:

Thanks for pounding Spanish into my brain and giving me six months of fun with people from all over Europe. Thanks for my basketball team and trainers. Thanks for teaching me that I can make it on my own.

Thank you for making me strong.

Yep. Jostin wears sweater vests.

See you later, Guatemala:

Thanks for producing the most beautiful little boy in the world. Thanks for days at the zoo and afternoons with ornery little 6-year-olds. Thanks for giving me time with my babies even when it's hard and even when it's limited.

Thank you for messing with my heart.

No judging my face. I was sick.

See you later, Honduras:

Thanks for allowing me to grow in relationships with what have to be the most beautiful people in the world. Thanks for your love for life. Thanks for your laughter and humor even in the midst of trouble.

Thank you for changing me forever.


I love you all.

***

Perhaps the only thing I like about goodbyes is that they're always followed by a hello.

So hello (again), America. Shall we be friends?

I hope to get into blogging again now that I've gotten this horribly hard one out of the way. I really want to share with you all how happy I am to say hello to the states because I feel like that's something I really don't express enough; in fact, you might even be thinking I don't like the good ol' USA.

But that's not true! If you must know, one of the blogs that I had started to write was focused on my joy to be back.

Imagine that!

So see you later for now, but there are lots of hellos coming your way.

Transición

It's transition time!

The last we chatted, I was running through Sevilla's water sprinklers and preparing myself for the most epic family vacation the Hostetler's would ever experience. Now here I am visiting a friend in Valencia, wishing I would have filmed our whole family trip.

Between a pretty intense night of flamenco in Sevilla, encouraging street vendors in Barcelona to run from the police, climbing mountains in Switzerland with a combined 7 torn ACL's, and trying to find our house at midnight in Basque country, you could say our family has bonded a bit.

It wasn't easy for me at first. Actually, at first it was kind of hard. I went from being completely on my own to being completely surrounded by people all the time. Do you know how big a family of six can be? I never had a moment to myself. I'd wake up surrounded by people and go to bed surrounded by people. Loud people speaking English.

Sigh. My life is composed of transitions.

If you know my family at all, you've probably already guessed that by the time I was done with the two weeks, I really did not want to leave everything that I just mentioned. It was just a transition period that six months away made a bit difficult.

Which makes me wonder how my transition back to the states is going to go.

Yesterday was yet another July 4th away from America. This year, rather than grilling outside with family and friends, I sat down for dinner with a Valencian family. I didn't get to throw a football, but I did watch a pick-up soccer game. In place of fireworks was a charming overly-dramatic chick flick with free commentary from a Spaniard mom and sighs from her 17-year-old daughter saying, "Ay pero qué romántico."

And I loved every minute of it.

Here's the thing: I am an American, but I am so much more than that. Yes, I miss my dog like crazy and I crave sweet tea so much I can't stand it. I can't wait to drive a car down a long road and crank up the country music. I'm really excited to go barefoot. And to not look nice. And don't even get me started on how many cookies and cakes and brownies I'm going to eat. And my mom's homemade meals? We already have my first meal back planned.

But I'm also, more importantly, just a human being. And to me, that means that I'm also a little Española. I'm a little Hondureña. A little Chapina. I'm a little of everything because I'm part of the world and so are they.

Whoops. This sounds familiar, doesn't it?

All that said, it doesn't mean transitions are a cinch. Which is why I'm both so excited to go back home and so dreading it. Yes, I'm so excited to stuff my face with dessert, but I wonder how long it will be until I miss tapas. I'm really looking forward to driving again, but I know it won't be long until I miss taking the metro. And the whole dressing casual thing? I can't help but wonder if there will come a day where I do actually want to dress nice.

These are the blessings and curses of traveling. These are the blessings and curses of transitions.

But the blessings are much much bigger, which is why I love it so much. Which is why spending another 4th of July abroad isn't really that big of a deal. Which is why I can go home for five days before running off to Central America for a couple of weeks, came back home for a few more, and then head off to the University again.

So here's to transitions and the people that put up with me while I'm in the middle of them. And here's to Americans everywhere who will probably have a hard time loving me when I can't stop talking about fútbol, croquetas, narrow streets and every other thing that has nothing to do with America.

Just know you're still my first love. It's just a transition time and things get crazy.

Happy (belated) 4th of July everyone! See you Sarasota people Tuesday night.

Parque (Acuático) de María Luisa

Ladies and gentlemen: Summer is here!

Yes, you heard right. I, Jenna Hostetler, am officially on summer break. I spent most of yesterday reading and researching for my last paper, and today I turned it in.

I'm pretty proud of myself.

I think the key to studying is to trick yourself into enjoying it. I, for example, study in Parque de María Luisa, and surround myself with things I love- things like nature. It's kind of hard to not enjoy yourself when you're sitting on green grass surrounded by flowers, trees and birds.

I tried to look like I wasn't enjoying myself in the first picture on the left, but the bottom left is a more honest representation of that afternoon.

Left: Before the sprinklers. Right: Mid-packing.

You're probably wondering what the right side is all about. Oh yes, you guessed it. That is the look of someone in pain.

After turning in my paper today, I decided it was time to start packing. Our move-out date was moved up to Sunday, so now I need to pack everything I have and move it to a friend's apartment, where I'll be staying until my family arrives here in Spain.

Packing is still something I haven't been able to trick myself into enjoying. I'm notoriously bad at it, forgetting things as simple as my underwear and toothbrush, and I always find a way to put it off until the last minute (I packed for Spain the night before). It goes without saying that I'm not organized, either.

It doesn't help that it's a chore I have to do inside. The sun always makes me a much a happier person, so I love it when I can do things I don't like outside. All that said, I must admit being forced inside is a good way to keep me and my clothes safe from hidden sprinklers...

So back to yesterday. I was sitting in the grass writing on my computer when said water sprinklers attacked. The first literally jumped up out of the ground, pointed its head in my direction, and blasted water all over my face and computer. I jumped up, protectively cradling my computer, and started to run for dry land. I set my computer down once I found I dry spot then ran back because my backpack and all of my notes were soaked by that point.

But mid sprint I heard more sprinklers begin and turned just in time to watch them once again attack my poor computer, so I instinctively stopped in my tracks and ran back. My laptop was pretty wet by the time I got there, so I ran it all the way to the sidewalk before returning to save the rest of my notes and backpack.

I don't know how else to describe the scene other than to tell you it was something you'd see in an exaggerated family comedy. Like those movies my mom loves where sprinklers pop up and manage to spray the same person in the face five times before they finally gather their senses and get away. And I was the loser protagonist.

From what I know, there was only one lucky viewer, and he never tried to help me. He had been napping when the sprinklers turned on, and I think such a rude awakening (pretty sure he took a water sprinkler to the face as well) was just a little too much for him to handle. He kind of just got to his feet, watched me running back and forth, and then stumbled away, dumbfounded.

When I finally got everything together, I sat my drowned-rat self down on a patch of dry grass, laid out my papers, and begin to do my homework.

That would make for a lovely ending, but low and behold, those sprinklers popped on up again. And then I repeated my loser protagonist role, saving my computer and taking hits to gather up my papers and backpack.

Which brings me back to today, unsuccessfully trying to pack. And I think I understand why: In my mind, studying in the park is equal to playing in the water sprinklers. Packing, on the other hand, is equal to organizing socks.

I think tomorrow I'll throw in a few water sprinklers to get the adrenaline flowing.

Happy summer to me!