Ninja Cleaning Ladies, Ants, and Pre-Toasted Bread: Things I Miss That I Did Not Know I Would Miss.

I have been home from Honduras for a week now, and the expected amounts of nostalgia and longing for the city I spent my time in and the people I worked with has set it, but with that, something completely unexpected has come with it! I am finding myself missing things that I NEVER IN MY LIFE thought I would miss! And, in an effort to stop blogging about poop, I have decided to share these things with you. So, without further ado, I present to you all,

 

Things I Miss That I Did Not Know I Would Miss: An Annotated List by Isaac J. Anthony.

 

1. Ninja Cleaning Ladies

 

 

I spent my time in Honduras working at a school, and the cleaning ladies that worked at the school were no ordinary cleaning ladies. They were NINJAS, I tell you! I would leave an item sitting for, I make no exaggeration, less than the 60 seconds it takes to make a minute to go do something, and upon my return, the item would be nowhere to be found. I would go searching for it and find it five minutes later on a shelf in a room somewhere on the grounds. Now while I was in Honduras this was somewhat of a frustration, but now that I have come home, I miss the adventure of it! Now, when I walk out of a room and return a few minutes later, all my items are exactly where I left them. So boring! There was something so adventurous about never knowing where my belongings would end up, like an eternal scavenger hunt! Sometimes I get so frustrated with my lifeless possessions that I reprimand them, exclaiming “Don’t you want to be free?! Don’t you want to live your life?!” But they just sit there, motionless, boring.

 

2. Ants

 

Oh Lord. If I have not yet told you, which I’m sure I have, there is no question in my mind who runs the country of Honduras, despite what one might hear in the media about power struggles our coups: it’s the ants. The ants are EVERYWHERE, and they do WHATEVER they want, because there is nothing we can do to stop them and they know it! By sheer number they overwhelm us, strategically taking what they desire without suffering a single repercussion for their actions. If the ants want the ziplocked, Tupperware-protected sugar supply today, they will simply overcome all the protections we have put in place and take their spoils. We are powerless against their schemes. And every night, as I went to sleep, I would see the ever-present, steady stream of ants marching along the wall above my bed, my living headboard. Now, at home again, I oddly miss these little thieves in the night. The walls are so still and I feel so lazy not having to do anything to protect my food. Life without ants can be a little lonely, sometimes.

 

3. Danielito

 

 

This is Danielito.

 

Danielito is the son of one of the aforementioned ninja cleaning ladies, and he and I had a rough start. He is cute, yes? Well he’s a VILLAIN.

 

 

Perhaps Danielito and I were enemies in a former life or something, I don’t know, but I tell you today that he wreaked havoc on myself and my fellow interns through my six weeks in the country. He was sort of like an ant, a little, evil, ant, who likewise took what he pleased and got what he wanted. But sitting here today, looking at his little picture, I miss that little rascal. Evil? Yes. But cute? Oh so cute.

 

 

Come back to me, Danielito. We’ll be friends forever.

 

4. Pre-Toasted Bread

 

 

Why don’t we have this? So convenient! So tasty!

 

5. Being the Only Person with White Skin

 

Honduras, as I am sure that you are already aware, is a Central American country, and the majority of its inhabitants have beautifully tanned skin. I, as you have probably noticed, don’t. Because of this severe contrast between the color of my skin and the color of the skin of most of the people around me, I definitely “stood out” among the crown.

 

 

But being home among a much more diverse population of people of all skin tones, I miss my snow-like singularity. As I would walk onto the public bus and every head on board would cock in my direction in perfect unison, watching my every move as I made my way to my seat, I felt like “Who’s That Guy” from Grease 2 was playing and I was that mysterious stranger who everybody wanted to know. This would only last, of course, until I tripped in the aisle and sang an operatic aria on my way down, thus shattering the illusion.

 

 

But still, I can’t help but feel like every person with white skin that I see now is stealing my thunder.

 

I CAN’T HELP IT, I SAY.

 

Toasting Bread Without Any Ant Friends to Keep Me Company,

 

Isaac.

MONTEZUMA’S REVENGE!!! and other worries of a traveler returned home.

Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin, known also a Montezuma II, was the ruler of the Mexican city of Tenochtitlan in the early 1500s. During his rule, his people encountered European conquistadors for the first time. When he lost his Kingdom to these conquistadors, it changed the course of Mexican history forever.

 

 

 

In modern times, it is believed by some that Montezuma is still enacting his counterattack on those outside his country that ruined his empire. It is said that he does this by inflicting those who enter his country with what doctor’s call “Traveler’s Diarrhea,” an illness that results from having traveled to another country and encountering pathogens that, if one had grown up exposed to them, wouldn’t have an effect, but to someone who is being exposed to them for the first time, can affect one with terrible indigestion and all the words that can be found in the Pepto Bismol theme song. This malicious enactment is called “Montezuma’s Revenge” by believers in the myth, as the former leader is “getting his own” from beyond the grave at every “gringo” that enters his homeland.

 

Well, I am here today to tell you that this myth is absolutely and totally true, and that Montezuma in his rage has expanded his territory to the other countries of Central America, including the lovely land of Honduras.

 

AND IT IS A WRETCHED REVENGE, INDEED.

 

 

I do not wish to explain how I know or can verify that this myth is true, so I kindly request that you not ask.

 

I SAID DON’T ASK.

 

Now if you’ll please excuse me for a moment, I have a Reader’s Digest to finish.

 

If I’m not back in ten minutes please go on with your lives without me,

 

Isaac.

Home.

“Joven! Joven!” called Mrs. Paiz to the nearby cook, having clearly emerged as the mover and shaker of the evening. She had to raise her voice above the laughter and busy chatter that surrounded the table. “Joven! Una mas baleada de pollo, por favor!” she instructed the worker, the cook nodding and returning to her work behind the counter. The order successfully altered, Mrs. Paiz returned her attention to the story Angel was telling about the situations his cousin always seems to find himself in, his wife Santa adding with great excitement the important details that Angel was leaving out. Carlos chimed in with his tales of life in El Salvador before having relocated to Honduras recently, while his wife Reina, always the picture of grace, sat contentedly next to him, making sure that their daughter Kelli and the Paiz’s youngest daughter were enjoying themselves during all this mayhem, as well. I sat next to Mrs. Paiz at the makeshift head of the three nonsimilar tables we had pushed together in order to all fit, agreeing emphatically as she reminded Tiffany and I that the next time we are in town we must stay at their house, laughing at the stories, offering my own anecdotes when appropriate, and stopping at least once every five minutes, almost out of breath at how full my heart felt in that moment.

 

 

It was one of my last nights in San Juan before leaving for Florida, and a group of us had decided that we would go together to Doña Blanca’s restaurant so that Tiffany and I could get our last baleadas before departing. We arrived in typical fashion, laughing, slightly disorganized, not sure who ended up in which car before leaving and hoping that everyone got there. We pulled our tables together and placed our orders, each person needing to be brought to attention to make their request after having lost themselves in conversation only moments before. We would laugh, eat, and tell stories for the remainder of the evening.

 

 

During this meal, I couldn’t help but reflect on my time here in San Juan with all the people I sat there eating with. I have spent the last six weeks of my life living with these people, becoming involved in their daily lives, getting to know them, their stories, their dreams, their likes and dislikes, and I have fallen in love with each and every one of them. And as I sat there among the people who have been like family to me during this trip, reminiscing with them and planning for the future with them, I thought to myself,

 

“This is home.”

 

This city in which I have fallen off of trees, tutored children in English, learned more Spanish, and become an integral part of a network of families, has become home for me. And I thought, what is home, then, if a city of which I had little previous knowledge before this year can become such an intimate part of my personality and story so quickly? What is home, if people whom I did not know two months ago can be as close to me as family? What is home if my heart already aches for this country even though I have not yet returned to the States? What is home?

 

“Home,” I thought as I listened to Joel regale us with the details of the soccer game we had all attended that weekend, “home is where love is.”

 

If there is something more that is necessary to make four walls, a city, or a relationship, into a place of residence, safety, acceptance, and growth, that something must be love. And in this world, whether it be in the house one grew up in, a group of friends which have become like family, a relationship of complete loyalty, or a group of families in a small town in a small country in Central America, where we find love, we find a home.

 

 

This week I return to my home in the States, and I am elated to see my family, my friends, and my Florida again, but I know that I also have a home in San Juan Pueblo, and whether I return next month, next year, or never, that home will always be there, around that table of friends, laughing, listening, and breathing deeply the air that night, which was filled with the smell of warm baleadas and love.

 

 

Home,

 

Isaac.

WHOSE POOP IS THIS?!?! And other questions that arise from communal living.

The quirks of communal living are neither few nor far between, and here in our little house in the Honduran countryside, we are no exception to this truth. One of our more notable happenstances has arisen from the state of our house’s plumbing.

 

You see, in Honduras, it is neither couth nor wise to flush toilet paper down the toilet. The recommended course of action, which I HIGHLY recommend, is to place your used paper in the trash can beside the toilet. The reason for this is that, be it for reason of water pressure, pipe size, or laziness, Honduran toilets cannot handle toilet paper, and will clog, overflow, or fall into severe depression if toilet paper is forced on them. We all understand this rule in our house, and agree to follow it.

 

HOWEVER, over the past few weeks, as I have entered the powder room by morn to prepare myself for the day’s events, there has been, consistently, fecal matter accompanied by a sizeable amount of toilet tissue waiting for me in the toilet.

 

That’s POOP AND TOILET PAPER, PEOPLE.

 

We have questioned the entire house on who might have been the culprit that so carelessly used and abused our restroom in the night, leaving the evidence to mock each of us in the morning time, but no one has confessed to committing the dastardly deed. “It wasn’t me,” they say. “I would never do that,” they say. I stand here before you all today to entreat the question,

 

“WHO IS THE PHANTOM POOPER?”

 

Who could possibly be this midnight defecator? Who would do such a thing so consistently and so consistently deny having done it? Let us examine the suspects:

 

The first suspect is Ms. Danielle Banzon. A lover of Pepsi, raisin bread, and Hannah Montana, Ms. Banzon enjoys photography and YouTube makeup tutorials. She once threatened to take a small child back with her to the United States because he was so cute.

 

Could Danielle be the Phantom Pooper?

 

The second suspect is Ms. Sully Marbella Velasquez Reyes. Sully loves her home country of Honduras, her fiancé Patrik, and having her wenis pulled. She once made cupcakes but cut them in half before serving them.

 

Could Sully be the culprit?

 

The third suspect is one Isaac J. Anthony. Almost unbearably handsome, Mr. Anthony is known for his charm both in the States and abroad. When the writer of this blog was asked about the character and gastrointestinal habits of the suspect in question, he assured everyone that was at all curious that Mr. Anthony is the model of poise and class, and would NEVER do the deed in question. We the jury feel that it is safe at this time to say that Isaac is not the culprit. For the sake of a fair trial, however, we shall include him among the suspects.

 

Could Isaac be the midnight defecator?

 

He isn’t.

 

But he could be….

 

But I’ll just tell you right now that he isn’t.

 

The fourth suspect is Ms. Tiffany Sanchez, no middle name (suspicious, yes?). Ms. Sanchez loves Broadway, powdered drink mixes, and singing harmony like it’s melody. She once dropped a French fry on the floor.

 

Could Tiffany be the Phantom Pooper?

 

The fifth suspect in the case is Chiqui, loyal friend and hardworking school handyman. He has been inside the house once, and not at nighttime.

 

COULD CHIQUI BE THE CRIMINAL IN QUESTION???

 

The sixth and final suspect in the case of the drive-by defecation is Mr. Joey Rihn. Mr. Rihn enjoys farting in public, getting second helpings, and world peace. Joey once ate bull testicle.

 

Could Joey be the person we’ve all been looking for?

 

If anyone reading this blog has any leads or inside information that could help this case, please do your duty as an upstanding citizen and tweet me. Thank you in advance.

 

And now, speaking of clandestine crime, I have something of my own to confess. We have been together on this journey for several weeks now, you and I, and I feel that I can trust you all with this information, for I am fairly certain that my roommate, though he asks about the blog and has sat patiently while I read it aloud to him before publishing it, has yet to find the actual site in cyberspace. Ok, here it goes:

 

A few days ago, I ACCIDENTALLY USED MY ROOMATE’S LOOFA.

 

…

 

And it had been a long workday.

 

As soon as I realized, I immediately returned it to its proper home, but by then it was too late, and the loofa was already alive with my essence. It all happened so quickly, I can’t recall any details of the moment, except that I finished my grooming in silence and spoke not a word to him about the happening.

 

And neither will you.

 

That is all for now.

 

Silently,

 

Isaac.

Say This, and FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD Don’t Say That!

I have been an active student of the Spanish language for seven and a half years now, and it is one of the most fulfilling and exciting parts of my life. Spanish is my minor at college, and speaking it, singing it, reading it, and writing it are some of my favorite pastimes.

 

Plus I really love rolling my R’s.

 

As anyone who has sought to become bilingual can tell you, the life of the student of language is one of habitual learning. There will always be another synonym, colloquialism, or outdated phrase of which one was not previously aware. In particular when in reference to the Spanish language, the meanings of many words change from country to country among Central and South America, which means that while you may think you are simply offering a kind salutation to someone on the street, in their community, you have just insulted their dearly departed mother. One must simply continue to add to one’s already existing knowledge base and learn from one’s mistakes along the way.

 

I have made many mistakes along the way, and have also learned from the lingual mistakes of others, and desire at this time to share some with you, so that you might not make the same mistakes as I have in the future.

 

When desiring to inform a group of people that you have heartburn, make sure and announce loudly that you have “reflujo” (pronounced ray-floo-hoe), meaning heartburn, and not “reflojo” (pronounced ray-flow-hoe), which means diarrhea.
They will believe you in either case.

 

 

I promise.

 

If you would like to tell someone that you are excited to see them tomorrow, please, for the love of all that is good in this world, tell them that you are “emocionado,” meaning excited, to see them, and not “excitado,” meaning sexually turned on, to see them.

 

‘

 

This is what we call a “false cognate,” which is a word in another language that sounds like a word in English, but does not have the same meaning.

 

These will kill you.

 

Early on in my career as a Spanish speaker, I was informed of the power of the “ñ” in the language. For example, while you might wish to tell your friend happy birthday by saying “¡Feliz Cumpleaños!”, removing the ñ and its sound by saying simply “¡Feliz Cumpleanos!” with a plain n sound, will result in having wished your precious friend a “Happy Fulfilled Anus.”

 

 

I hope it was worth it.

 

If, after having made one of the above mistakes, you desire to inform those to whom you have made a fool out of yourself that you are embarrassed, you want to say that you have “pena,” meaning that you are embarrassed, NOT that you are “embarazada,” which means that you are pregnant.

 

 

That, my friends, is how rumors get started.

 

If you wish, as I did, to talk to the young maintenance man that works at the school who everyone calls “Chiqui,” an abbreviation for “Chiquito,” meaning small, then by all means call him by his nickname. However, do not accidentally call him “Chichi,” which is local slang for breasts.

 

 

Chiqui will not be as eager to spend time with you as he previously was when you make this mistake.

 

When wishing to ask a friend if they are planning on sharing their cupcake with you, Ask simply, “Vas a compartir el quequito conmigo?” Do not, I implore you, DO NOT, mix up your words and ask them “Vas a partir el quequito conmigo?”, which, in local slang, would mean “Are you going to lose your virginity with me?”

 

 

I tell you these things because I love you.

 

If you’re planning on picking up another language, I encourage you to do it! You will find it most fulfilling, I promise. I only ask that you commit that which I have told you here to memory so that you might live a long life of happiness and little embarrassment.

 

 

In English,

 

Isaac.

The Night of Which We Shall Not Speak.

Among the many adventurous aspects of life in Honduras is the deciduous nature of the electricity and running water. When we want to save water or energy in the United States, we make public service announcements and calendars with power-saving tips on every month and mascot dogs with capes and backwards baseball caps who spread knowledge of the depleting water reservoir to children between episodes of Phineas and Ferb. In Honduras, however, the government takes a much more proactive approach to saving energy. If it seems to the government that turning off the electricity of an entire city for an afternoon might save energy, that city’s power will simply be turned off for that afternoon, to return at a unannounced time.

Adventurous, yes?

WELL, tonight when we got home, the power was off in our house. No big deal, we thought to ourselves, it will probably come back on sometime in the middle of the night like it did the other day. Let’s all just take a cold shower to cool off and go to bed.

FALSE.

We soon discovered that the water was off, as well. We had no electricity to power our fans or keep the things in our refrigerator cool and no water to cool off with. Because our front door lock is broken and we can only open it from the outside, we went to the side door of the house to let some air in to cool the place off.

FALSE.

The lock on the side door was stuck and we could not get it to open, so we were, in essence, locked in. I brought a flashlight with me on my trip, but at this point, only the good Lord knows where that little thing could possibly be, so we were left with the lights of our dying computers and two waning taper candles. So there we sat, in the dark, no air, no fans, shuttered windows that only partially open, no water, locked in at every door.

Don’t be fooled by my gleaming Hollywood smile. It was nightmarish.

In situations like these, there is only one option for a person like myself.

FREAK THE HECK OUT.

My cabin fever set in with more speed than most cases. I began dashing from room to room like a mouse in a maze with no exit. My instinct was to dance it out, but that only increased my restlessness, knowing that the four walls within which I was trapped would never be truly ready for this jelly.

Not sure of which of us would make it to the other side of this night and, if we did, in what condition we would arrive, we made a short film of the night’s happenings so that if we did not, at least our story could live on and perhaps someday be a novel that the dog Wishbone will bring to the masses via a dramatic retelling on PBS (Is that still a thing?). Looking back upon the contents of the film, I can offer very little in the form of an explanation for my actions, various accents, costume changes, and, at some points, choreography. I just hope that you might find a drop of empathy in your hearts as you behold our helpless state.

And there you have it, ladies and lords of the interwebs.

At some point in the night, our own madness drove us to a point of exhaustion that was stronger than our pain and we were able to fall asleep, however tormented by our surroundings we were. When the morning came and the sun shone in on our prison of the night before, we looked into each other’s faces, knowing that we would never be the same. We went to school that day full of silent thankfulness that the sun had come, the night had passed, and the gas station on the way to school had cold water for sale. Every night as we go to bed, we send up prayers that the Night of Which We Shall Not Speak might never revisit our little house in the countryside, and that the gas station on the way to school might never shut down.

Never.

Alive,

Isaac.

I FELL OFF A TREE!

I FELL OFF A TREE!

That’s not the only thing I did today, but I would consider it the climax of the day’s events. I will recount the tale to you as best I can in my current condition:

We took the day off and spent it on a dairy farm that a family we know owns. The journey to get there was its own adventure:

First we all piled into a truck. And when I say “all,” I mean ALL. At one point, there were 25 people riding in this 6 person truck. If we weren’t all grimacing from discomfort, you would have thought we were a clown car.

We drove for a while on dirt roads and paved roads alike, our hair dancing in the wind, our lungs full of life as we breathed the fresh country air.

And then my hat flew off in that same freakin’ wind that was making everyone’s hair dance. Thankfully, we were able to go back and find it. It’s a very special hat.

At the end of our car ride, we had to carry the things we brought with us, including chairs, coolers, charcoal, drinks, and meat, across a bridge made of four logs piled on top of each other. You should know at this time that I sometimes fall off the ground. I don’t mean that I fall onto the ground from higher surfaces, I mean I can be standing on the ground and somehow fall off of the ground, onto the ground.

I also decided to cross at the same time as Sully, who may be the only person in mainland Honduras that is as dramatic as I am when it comes to situations such as these.

I filmed our crossing, for posterity and scientific research purposes.

We made it! After this feat of skill and balance, we had to cross ANOTHER river still to get to the dairy farm. Many people went by boat.

I, however, made the trip on horseback, because THAT’S HOW I ROLL.

We made it to the farm and had a yummy barbecue! Then, for unknown reasons, someone let me shoot a gun!!! What now, suckas?!?!

Also, this happened.

It was at this point in the trip that someone asked me if I would be going fishing with the men when we got back. I have a firm belief that when traveling, one should try everything that is offered at least once, so I naturally responded in the affirmative, thinking that an afternoon sitting by a river with a fishing pole in my hand might be nice and relaxing. FALSE.

The way people fish around here is an intriguing process. A net is set up across a part of the river, almost dam-like in position, except that it’s a net and won’t be stopping any water. Then, all the people who are “fishing” get into the river somewhere upstream, and march side-by-side toward the net, scaring the fish in that direction so they will get caught in the net. Then they close  the net and enjoy their spoils.

We were getting ready to begin our march through the river, so I climbed a tree that had a branch going down toward the water in order to lower myself in.

Look at us in that tree. We were so happy then.

Look at that face. So optimistic. So naïve.

As I was scooting my way down the branch toward the water, it happened. It was as though everything ceased to exist but that branch and me, and we were suspended in time, floating. And then the branch, in typical branch fashion, turned on me, throwing me from its embraces like a spurned lover. Down I fell, down, down, into a pit of mud below.

Mud, I said.

Icky, sticky, mud.

Not the most pleasant of my Honduran experiences, to say the least.

The focus is wrong on this picture, but some of my wounds are pictured here for your amusement. And for the future of human science, let’s not forget.

Well anyhow, what can one do in a situation like this besides scare fish into a net by marching down a river?

Nothing, I tell you. There is nothing else to do.

We marched down the river, closed the net, and examined our spoils.

A fish!

A smaller fish!

A single shrimp!

The Honduran fishing market has seen better days, to say the least.

It was a lovely day, overall, full of adventure, new experiences, and feats of skill.

Plus, I like this tree.

Still Wondering Why I Didn’t Encounter Any Dairy on My Trip to the Dairy Farm,

Isaac.

Making Murals, Combatting Dog-Vandalism, WINNING.

I made a mural! This week, in preparation for the first of many Saturday children’s camps that will be taking place at MCA over the summer, I had the opportunity to design, sketch, and paint a mural on the stage to go along with our theme, which is “Nuestro Pequeño Gran Mundo,” or “Our Little Big World.” If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years as a creative person doing commissioned projects, it’s come with options. I had three:

Cute, yes? I hadn’t researched flags of the world yet, so I had to make some of them up for my sketches. The United States of Isaac, for example. A country of love, lemon heads, and dancing in the streets. Katy Perry sings our national anthem, if you were at all curious.

Provocative. This was the most existential of my sketches. It required some thought to truly understand it.

I had to use a model for this one, like Michelangelo. That’s how I roll.

We decided to use the first option. I sketched it out, erased it and re-sketched it, cried because I hated it, erased it and re-sketched it, and cried because I loved it.

Then the dog knocked over my water bowl.

Didn’t even bother to clean up his mess, either.

 

Next I painted and oversaw a hard-working team of painters as we added color to my mural-baby. This process was arduous, to say the least.

However, at long last, we finiiiiiiished!!!!! Isn’t she a beaut? I’m just in love!

I shall now explore the reasoning behind each of my flag choices:

1. Italy – Because I’m one quarter Italian, people! My ancestors hail from Calabria, where we lived in all of our Italian glory. It is for this reason that among my toiletries and necessities that were packed for this trip Parmesan Cheese and Italian Seasoning can be found. I may only be a quarter Italian, but I shall parade that quarter for all to see until God and Pavarotti come to take me home!

2. Israel – Because as often as is humanly possible without seeming pompous I try to tell people that I peregrinated to the Holy Land and experienced in full all of its wonders. Next year in Jerusalem!

3. Brazil – Because I like to sing “Brazil, Morocco, London to Ibiza, straight to New York, L.A., Vegas to Afreeeeca!” at the top of my lungs, true J Lo style, and I miss dancing crazy in the kitchen with my friends while cooking dinner. And I think it’s a really cool flag. So interesting! Definitely worth researching.

4. United States of America – Because although when asked this week to describe the culture of my country the first things that came to my mind were fast food, Walmart, and government-funded anti-obesity campaigns, my blood still runs red, white, and blue, and I love my country’s heritage of freedom for all and its strides toward equality for everyone. God bless the USA.

5. Rwanda – Because I wanted Africa to be represented, Swaziland and Morocco were too complicated, one of my favorite movies is Hotel Rwanda, and I DO WHAT I WANT. Also, Albertine.

6. China – Because I love the Chinese! I love my little Chinese friend, Alexis, and I love China. I’d love to go there, and it seemed that China deserved a place on my mural of life and international love. Also, and although I understand that it is probably far removed from actual Chinese cuisine, I really want to eat some General Tso’s chicken from Great Wall Chinese restaurant and watch a scary movie with my friends right now.

7. United Kingdom (Or is is Great Britain? Or is it England? I d even k.) – Because I was late for work to watch the royal wedding and I don’t regret it for a second because IT WAS MAGICAL, PEOPLE.

8. Ireland – Because I’m more than half Irish! I celebrate this part of my genetic makeup with equal fervor to that of my Italian quarter. These Irish eyes are definitely smiling!

9. Czech Republic – Because Sully, pictured here, is leaving this month to move to the Czech Republic and marry her fiancé, Patrik! I’m very happy for her, though I wish she didn’t have to go. I made this flag a part of the mural in support of her and the new phase of her life that she is about to begin!

10. Honduras – For obvious reasons. This country has welcomed me with open arms, and despite some mishaps in the form of armed robberies and every bug in the entire Western Hemisphere coming into my room at night, it has been delightful.

11. Japan – Because it’s just a red dot! I wanted to keep things as simple as possible. I was working with a deadline, people. Don’t judge.

12. Colombia – Because I wanted another Spanish-speaking South or Central American country, and this was one of the only ones without a complicated seal that I would have to draw. And because of the movie Maria Full of Grace, which will always have a very special place in my heart. Stay strong, Maria. I love you.

Anyhow, so that’s my mural! It was really fun to do, and I enjoyed being stretched and moving outside my comfort zone artistically. Viva la mural making!

STILL scraping paint off of my finger nails,

Isaac.

Grills, Mirrors, and ANTipasti: Tales of the Desperately Inventive.

You know how they say that necessity is the mother of invention? Well for us here in Honduras, it is the mother, father, sister, brother, nephew, niece, aunt, uncle, grandfather, grandmother, cousin, and mailman. Observe:

 

 

This is our trusty grill, affectionately referred to by its users as “The Midnight Meat Grill.” A creation born out of our own desperation, this grill was not always a grill. If you look closely, you will notice that it was once a simple school desk.

 

 

However, with the removal of a pesky writing surface, and the addition of an old fence screen, this former educational tool now moonlights as a meat-cooker that would rival George Forman in effectiveness. Observe:

 

 

At this time I will share with you one of the most difficult parts of my stay here in Honduras thus far: there is not a single mirror in the entire country. This is, of course, a gross hyperbole, but you must understand that without having been able to have myself reflected back at me for so long, my sense of reality is distorted. But as aforementioned, we have become inventive in our need. Observe:

 

 

Fabulous glasses? Yes.

 

 

Makeshift mirror? OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

 

In addition to this, I have located which windows on the property are most reflective, and am sure to walk by these windows on my way to the school every morning.

 

 

Nate, my roommate, had a true stroke of genius this morning when he shaved outside by the school’s bus, using its rearview mirrors to guide his way. These are the tales of the desperately inventive. Only the thoughtful shall find themselves a mirror and grilled steak.

 

Lastly, a question: if you have a box of noodles and there are ants inside, is it ok to eat if you boil it well and fish out the ants as they float, lifeless, to the top? Just curious.

 

 

Never Lacking Protein in My Diet,

 

Isaac.

It rained!!!!

Just a little bit, but it was rain!

 

 

And yes, we danced in it. 🙂

 

 

Halleluyer!

 

Isaac.