An inevitable rookie mistake,

to try to translate everything because you think that it will help you to understand. But ultimately, you find that not only does each language falta words that are crucial to the other (like cochino—someone who falls asleep in their clothes or skips a bath and is dirty, roughly, and cholo—a person who does not like things that are good, and madrugada—the hours that are really late at night/really early in the morning), but that the manner of phrasing things makes it impossible to express something in one language that exists in the other without either changing the words you use or the meaning that you are trying to convey. So that just as my camera always captures either too much or too little of what my eyes see and my heart wants to share with everyone, in the end it is just as impossible to capture in a photo the many layers of perspective that inform what you are seeing as it is to try to understand this experience en cual que no es español.

One of the hardest things to which to adapt in this language is trying to say that you like something—the subject and object are switched so rather than saying I like it, ‘me gusta’ is more like ‘it makes me like it.’ Plus I learned, after telling half of the members of the orchestra that they me gustan, that when you want to say I like a person, saying ‘me gusta’ means that you have a crush on them, and instead, you say ‘me caes bien,’ literally, you fall well with me.

That is a perfect way of expressing what happens here—falling is a passive action, and without even trying, la gente just falls with me in a way that makes me feel as though we have been friends for our entire lives.

Besides caerte bien right away, the other way to develop confianza is share experiences, and I have been so lucky as to have the most spectacular adventures with the ones who had immediately fallen into closeness with me anyway, inherently singular experiences augmented by ridiculous moments of adversity that generate the presently nervous jokes that will later be the hilarious and tender reminiscence of the time passed together.

From the 7 AM flat tire (whose popping noise I initially identified as a gunshot) that left me and my 30-year-old amiga percusionista (after a dream-quality night of beach, surfear, agachaditos (from the verb ‘agachar’-to squat, as these ridiculously cheap kiosks exist to fulfill only the most basic caloric needs), the famous empanadas de Playas accompanied by thick creamy yogurt blended with fresh fruit in the classic Ecuadorian way (I can’t tell you how I will miss that), and homeotherapeutic medicinal teas bought from a peddler off the street,) stranded on the highway between Guayaquil and the Guayas coast with a mere $10 between the two of us, not sure whether the refusal to slow down of cars whizzing by at 100 kmph was more or less dangerous than the possibility that they would stop…to being locked outside la casa de mi mejor amigo in the cool Ecuadorian mountain province at one in the madrugada (si ves) with our group of nine friends including the 6-year-old daughter of two of them, persevering with hammer and an awl, some intense teamwork, plenty of patience, and a good rato (at 1 AM!, think of the bebé!) until finally he persuaded the resolute lock to fall open into his hands, these kinds of things that don’t go perfectly mean more, in the end, than the idyllic beach and bungalow-stay or the breathtaking and unrivaled waterfall landscape of Baños en la sierra.

It’s things like that that make your corazons touch, that make it so a smile says everything you need to say, that make your friends forgive you when you spray them with mororcho spit out of your nose for laughing, and so in the end, though despedir is just as impossible and meaningless as you thought it would be, you part in laughter and not tears, and really, on the deepest level, you do not part at all.

Ya pues pilas loco, ya regreso. No puede ser el fin.

Observaciones Más Intangibles

I apologize to my readers if this post is a little less polished than usual, and wish the best to my editor.

Having a maid is weird—it is weird to me not only that her job obligates her to enter my room freely and touch all my things and do stuff like wash my underwear, but also just the idea that someone is so openly acknowledged to be of lower class, I guess. There is no reason that she has earned my respect any less than her employers have, and if anything she is the one who does everything so I feel like I should respect her more.

The distinction in verbal conjugations between you formal and informal exacerbates my distress, by emphasizing that I am speaking to her as though she were beneath me, using the familiar form with her knowing full well that she will use the formal tense with me. I hate the formal tense. I accept using the formal tense with people who are older—that is a good rule—and I understand for example, when I use the formal conjugation to address the musicians and they use the informal conjugation to address me, because I am just the dumb intern whereas they have earned my respect through their musical prowess or whatever. But with the housekeeper, who is older than I, it is just silly because I have done nothing to earn her respect and honestly she has earned my respect plenty--only after passing a few hours in the kitchen making empanadas with her when she began to call me 'tu' did I feel as though I had truly earned her respect.

Half the time when I am trying to figure out whether to use the formal or informal form to address someone I wait and see how they address me—but then I realize that just because they address you one way or another doesn’t mean that that is how you should address them, but that would just make so much more sense—why should you respect someone more than they respect you?

On the other hand, I feel like that the fact that everyone here knows when and how to use the two tenses, and also that every person with way less education than I have been fortunate enough to receive can perfectly execute the subjunctive and understands it on a deeply fundamental level is a kind of intelligence that we in the United States have not been raised to possess.

A phenomenon that I do find awesome is that all of the musicians call each other Maestro. It is quite common that people call each other based on their position of work: abogado, economista, asocio, qualquier cosa. But it is totally rad that all of the musicians running around calling each other Maestro, and all of the administrators call the musicians and each other Maestro as well. This must have positive effects on their psyches.

The orquestra is super diverse, with people from all over South America, Europe, Russia, and North America—the director is from Armenia (his count-offs are funny: un, dos, tres, qvattro)—and it is crazy that they are all here speaking Spanish! Half the time even when I meet someone from the US or another English-speaking country we still speak in Spanish!

The ages of the musicians vary a lot too: there are people in their late teens, a solid contingent of 20-somethings, lots 30 and 40 year old ish people, probably a few that are like 50 or 60, and one violinist who is over 80! What! And so everyone just sees you as a musician and not a foreigner or a youngun or anything, which is both terrifying and liberating—I am used to being treated like a student, where people cut you some slack, which is nice, but they also expect less of you.

It is not considered impolite to ask someone how old they are, or for everyone (including men) to discuss womanly issues ¬with anyone. It doesn’t bother me, but it still surprises me every time. It is also always the youngest ones who tell me that I am jovencita: someone will ask my age, and I will respond, ‘twenty-one,’ they are like ‘oh my god I am so old’ and I am like really how old are you? And they respond, ‘twenty-three.’

In addition, there are like 9 pregnant women in the orchestra, which I find pretty remarkable. It is super interesting the way they treat women, because on the one hand they definitely have plenty of preconceptions about the strength and physical abilities of a woman (which I do my best to challenge), and all of the women of the older generation do lots of cooking and don’t work (which is another reason that it is weird to have a maid, because if the maid does all the household work than the woman literally has nothing to do; bueno, retired old men also don’t have that many obligations) but on the other hand, there are tons of women in the orchestra and nobody thinks at all that they might be inferior to the men. The women are pretty evenly distributed throughout the instruments: while the first violin and viola are both men, the first cello is a woman, and the tiniest girl in the orchestra plays timpani and cymbals, and no one says a word about how it might be strange for a woman to be playing these instruments.

In general, they are much more accepting about physical characteristics that are obvious. For example if someone is Chinese, it is very common to refer to them as ‘chino’—there are no negative or otherwise connotations associated with this, it is just a manner of describing people. They also are very upfront about calling someone gordo—telling them that they are gordo or that they look gordo. And if someone is like ‘oh man I look so fat’ rather than being like, no don’t worry you look great they are like, it's okay, you just had a baby.

Everyone is obsessed with soccer, and have soccer paraphernalia in their cars and EVERYWHERE. All of the staff at the Orquestra wear polos embroidered with the OSG logo, but then a bunch of them also have the shield for their soccer team (the most popular one is Barcelona, which is yellow, and a lot of them wear bright yellow polos for this reason) embroidered there right next to the official logo, which at first I thought was part of the official uniform. But it is not.

No one can type! They all type with like one finger on each hand, and also the keyboards are a little bit different to make it easier to do accents and whatnot, and sometimes when I try to type things I end up opening six programs and doing things that I do not mean to do. And for the life of me I cannot figure out how to make the @ sign. If I haven't emailed you, now you know why.

I am pretty sure it is not the law to wear seat belts in the back because no one does and half the cars don’t even have them.
Also sometimes when you park your car you leave it in neutral and then these randos on the street (because there are always randos on the street that sit there and watch your car and then when you drive away you are supposed to give them a small tip) push the cars around so that it is easier for the next person to park/ more cars can fit. So then you are just walking down the street and there is a dude pushing the cars around and you are like WHAT.

Esto es ECUADOR

Dance and fútbol—it runs in the blood de los Ecuatorianos. So Alex Barnard and I learned during our awesome weekend pasando por Quito, during which, in addition to doing all the typical touristy things, we rode 25-cent buses all around town, ate pan de yuca y yogurt on a street corner, danced salsa at a discoteca with two native Ecuatorianos, and watched the world cup over un almuerzo de llapingacho, mote, plantains, and jugo de mora. Photos will be more expressive than words:


From his roof you can see the entire city—I am sorry I do not have a picture of this view from the night with which to illustrate the universally awe-inspiring image of a city whose merrily twinkling lights approximate the stars in the night sky.



Centro Histórico



Plaza central. I am really kind of obsessed with plazas. I should probably move to Europe.



Buckingham Palace, Ecuador style



The Equator is as exciting as he makes it look



View from El Teleférico: Elías says that what is truly important in a picture is not the subject, but el fondo--definitely the case here.



Amigos across the world :o)



SO MUCH SKY



Quito from above

My favorite place in Guayaquil

se llama La Santería. There you will find everything you could hope for: three canchas de fútbol bien grandes, an attractive patio, enormous TV screens that broadcast the most popular sports channels (mundial—no te dudes), and a super ambient bar walled by islandy bamboo stalks fit for a tropical paradise dream and lit by those super trendy paper star lights.

My second favorite place in Guayaquil is an alley that borders the school half a block from my house, next to an eccentric residence whose menacing cement walls are adorned by such signs as “Inmobilia Civescia—Sociedad Anonima” and “Bonsai Store.” The path is not elegant or well tended, but it is long, seguro, and secluded from traffic (although cuidado at the ends of the block where it opens out into the street), and that is enough for me.

En La Santería there is glory—I play for the women’s world cup-esque tournament that the Fútbol Club organizes, pursuing with my orange-jerseyed teammates world domination (we have already taken, for example, Argentina 2-0). My modest alleyway knows nothing like that; it is host only to the amused chatter of the ice-cream truck men (except they are not actually trucks, but red bicycles) and maybe a few catcalling schoolboys. But I do not see them at all, my eyes glued to the ball as I run drills and pass al pared, as the seasonally inappropriate rain mixes with the sweat on my forehead.

Through el balón, this is how I am experiencing Ecuador.

And like any good plato de comida típica, my fútbol experience consists of diverse components para ser completa and quintessentially Ecuatoriana.

They told me later that when I had accepted their invitation to play, no one believed that I actually would. But, uncertain and inexperienced, there I stood on the field after that night’s rehearsal (mira, ves: an orchestra of musicians who love to play sports—this is my world) for the first of many Tuesday’s experiencing what would become the highlight of my week, each time surprising them with something I could not do the time before.

The Tuesday nights on the small field of the Sociedad Italiana Garibaldi, to which the chamber orchestra that I am conducting belongs, are all about defying the boys. Saturated with their—would I call them prejudices?—the beliefs de su cultura (but who isn't?), exemplified by their insistence in paying for me the first day despite my vigorous and indignant objections (since everyone has to pay to play on the field, but girls do not pay for things ever), los muchachos were tickled to find out that I was not afraid to kick or be kicked, to fight them for the ball, to fall, making sure, as I was instructed, nunca caer sólo. And the first time that I jumped to block a goal kick with my chest, the shouts of ‘Que bestia!’ (my new favorite frase), resounded throughout the land.

The girl's tournament is casi el opuesto. Their game is characterized by the fuerza and confident security that comes of knowing they have nothing to prove, and the transformation from attractive, professional receptionist, carefully made-up, clothed gracefully in a flowing blouse with neatly arranged hair and high high-heels, to an athlete that can truly ¡Bótala! is mindblowing, jawdropping—inspirational, to say the least. The girls play smart, they play hard, and they do not preocupar that you are a delicate woman: when the crowd shouts ‘Pégala!’ they are not afraid to do so. Playing with them is much more intimidating than playing with the boys, and I would be lying to say that I was not relieved to be a benchwarmer (sin bench) for the first game. After two of our players got red/double yellow-carded, however, notwithstanding my defensively-oriented protestations, I was ordered to play midfield, where I tried my best to interpret and execute everything that Ana yelled to me from the sidelines, never dejando running and doing my best to channel all that is Kaká. Ana’s assurances “estás perfecto,” as much as I doubted their veracity, meant more to me than most things could.

The alley is a place of allure and mystery, where, always unsure of how seriously to take my friends’ cautions about not walking the streets, I am not sure if I am as safe as on the Davis greenbelt or at risk of getting assaulted at any moment. Lined by a cement barricade, from doors in which people sometimes enigmatically come and go, it is both comfortingly secure and menacingly aloof. And, of course, there is nothing like losing the ball over the roof (Sandlot, anyone?), pressing el timbre, and explaining to the household staff that your ball está en el pecho—I mean, techo (look it up)—and asking would they please see if they could find it for you, to make you feel like part of a community.

But the real magic happens late at night, atrás, sóla, dancing with the ball on the typically Latin-American patio, under a sole light bulb that can only touch a tiny piece of the dark, velvety sky, caressed by a gentle breeze in the soft, lightly humid, dulcemente warm and refreshing Ecuadorian climate, que huele a la perfuma nocturna del Caballero de la noche (jazmín)— this is fútbol, this is Sudamérica, this is how you fall in love.

OMG PLANTAINS!!! And other awesomely Ecuadorian things

In addition to cebiche y su mercado artisanal, Guayaquil is known for its iguanas. An extremely resilient species, iguanas can thrive in a variety of climates, and those that inhabit Ecuador are particularly suited to the equatorial environment de aqui. As is the case for all cold-blooded animals, the body temperature of the iguana depends upon exterior climate conditions; thus the outside world determines how the iguana will behave. That is what it means to adapt—like the iguana, I have learned to take Guayaquil’s unfamiliar cultural climate as the standard to which I adjust my own behaviour.

Here are some of my favorite things about Ecuador that, when taken as the norm (as they have to be), have forced me to reevaluate my North American way of looking at the world:

You have to throw the toilet paper into the trash and not the toilet. This makes you much more conscious of your toilet paper usage, for example I use exactly three squares each time (MATCH THAT). In public bathrooms, there is one toilet paper dispenser on the wall and you have to get it before you go into the stall. Or if you are unlucky there is no toilet paper. And there is never any soap.

No one recycles :o( This is the one thing that makes me sad.

When you are eating, it is not rude to reach way across the table, and if you are eating with a lot of people, then it is more likely that you would even get up and go to the other part of the table where the food is instead of just asking someone to pass it. It is also apparently fine to poke around in a dish with your fork in order to decide which piece of whatever it is that you are going to stab and put on your plate. Lunch is the big meal of the day—the first day when we were eating lunch I was like oh man, if this is lunch, I can’t wait for dinner! But then dinner turned out just to be a sanduche. They think this is more saludable because you don’t go to sleep on a full stomach, except that OMG the food is so good sometimes I do anyway.

It is very impolite not to greet someone fully with a kiss on the cheek (yes, this is indeed a phenomenon that some of the young gentlemen try to take advantage of). If you are sitting and someone comes in, you need to get up and walk over to them to go greet them properly, and if you come into a room where there is a full table, you are expected to walk all the way around the table and kiss every person. Also letting other people go through doors before you is a huge deal. I have yet to convince a man that it is okay for him to walk out the door before me, much less to go through one that I am holding open for him.

When you want to take a taxi, you first poke your head in the open window of the passenger seat and ask them if they are going in that direction, and only if they say yes do you get in the back. (Except that foreigners should never take yellow taxis! See below).

Also everyone drives like complete psychos and there are few rules and those that do exist are more like guidelines, anyway. Literal guidelines (like to divide lanes) do not exist in the street and everyone drives ridiculously close to one another. One-way street means that you should feel free to drive in either direction, and I was told explicity that red lights should actually be considered stop signs. Plus, the traffic lights frequently do not work and people just do whatever they want anyway. Things would be so much more difficult if everyone had to drive stick…Oh wait.
The second that a light turns green, every car behind the first one honks impatiently, but every time that I have been in the first-in-line car, the driver takes advantage of the stop to delve more deeply into conversation and look me earnestly in the eye, completely unconcerned with the light. Hilarious.
The pedestrians are as insane as the drivers, if not more so, and will run out into the street in a way that I would not even do in the US where I have more confidence in the drivers. During red lights in high traffic zones (where the lights are more or less obeyed), everyone will cross the street, weaving in between the tightly packed cars. There are also vendors, beggars, and thieves who run into the street, taking advantage of the fact that none of the cars can move in order to try to sell their wares and take your money voluntarily or by force. You are most likely to be robbed in your car in these high-traffic situations, which means during the late afternoon rush hour, in broad daylight in front of all of the other people here (like last week when my boss had her Blackberry stolen while driving home from work!).

On a similar note, getting robbed is pretty much a constant possibility to which you accustom yourself. If you are robbed it will be at knife or gunpoint, a fact that has ceased to instill terror in me because basically you know that if you just give them your stuff then they will leave and not try to harm you in other ways, so in the end, it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, really.

They have this thing called ‘Ecuadorian hour,’ meaning that if someone invites you to do something at a particular time, it will not happen until about an hour thereafter. It's about time I learned to chill out.


Unlike the iguanas, I find myself less adapted in the morning than I had been the night before. The little things you barely perceive—you do perceive them, but at first it is difficult to pinpoint exactly what they are and what it is that is different—to which you had accustombrado yourself before falling asleep are upon awaking again novel and unexpected and unfamiliar, likewise the language, with which you had become somewhat at ease the night before, is again uncomfortable and your tongue clumsy.

It is strange to realize that each day you have to start the process over, to find that each night, you have adapted a little more, but each morning, you are a little less adjusted than you had been the night before. And even though everything is still a little unfamiliar, one of these days I too, will be green and scaly and fluent in Spanish, basking contentedly in the Ecuadorian sun.

Campus Safety Alert...Except Real

Warden Message
Taxi Kidnappings and Crime in Coastal Ecuador

June 11, 2010

The U.S. Embassy in Quito and U.S. Consulate General in Guayaquil wish to remind U.S. citizens traveling to and living in coastal Ecuador of ongoing safety and security concerns related to taxi kidnappings in the cities of Guayaquil and Manta.

The U.S. Government continues to receive an alarming number of reports of U.S. citizens who are kidnapped and robbed in taxis in Guayaquil and Manta, incidents known locally as "secuestro express," or "express kidnappings." Taxi kidnappings have also been reported in Machala, Playas, and other coastal towns.

Typically, U.S. citizen travelers become victims of "secuestro express" after hailing a taxi cab on the street. Shortly after entering a taxi, the vehicle is intercepted by armed accomplices of the taxi driver, who is normally complicit with the crime. The accomplices enter the vehicle, threaten passengers with weapons (typically guns and/or knives), rob passengers of their personal belongings, and then drive to various ATMs to withdraw money using the victims' debit cards. In some instances, victims of "secuestro express" have faced physical violence and/or have been sexually assaulted.

"Express kidnappings" have occurred even in the more affluent areas of Guayaquil, and target both local citizens and international visitors. Incidents involving U.S. citizens are most frequently reported at the north end of the Malecón 2000 near Las Peñas, outside of the San Marino Mall, and in the Urdesa restaurant/bar district, but have been reported in all areas of the city.

Due to the seriousness of this crime, all personnel working for the U.S. Diplomatic Mission in Guayaquil have been prohibited from riding in taxis hailed off the street, even yellow taxis. Yellow taxis, local buses, and other forms of public transportation are expressly off-limits to U.S. diplomatic personnel in Guayaquil. As an alternative, employees have been told to use their personal vehicles, or to call one of the vetted taxi services available on the U.S. Consulate General's website: http://guayaquil.usconsulate.gov

It is vital that U.S. citizens understand the risks associated with using taxis in Guayaquil, how best to avoid dangerous situations, and who to contact if one becomes a victim of crime. U.S. citizens are urged not to hail taxis on the street, and to exercise caution when selecting a taxi in all areas of Guayaquil, regardless of location and/or time of day. We strongly encourage U.S. citizens in the Guayaquil area to use only vetted, radio-dispatched taxis, such as those listed on the U.S. Consulate General's website.

If you find yourself involved in a taxi kidnapping and/or robbery, it is best to be non-confrontational and cooperate with the perpetrator. Nothing material is as valuable as your life. Following a criminal incident, U.S. citizens are encouraged to file a "denuncia," or "police report," with the local police and to inform the American Citizens Services Office at the U.S. Consulate General in Guayaquil.

* * *

Americans living or traveling in Ecuador are encouraged to register with the nearest U.S. Embassy or Consulate through the State Department's travel registration website https://travelregistration.state.gov , and to obtain updated information on travel and security within Ecuador.

Americans without Internet access may register directly with the nearest U.S. Embassy or Consulate. By registering, American citizens make it easier for the Embassy or Consulate to contact them in case of emergency. Please see the following links for local Warden Message information in Quito and Guayaquil, respectively: http://ecuador.usembassy.gov/ and http://guayaquil.usconsulate.gov/.

U.S. citizens should consult the Country Specific Information for Ecuador and the latest Travel Alerts and Warnings and Worldwide Caution at the Department's web site at http://travel.state.gov. Updated information on travel and security in Ecuador may also be obtained from the Department of State by calling 1-888-407-4747 within the United States or by calling 1-202-501-4444 outside the United States.

The U.S. Consulate General in Guayaquil is located at the corner of Avenida 9 de Octubre and Garcia Moreno (near the Hotel Oro Verde); telephone (011-593-4)232-3570 during business hours (8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.) or 232-1152 for after-hours emergencies; fax (011-593-4)232-0904. See the Consulate General web site at http://guayaquil.usconsulate.gov/.

The U.S. Embassy in Quito is located at Avigiras E12-170 y Eloy Alfaro. The hours and telephone number for American Citizen Service enquiries is (011) 593-2-398-5000. Within the same city use the last seven digits. Add the city code for intercity telephone calls. Public call-in hours are Monday through Thursday 8:00 to 10:00 a.m. and Friday 10:00 to 11:00 a.m. Appointments for passports, Consular Reports of Birth Abroad (CRBAs) or Notaries can be scheduled through the Embassy Web site: http://ecuador.usembassy.gov. Appointment times for passports and Consular Reports of Birth Abroad (CRBAs) and are between 1:30 p.m. and 3:30 p.m., Monday through Thursday, excluding U.S. and Ecuadorian holidays. Appointment times for Notary services are Monday and Thursday from 1:30 to 3:30 pm. Appointments times for Immigrant Visas are Tuesday and Thursday from 3:00 to 4:00 pm and should be scheduled through the Call Center at 1-800-010-145. No appointment is required for adoptions and re-entry permits. Walk-ins are welcome Monday through Thursday between 1:30 p.m. and 3:30 p.m. Walk-ins for Federal Benefits are accepted Tuesday and Wednesday between 1:30 and 3:30 p.m. Walk-ins for reports of death, to pick up passports or CRBAs or for emergencies are accepted Monday through Thursday between 1:30 and 3:30 p.m.


This email is UNCLASSIFIED

Cinco Segundos

With reference to the guest conductor who is currently present at the Orquestra, one of the trombonistas summarizes the relationship between conductor and orquestra así: beginning the moment that the conductor steps onto the podium, tiene cinco segundos, nada más, to win over the orquestra or to lose them forever. Five seconds in which to seal your fate, and then it’s over. Para siempre.

And so, not 24 hours after I had been asked to do so, having turned down invitations to do cool Friday night things like ir al bar or asistir karaoke night at a local restaurant in favor of sitting alone in my room staring apprehensively at the baton and 82 pages of score that had just been placed in my hands and listening a thousand times to a hundred versions of Mozart’s Serenata Notturna that were not enough to make me feel prepared for the upcoming occasion, unsettled by a sleepless night and an emotionally draining morning (during which each person upon whom I had depended to drive me suddenly became indisposed, taunting me with the simultaneously relieving and immensely frustrating posibilidad that I would not even have to do it), and además an hour late, I stepped in front of the orquestra de cámara, ready for the moment (or five, as it were), of truth.

Though I look forward each morning to the Orquestra’s rehearsal, where I can forget about the effort that it takes simply to exist in my nonnative language, where I do not have to try in order to understand the music, the demonstrative singing, and cualquier otra non-lingual communication, my own first rehearsal no fue un relief así. No less frustrating than mis tentativas inútiles to communicate through singing was each attempt to speak to the orquestra, thwarted time and again by my utter lack of Spanish musical vocabulary.

Referring to most basic and necessary things suddenly became a huge ordeal—knowing how to say “eighth” and how to say “note” does not get you very far when what they call them, corcheas, actually means quaver. QUAVER. Why would I know how to say quaver? Or even that that is what I am supposed to say?

But at least maybe once you know how to say one note value, you can refer to all of the other ones in terms of their metrical relationship to that one—dream on, Maestra. Because while that is the case for semicorcheas (sixteenth notes), not so for negras (black)—quarter notes, blancas (white)—half notes, y redondas (round)—whole notes. ROUND! Alright, note, it is not too difficult to be ROUND when you are a CIRCLE.

And then try to name the notes when you are used to using the alphabet, but it turns out that they prefer to use fixed solfège (where C is always Do). So aside from the fact that oh, hello, I don’t read viola clef—alto clef? I mean C clef. Except not actually, because THEY DON’T SAY C, okay yeah, la clave de do in tercera línea, that’s the one—that problemita notwithstanding, I cannot look at a score and, without thinking, tell the orquestra that they need to enfatizar la línea “fa mi re.” Drop of golden sun, anyone?

Those were the struggles that I confronted in the part of musical nomenclature that I had not even realized was metaphoric (I learned that you cannot discuss music at all but through a complex system of metaphors—however you refer to the notes on the page, in the end they are themselves only symbols); the metaphors that we use consciously to describe the manner in which something is played (heavy, light, give it body, presencia, cosas así), are here completely distinct from those to which I am accustomed. Por ejemplo, to tell los músicos not to ‘rush’ you say instead ‘correr’ (run)—this needs to happen frequently as the nine million second violins are always in a hurry (they are second for a reason and Dios mío there are so many of them).

There were other things too—I felt stupid knowing only one way to say ‘again,’ and God only knows what improper tenses I used conjugando commands and trying to tell people that they were supposed to be doing something (subjuntivo, you kill me).

And while in English we just atrociously pronounce all of the words as they are written in Italian (or occasionally German or French), here instead they prefer to translate everything into Spanish, so that if you tell them to play more forte they will pretend that they don’t know what you are talking about until you ask them to do it ‘fuerte.’ Or when you tell them that you play the piano they will ask you to play “Para Elisa” and you will be extremely confused since you do not recall having met anyone named Elisa, until finally you realize that they are talking about Für Elise.

But in the end, lo más importante is that you get up and do it. And you start to realize that their expectant looks maybe do not indicate that they are expecting you to suck, but instead that they think it is their job to look expectantly a la directora, awaiting her instructions (Band, take note). And that maybe, even though you know that you are young and inexperienced and that no one has ever taken you this seriously before, you should just believe them when they trust that you can do it—and then when they treat you like an actual musician, who has earned their respect and their high expectations, you will not be afraid—Because you can.

Even if it takes six seconds.