When in Rome do as the Romans do.....right?

You know this gripe by now: Our house is not yet finished. I feel absolutely helpless to make my living situation tolerable. Generally I pride myself on being able to make the best of situations. I can do this by excessively enjoying the little things. Here those little things help, but do not make the situation any better. When is it okay for me to freak out?

I am no carpenter. I am no plumber. I can barely paint a wall to look nice. I also know I am in a developing country where the work ethic is totally different. I was raised in a country where prioritizing is something you learn in school, where organization was basically a birthright. These days it seems those skills alone could build this damn house. At times I think there is an entire conversation occurring around me regarding this house, and simply because my Spanish is crap I am unable to understand why it is taking so long to finish the job.

My mother raised me to be polite when visiting someone’s house. Offer to do the dishes after enjoying a meal prepared by someone else. Wipe your feet at the door and make pleasant conversation with the host. Now I am a guest in a country I basically invited myself to and I want to make the rules. I expect that the host country nationals should take care of me and make me feel comfortable. Is that rude? It sort of seems that way.

When I lived in Jamaica I eventually found myself compromising my beliefs for the sake of being pleasant. I was in someone else’s country and felt it was not my place to change the rules. I could disagree, but that wouldn’t change the national psyche. There was absolutely no way that I would make every man on that island realize the way that woman were treated on a whole was crap. Nor was it my place to do that. And maybe the women in Jamaica didn’t feel the same way as I did because we were raised in such different environments. So when it was time to go, it was okay for me to go.

It’s the same debate I face with myself now. I could just go home. It would be easy. In the grand scheme of things nobody would miss me. This housing debauchery is so superficial. If I lived my own house with not a soul around there would be something else pissing me off. It is the martyr in me that loves this. I won’t go home. I will get passed this frustration of not knowing what the #@%$ is going on most of the time. I will probably stay for a second year and smile to myself when I see the teachers that have just arrived freak out.

“If it takes shit to make bliss, then I feel pretty blissfully……if life’s not beautiful without the pain, well I just might as well never see beauty again…and as life gets longer awful feels softer, and it feels pretty soft to me.” - Modest Mouse

This is what makes this fun, I guess. Peace out, dogs (it means I love you here too)!