Like Rats on a Sinking Ship...

Wow! I must note the excellent suggestions on how to deal with the utter collapse of civilization at Casa Americana. I'm please to report that some of the roommates had a change of heart (or reached their absolute limit) because the dishes have been done by people other than me, the trash had been taken out and washed out (now larva-free!), and most of the recycling taken care of. Hurray for basic cleanliness!

We also successfully pulled off a Spectacular, which is the equivalent of a primary program, but twice as long and on a Saturday. It had been consuming my waking hours for some time. Since our children never meet at the same times, we never had a complete rehearsal. In fact, the older children had no rehearsals at all. Everything had to be memorized, too. Here's a snippet of one of my thought trains from the second rehearsal (the day before the Spectacular):

1. The kids won't know what song to sing unless I tell them.
2. I should have my signs like the primary choristers do.
3. Do I have time to make signs tonight?
4. Doesn't matter, I can't draw.
5. Can I ask the other teachers to draw signs tonight?
6. No, that's too big of an imposition.
7. Maybe I could still make them.
8. How would they know to connect the pictures with the songs.
9. I would make a horrible primary president.

Surprisingly, it went off okay. The kids did their best, no one wanted pictures (except one of Paul's students, but we like him, so it's okay.), and everyone was apparently too distracted by the principal's see-through dress to bother me. Our kids were rewarded with ice cream, gatorball, and Pokemon toys, depending on age.

Now, we're just trying to riding it out without burning out, but it's hard. It's been a rough month of grammar review for everyone and the kids are melting down because they have important tests in Chinese school next week--but Chinese school also ends next Friday. I only have 2 4B students left, both of whom know they are dropping out of the program on the 30th, so they aren't exactly giving 100%--or even 50%. Meanwhile, an enterovirus has broken out in Taiwan (yes, there have been 204 cases THIS YEAR in a nation of 23 million. Clearly this is an epidemic, call the CDC.), causing mass panic at the school. One student has been forbidden to attend class in the afternoon (but not in the morning--what the???), the school was "sterilized," and McDonald's playground use has had the kibosh put on it, which is no good for us. How are we supposed to entertain small children in an unconfined environment for 30 mins? After they have been at school for 12 hours, mind you. (Yeah, Taiwan has a truly screwed-up education system.)

The BIG news though, is that there is 1 teacher coming. Yup, ILP couldn't recruit enough teachers for the Taiwan program. So the five of us will be replaced by 1 teacher. Keep wondering how that's going to turn out. ILP and our boss have been leaning on us to stay, which is ridiculous and impossible. Ellie is working illegally (which puts her US residency in jeopardy, BTW), the Roommate Who Must Not Be Named has already been here for 13 months and she just found out her mother has cancer, we'll be lucky if Katerina doesn't burn down the school as she leaves--plus she already has a ticket to and a job in Costa Rica, and Paul and I have to get back to our regularly scheduled lives. You know, permanent employment, moving to Arizona, grad school, etc. I do genuinely hope things somehow work out. Not so much for our boss (she'd land on her feet), but for the other employees and the kids. The little ones in particular are just so excited to go to Basic Reading. They were literally jumping up and down saying "I can go to Basic Reading!" How can we not teach them English? Sigh. The deal I cut with myself is that we'll stay an extra two weeks if that allows them to get the rest of the teachers over. If they can't, then we'll come home on the 2nd. As it stands, we'll be coming on the 2nd.

It's Like The Freakin' Lord of the Flies Here

Dang roommates. I hate them all. The house is completely falling apart. No one has gotten in water in weeks. They all (apparently) just keep their own supplies of water--some of them stolen from the communal pool. People would rather break their fingers than wash a dish or piece of silverware that was sullied by another. Of course, that's assuming that they do theirs. The garbage, recycling, and compost are never taken out. Katerina frequently leaves the kitchen windows open at night, which--since they don't have screens and well, the rotting food--is like putting up a flashing neon light saying "Bugs--Party Tonight Here." The Roommate Who Will Not Be Named (RWWNBN) NEVER sorts her freakin' trash, even after she was explicitly told that she was doing it wrong. No one except for me has ever purchased dish soap (that's in 12 months, folks). I have been doing the dishes once a week out of pure hate. Even Paul has given up on any sort of communal housework.

But Jennifer, why don't you do it all if it bothers you so much? Because I am too filled with anger over their irresponsibility. It's become one of those absurd and counter-productive points of principle. If that is the mess they will make, that is the mess they will live in until they do something about it. More rationally, it think it's more a reflection of how much everyone hates everyone else in the apartment. RWWNBN hates all of us, Paul's no fan of anyone in the apartment other than me (maybe the Belgian), I can barely hold my tongue with RWWNBN and Katerina increasingly, Katerina openly despises RWWNBN and barely tolerates me, and the Belgian may well hate us all or just RWWNBN (it's hard to tell, she's so nice even to people she admits to hating later). I can't tell if we're all heading toward a giant blow-up or just some choice words and gestures as we part to never see each other again. (Cross your fingers.)

Learning Life Lessions All Over the Place

This weekend, we made our trip down to the beach in Kending. It was a learning experience.

Lesson #1: I Hate Traveling.

No, really. It's extremely stressful and I get extremely sick. At one point as I was curled into a ball battling severe naseua and intestinal cramps, a truly bewildered Paul suggested I demand a rebate on my body, as he was aware of no circumstance under which it worked completely properly. (This is not quite true, obviously.) He also said he had no idea how my body was meant to move, since it was crippled by every mode of transportation. (This is actually not true: neither trains nor boats give me any trouble. Clearly, I was meant to travel only in the late 19th-early 20th century.) Apparently, I also travel in a state of "cat-like readiness," caused by the stress of unfamiliar and poor directions. Oh, and I lost my purse on the bus. And forgot the camera at home (although we bought a disposable one at 7-11). All of this reminded me why I never go anywhere.

Lesson #2: Lonely Planet's "Mid-range" Lodgings are Jennifer-rated "Minimum Acceptable."

We stayed at the Kending Youth Activity Center. I'm not really sure why it's called that, but it's a replica of a traditional Fujian-style village. Basically, it's like living in the old buildings in Lugang or an old temple. The room was small, but comfortable, air-conditioned, and clean. Also, they gave us bottled water, real towels, and adorable little bags with a washcloth, toothbrush and toothpaste, shower cap, shampoo, and soap inside. You are no doubt thinking, that sounds pretty good. Why does that merit a "minimum acceptable" rating? Because I'm a hotel snob. I believe in only staying in hotels that are at least as nice as one's home, ideally better. Anyway, the important thing was that it was a five minute walk to the beach.

Lesson #3: The Beach is the Most Awesome Place Ever.

I want to live on the beach--in a tent, eating only coconuts, mangoes, and papayas off random trees by the road if that's what it'll take--every day for the rest of my life. And I hate camping, mangoes, and papayas. (Coconuts are okay.) The first day, I stayed until the sun went down and the second day, Paul had to pry me away so we wouldn't miss check out. I don't know if he would had been successful if it wasn't kind of stormy. I picked up like a billion pieces of coral, but whittled them down to four pieces. I also didn't wear any sunscreen because I was seized by the "hey, I'm not Scandanavian, forget this!" whim. I don't think I can stress lesson #3 enough. I really, really, REALLY like the beach.

I probably learned some other things, some of which might show up here later or not. I don't know. Just the thought of the beach has caused all other memories to dim by comparison.