life changes

Who'd have thought? My last blog post was over two weeks ago. At the time, I had no idea that two weeks later, my bags would be packed up, then unpacked after a short plane trip in Honduras.

I post now from my twin-size bed in the city of Pena Blanca, Cortes, Honduras. Over 2100 miles away from home. Salsa music streaming in from neighboring houses and businesses. The air humid like south Florida. I live here now... this is home. WiFi is slow. Cellphone service is non-existent. Food, while tasty, is limited in variety. My life as I know it has completely changed in the past two weeks.

Toilet paper cannot be flushed, instead thrown in the trash bin. Food goes bad within days, as opposed to a week or two. The roads like the surface of Mars; rocky, bumpy, and no signs of order. Native Hondurans simply live life differently than back home in the United States. Shops close down at five o'clock. The sun rises around six in the morning, while still setting around six in the evening like at home. Cleanliness has gone way with the wind, as hands simply aren't clean anymore. Feet dirty from the sandals you wore walking down the dirt roads. The opportunity to take a shower presents itself every day or two, instead of as a daily ritual.

I hear raindrops pelting the steel roof of my house. It sounds like a monsoon, when in all reality it's likely a light sprinkle. But it rains often. Courtney said that it hadn't rained for a week, but this is the second evening in a row that it has rained. Last night presented itself with a torrential downpour for hours. Her and I ventured to the local pizzeria to grab some food, and walked through the roads, which now flowed like raging rivers. I appreciate the waterproof sandals I purchased. Being that I appreciate the rain, it's good to see and hear. Rain cleans the dirt off my sandals, cleans the roads, and cleans the houses. It's natures way of scrubbing down the local areas.

Today we went fishing on Lake Yojoa. It was one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen. Mountains surrounding the lake's perimeter, clouds covered their peaks in attempt to keep their true height a mystery. The water clear enough to see below ten to fifteen feet in depth. To fish, the guide presented us with pill bottles and fishing line that wrapped around them. Those were our reels. No rods, no live bait. Just a lure, line, and a pill bottle.

Needless to say, not a single fish was caught.

I attribute that to the time of day, which was 12 o'clock noon. Fish simply aren't hungry at this time, and the warm sun drives them away from shallow depths.

On Monday, I will be known as Mr. Ian. A fourth grade teacher at Lake Yojoa Bilingual School. I think of it time and time again. The name is a nice change of pace from Agent Gacek.

a gift

Today, an idea struck. I wanted to make someone smile. I wanted to make someone's day a bit brighter.

I've only heard stories of this happening to others before... they approach the counter at their nearest coffee shop and the person in front of them purchases their coffee. I've never seen this happen in person; to myself or others. Only stories. A gift certificate lay in my wallet, tucked between credit cards. Sure, I could be selfish and redeem it for four more coffees, but why? Money comes and goes, and being able to make a stranger smile is worth much more than money.

As I walked up the stairs from my local Snap Fitness to the Spyhouse Coffee shop that resided above, I grew excited. Walking in, the excited quickly faded as I noticed the line was empty. "Oh well, another day" I thought to myself. Alas, I spotted two elderly women walking towards the front door. Scooting in front of them in line in the knick of time, I placed my order. A Guatemalan coffee with hints of chocolate, toffee, and Grand Marnier. Turning towards my right, I asked one of the women what they would like to order, as I would buy their coffee. Then, the second.

They smiled and thanked me, saying they would cover the barista's tip. I'm happy, they're happy.

Most men and women my age are fresh out of college with thousands in debt. Every grain and morsel of ground-up coffee represented as money they sip away. Sure, I have my debts and payments as well, but money comes and goes. I would much rather brighten a strangers day than to save two or four dollars.

Slowly as I grow older, I am starting to realize the important of happiness in life. Money doesn't equal happiness. It does allow happiness to become easier to obtain, but it doesn't make happiness appear. I can sit on my bank account and watch the numbers increase, but where's the fun in that? Something in a savings account is always beneficial, and smart, but sitting on money whilst refraining from life experiences is toxic.

That's why I am starting to travel. That's why I have no troubles spending hundreds on a plane ticket. New experiences. New people. New smiles.

New life.

fulfillment

There's something my mind frequently dreads the days that I'm scheduled to work. "How long will it take for someone to demean my character today?" I ask myself. To the average person, technical support is something you don't want to go through. Much like calling an ambulance for medical help. Nobody wants to do it, but sometimes you have to.

You can save a life in multiple ways, whether it's through medicine and medical services or saving their entire business through software repair. I may not have a doctorate in medicine, but I do try to save lives, or livelihoods for that matter, every day I work. I'm not a miracle-worker, nor a magician, though the qualities I do exhibit have been through years of studying, breaking-and-fixing, and learning from my mistakes. And yet, some people simply don't give a shit. I can work for seven, eight or more hours, skipping meals and staring at a screen trying to save a persons entire business, but at times cannot prevail.

In their eyes, it's my fault. It's my fault they didn't have a backup of their data. It's my fault they don't have a second computer in case the first one outright breaks. It's my fault it took their nine-year-old computer 20 minutes to turn on. It's my fault they deleted their address book without checking to see if they had a backup. It's my fault their printer has physically broken. It's my fault they waited until April 14th to file taxes, but their tax software isn't working. It's my fault I am trying my absolute best to find a solution, but sometimes can't.

The average customer doesn't process that there's another person typing from the other side. Another human being, with emotions, people they care about, and personal lives they have to live. Me. Time and time again I am verbally abused because they feel that the person on the other side of the pixels on their screen is emotionally dead; a robot. Someone in India paid minimum wage to provide technical support.

Disposable.

The rare times I can't fix your issue, I'm called a piece of shit and useless.

Those words don't disappear. Clicking the "Clock Out" button doesn't make the hurt disappear. I don't step away from my computer at the end of my work shift to drive home, pick up food from the grocery store, and sit down with my family, erasing the verbal abuse I received earlier. I step away from my computer, walk to my bathroom and splash warm water on my face. I then sit down and talk with loved ones and friends over Skype, masking the words that were typed to me earlier. But the words still stick. I will remember those words tomorrow. I will remember them the day after. They will eventually fade, only to be rekindled by verbal abuse another day.

But I still smile. Mostly genuine, sometimes not. There's much in life to smile about.

Perhaps the eight years I've worked in technical support have me tired. I yearn for something else. The fulfillment I received from fixing things in years past is dead. One computer fixed, another problem on my table. One in, one out. It's a numbers game now. The thought has been dwelling on my mind for some time now. A new challenge; a change of pace.

I want to travel. I want to see new places, see new people, and teach new things. The world is so big with so many places to go and so many people to see. I grow tired of sitting behind a screen, only to help ungrateful customers. I seek fulfillment on another level.

But what?

puncture

Three years ago, my car died at an intersection during a heavy snowstorm. Mere blocks from my house, I grew frustrated that I wasn't able to make it home, and the car remained stranded in the middle of an intersection as it snowed heavily. Bested by a corroded grounding cable inside the engine compartment, my car refusing to start again. I called my father for assistance and he arrived within fifteen minutes, but with the snow piling up, my car was unable to move. A stranger approached my vehicle from behind and asked if I needed a hand.

The only method of assistance I could think of would be for him to use his car to push mine out of the intersection. An idea struck, and I wanted to put my spare tire between my rear bumper and his front bumper so he could use his car to push mine out of the intersection; the spare acting as damage control so neither cars would be damaged. Our efforts were futile and my car refused to budge under the stubbornness of the fallen snow. After growing tired, we gave up and thanked the stranger for his kindness and effort. I walked home as the snow fell and called a tow truck to move my car.

Except I forgot the spare tire at the scene.

I never found that spare tire again. I've gone three years without an incident that required use of the spare tire. Every three to four weeks, I make it part of my routine to check the tire pressure on all my tires. The front tires were a bit low at 28psi. While filling the front left tire, I checked the pressure of the rear left tire. Out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer. A screw, contrasting with the dark rubber of the tire and wheel well. Unfortunately, it wasn't lying on the pavement or in my hands, rather puncturing my tire as if it were making a statement. Thankfully the tire maintained its pressure.

Another close call; another day without the need for a spare.

I sit at Discount Tire in Bloomington, an hour and a half remaining until the puncture is repaired. It's bright red chairs all-too familiar to me. My package from Target was retrieved from its holding cell at the local post office, which always seems understaffed. A line nine people deep was serviced by one United States Postal Service employee, who was preoccupied by a woman attempting to ship seven packages to Mexico.

My to-do list is quite populated today. Visiting Best Buy is next, as I need to retrieve an order I made online on Sunday. After, a visit to the gym is in order, followed by Target (again) for odds and ends. Then, if I'm not stuck in traffic for hours, a brisk jog around Lake Calhoun.

The scale I used to weigh myself has sat idle for over a week. Deciding to step on it today, the display revealed a body weight of 141 pounds. Many weigh themselves every morning or once a week. I used to belong to the former, weighing myself every morning and scrutinizing every ounce of weight I would gain or lose. Food was a science, calculating every calorie or gram I would ingest. Since the State Fair in late August, I've found myself using the scale every two to three weeks instead, and have found myself to be in a much healthier mental state. No longer is food weighed meticulously, and the emotional harm I cause myself by scrutinizing my weight every morning is a thing of the past. In fact, I've lost weight while eating a more relaxed diet. The only reasoning I can find is that, by weighing myself every morning I could justify binging that day if weight was low. It was a rollercoaster; down one day, then up the next. The scale started as my friend and quickly became my enemy.

The weather is partly cloudy with a warm breeze from the west. Winter has grazed Minnesota with its presence over the past weekend, providing us with a taste of its harsh reality. Winter is coming.