Exchange Stories written by Program Alumni and Host Schools

A Shift in Time

      By Tamara Gower
      Everett, WA

      Argentina, 2005–2006

What causes this shift in time? Is it the sound of the squeaky old bicycle that gingerly drives an elderly woman and her husband down the deserted city streets during afternoon siesta? It could be found in the patient hands of the Senora across the street, lighting the oven and carefully pinching the ends of the empanada dough for the evening customers. Perhaps it is the silent lure of the dark, wrinkled woman selling garlic every day in the market. I imagine all contribute to my newfound peace.

It's something a bit magical, that's all I know. I do miss family and friends, the Seattle rain and Starbucks coffee, and my school's hefty photocopy machines that staple any packet of paper without flinching. But I've found my rhythm here. You readers that run regularly at a mad pace might know what I mean.

I've been taught to slow down. My colleagues, who are hard-working professors, taught me to close my books, sit and drink coffee, and talk. When I first arrived and began these regular "sitting" sessions, I felt fidgety, as if I should be getting something done. However, I've learned that the more I get done, the more there is to get done, and the more my head runs like a treadmill at all hours of the day. U.S. culture urges—demands—that we keep up this pace. Now I've lived first-hand a life of better balance: to enjoy the challenges and learning curves of work while moving through time at a sane pace. With this beat, all parts of life are simply more enjoyable.

Salta has changed my mind about time. My chapter here has been nothing short of a gift, the bow on top my new internal clock, and everything it represents. It will be my great challenge to take it home with me.

Pen Pals

      By Jennifer Teal
      Bloomfield Hills, MI

      Czech Republic, 2005–2006

In October of my exchange year in the Czech Republic, I arranged a letter exchange between three of my Czech classes and three social studies classes at my U.S. high school. When I told my students, there was audible moaning and groaning and comments suggesting that I had clearly hit on an excellent means of torture.

Nonetheless, we forged ahead, and I signed up for time in the computer lab so students could type their first letters. Those first letters covered the basics: name, age, family, address, hobbies, and a few details about the Czech Republic like the name of its capital, population, form of government, and some worthwhile sites for tourists. Some students felt they should brag about the Czech drinking age (just 18, although in reality when-you-can-reach-the-top-of-the-bar); others were eager to know what U.S. students thought of our President and the war in Iraq; and a few made sure to let their American peers know that the Czech Republic–not Czechoslovakia–is not part of Germany, is not still Communist, and is not full of farmers with no notion of technology. I was interested in their fierce sense of pride when writing to the Americans for the first time.

Despite all their initial complaints, my Czech students surprised me with questions about when return letters would arrive from America. The reply letters finally arrived in December and I was thrilled to find the package full of pictures from the U.S. students; pictures of my home school; and long letters full of juicy details about teenage life in America.

The Czech students were so excited when I handed out their letters. They laughed, frantically looked up new words in the dictionary and exchanged letters. The noise was deafening. It was great. I had to explain some slang–which always makes for good conversation–and I had to calm some of the boys down who had gotten letters from particularly cute girls. They learned what being a sophomore means; that a lot of American teens don't smoke; that they also find school difficult; that not all Americans are rich; and that many Americans are not Christian. I was prompted to put up posters explaining Eid, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and other non–Christian holidays just for clarification and even had the chance to talk about the burkas that several of the students wear to school in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.

The letters crossed the Atlantic three times by the end of the year, and perhaps some students will continue the exchange via e-mail on their own. I was so impressed with my students' letters and what they were willing to share. Zdenek wrote about how he wished he had gone to a gymnasium (college–prep high school) instead of our technical school because he really loves languages and art. Petr shared that he had had a terrible New Year because he had drunk too much slivovice (Czech plum brandy). It sounds strange that I would be proud of this, but it is unlikely that U.S. peers who didn't know one another could be honest about wishing they had not had too much alcohol to drink. There is a necessity for bravado that somehow doesn't seem to exist between strangers from different cultures. Yet another boy answered his pen-pal's blunt question about why he is 20 and only in his third year of school. He explained that it had been necessary for him to take a year off when he was 18 and work because his mom wasn't making enough money to support their family. These questions were in the second letters they wrote to their pen–pals, complete strangers.

There is something about writing that allows people to be honest. I saw it in my students' letters, and I saw it in their writing for me. Some of my quietest students suddenly found their voices. In the Czech Republic, without extra curricular activities, only seeing students a few times a week, and not sharing their native language, I didn't realize that I missed knowing who my students were as people, not just English learners. I am grateful that they were so open in their writing, and it reminded me that even when they grumble, even the most reluctant students often find they have something to say when they put pen to paper.

For more information about Jennifer's exchange experience, please contact Jennifer directly at: jlhteal@gmail.com.

An Estonian Bus Ride

      By Jason Finn
      Philadelphia, PA

      Estonia, 2005–2006

Early each school morning, I rode the bus from Tartu Bussijaam to Nõo Kool. In many ways, this deceptively short ride best represents my family's journey living in Estonia

In March of 2005, we learned that the U.S. Department of State had accepted me as a Fulbright teacher in Nõo, Estonia for the coming school year. I was very excited. Living and working abroad had been a dream of mine from a very young age and now I was finally going to do it. I hugged Patricia, my wife, in celebration; however, when I looked into her eyes I realized she was not as excited as I was. Let us just say she was more practical. First question she asked: Nõo? Where is that?

I could not answer. I did not even think to ask such a question. All I knew was that I was going. Luckily, I have my wife to ask such important questions. In my eagerness to live my dream, I forgot that I was not a twenty-five year old, single man, in possession of few belongings, like a house. She remembered not only did we have a house and a car to figure out what to do with, but a soon-to-be three-year old son, Isaac.

Finally, after renting out our house, selling our car, and bringing our son, my excitement returned along with a new, stronger feeling, anxiety, as we arrived on Estonian soil on August 13, 2005.

That's when we got on the bus.

The trip from Nõo to Tartu early in the morning was peaceful and beautiful. At 6:50, few people occupied the seats and the city was just waking up. As the bus drove up Riia, we passed modern Tartu with the vast Kaubamaja and new construction passed our flat, and old Tartu with its concrete and wooden homes. Outside of town, we passed new homes in various degrees of construction to old farm compounds, usually painted gold. And, we passed fields and trees. Covered in dew, snow, or basking in early morning light, the fields and trees always were delightful to gaze upon.

In our journeys, we have visited much: from the western towns of Haapsalu, Pärnu and Kuressaare to the eastern towns of Mustvee and Räpina, and from the northern towns of Narva and, of course, Tallinn, to the southern towns of Võru and Valga. In between all these towns, what struck us most was the prevailing natural beauty of the land. Maybe lacking in dramatics and grandeur, it easily overcomes this with a serene calmness that relaxes the soul. Before arriving here, we researched Estonia extensively. We read books and articles, and searched the Internet. Many times when describing, the people of Estonia, the words most often used were reserved and stoic. On my bus ride to Nõo, the same people generally travel with me and nobody has said hello or even smiled towards me. Bus drivers who have seen me since August still cannot understand my horrendous pronunciation of Nõo Kool though I have not changed my destination in ten months. Then this characterization of Estonians is true. But only partially so. I have also found people eager to welcome me. Take, for example, one bus driver who knew exactly where I was going and went out of his way to drop me off past the official stop and in front of the school road. He even suggested that next time he would turn right up the school road and drop me off directly at the door. When I saw students or staff from school take the bus, they met me with smiles and 'hellos' and often sat down to chat. One boy in particular told me all the details of his life (girls, driving tests, cars), even without my asking.

At Nõo Kool, the staff and students have been wonderful. It is a fine school and the teachers and students make it so. Teaching forms six through twelve, I discovered that the kids are smart and serious about learning, silly and love a good joke and everything in between; in conclusion, I found them to be teenagers. Moreover, while some were hesitant to speak, many talked freely and asked many questions about my family and life. Many on the school staff did not know or feel confident with their English, but they always said 'tere' and some spoke openly about their teaching and personal life. Just like any workplace. In my short time there, I had felt truly a part of the school and will miss it greatly. In restaurants, cafes, and stores we frequent, people have engaged us in conversation and when we entered their business know what we want before we even order it. Employees from these places waved hello to us on the streets of Tartu and stopped to see Isaac. We made some great Estonian friends that have opened their homes to us.

Over the course of the last ten months, many people have asked us what we missed most about America. This has been a hard question to answer. For me, I do not miss many things about America. Sure, I miss family and friends, and various restaurants and conveniences in my Philadelphia neighborhood, but overall I have found my time away to be overwhelming pleasant. I have learned many things about Estonia and myself. Recently on a very crowded bus from Nõo one Friday afternoon filled with conversation, I become fully aware that I did not understand one word that was being spoken. In my ten months here, my Estonian vocabulary is still very limited and in this charged atmosphere of fast, young, and lively talking, I was lost and felt completely like an outsider though I knew most of the passengers. Then it occurred to me that is what I missed the most about my home in Philadelphia: being able to understand things around me. Not to be an outsider.

Knowing that we would be here only for ten months has made it much more difficult. My wife had often said that we could live here. Tartu is a great small city. It has everything: culture, restaurants, shops, and lovely nature and is a safe place to raise a family. Nõo is a wonderful school. Teaching there would be a pleasure. For ten months though, we did not have to learn that much Estonian so we were still outsiders.

Besides the question about what I missed, I was asked often what I will remember and tell people in the U.S. about Estonia. On that Friday bus, I found my answer. Yes, your language provided us with difficulties, but it is your greatest strength. Through every occupier, be they Russian, German, Dane or Swedish, you have retained and developed your language, your culture. On that bus ride, I found youth and maturity, comfort and awkwardness, frailty and strength. In a word beauty. Everything that is Estonian. Everything that is American. Everything we are.

For more information about Jason's exchange experience or to view his website, please contact Jason directly at: finn@havsd.net.

Culture and Mexico Through New Eyes

      By Gail Bromenschenkel
      Sleepy Eye, MN

      Mexico, 2005-2006

When I got my first pair of glasses at age 14, I was amazed at being able to see details that I had been blind to before. However, I also became disconcerted by the dizzying effect of having the floor rise to meet me at angles, an aspect that gradually eased with time and patience. Living and working for a semester in Silacayoapam, Oaxaca, in the mountainous Mixteco region of Mexico, created similar effects, but the resulting clearer cultural vision and sharper language acuity remain.

In Silacayoapam, my high school workload expanded from teaching three classes of English three times per week, to adding a teachers' class two times per week, tutoring the principal's children two times per week, and organizing and teaching a language village for children, ages 5-14 years, four hours per week (with several hours of preparation of both the student assistants and materials). Then on Sunday mornings, two young women from a neighboring village came to my house for English classes, one semester compacted into six two-hour sessions.

Sounds busy? Maybe, but nothing like the whirlwind of activities, deadlines and stress factors I left in Minnesota. In Silacayoapam, no one sprinted to school or appointments, or stressed out when arriving late. No comments, no frowns, no questions asked. It was assumed there was good reason. If a teacher kept a class over the time limit (there were no bells), the teacher of the next class patiently waited. If public transportation was delayed, the fact that it was late presented a topic for conversation and not necessarily a rise in blood pressure. For a product of U.S. culture, life seemed to be more "forgiving." There was time for conversations, observations, and meditations, celebrations, fewer palpitations. This is not to say that I had entered Utopia for the time-challenged, but many of my cross-cultural incidents dealt with time issues, or expectations about use of time.

Having to wring out all my laundry by hand for five months and to buy all produce and meat in open markets added another dimension to housekeeping. Buying by the kilo, bringing one's own market basket, carefully planning finances (no ATM closer than three hours away), travelling on foot to everywhere in town, slowed down the cadence of daily living.

As the pace of chores slowed, the interpersonal communication used to meet daily needs augmented exponentially. There were only 100 phone lines in the town, so individuals were paged over the public address system so that they could take calls at the telefonicas. At school there was neither phone nor copy machine. Attendants at several stationary stores downtown did the copying while customers, many of them teachers, waited. Three Internet services offered connections to the web for ten pesos per hour. Bottled gas for cooking and water heating, garbage collection, and innumerable other products and services were announced by passing though the streets. Invitations were hand-delivered. One "read" the church bells to learn the schedule of services for the day.

In the absence of media overload, I experienced a heightened sensory awareness. The sights, sounds, and smells of life rose up everywhere for me to taste and touch. I mean everywhere, from the fruit of the weekend marketplace to the constant beating of musica durangense in the street, to the whirl of colored skirts and the texture and pungent odor of woven baskets. There was always something to celebrate, and that meant with fireworks too, starting at dawn or the night before, or with a calendar, a procession personally announcing and inviting the people to celebrate the occasion.

How does one explain the impact of a cultural exchange? By patiently allowing the experience to settle into one's heart and soul, and then letting it offer depth to one's new experiences, by seeing more clearly with new eyes, by living in the present moment.

Helping Hands: Exchange in Poland

      By Robert Oddo
      Chappaqua, NY

      Poland, 2000-2001

My year in Poland gave me the opportunity to step away from the teaching that I have done for the last 14 years and reflect upon what I do. While it presented me with many challenges, it also allowed me to work toward new goals.

I found the administration of the school where I worked in the beautiful university city of Poznan helpful, accommodating and a pleasure to teach with. They periodically checked in on me to make sure things were OK. They purchased a pass for the tram for me and made all kinds of arrangements for me to make the most of my stay in Poland. The other teachers were interested in what I was doing and always willing to share with me their opinions and teaching techniques. There were always English teachers around to help translate if I had a problem with communication. The students were courteous, respectful and worked very hard.

The school had all the materials I needed. A photocopy machine was available as well as a VCR, overhead projector and networked computers connected to the Internet. However, the Polish school system is different and takes some time to adjust to. I saw approximately 230 students a week, with most classes meeting only twice a week. There were parent meetings in the evening about once a month, and occasionally we had lessons on Saturday so that we could have a four or five day break at another time. There were a number of such breaks, which gave me the opportunity to travel around Poland and the rest of Europe.

On three occasions I spoke to teachers in the Poznan area about the American education system. Each group was interested and asked many questions. Thirty to forty of my former students e-mail me, and some have already come to the US to visit! I started an international environmental monitoring program (GLOBE) at my school in Poland and continue to serve the school as a resource for students and teachers.

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Colombians with Big Hearts Ready to Share Their Culture

      By Nicole Phillips
      Colorado Springs, Colorado

      Colombia, 2000-2001

Adventure sent me to Colombia, where I discovered gentleness and beauty. Why did I accept the opportunity to teach in Colombia? Nothing particularly attracted me to Colombia. However, when Fulbright offered me the chance to go, I accepted immediately.

It may have been fear of not getting another assignment or even defiance of my many friends and relatives who were raising objections. But I think it was mostly the spirit of adventure that pushed me to go. Colombia sounded exotic, but also a little dangerous.

I had pictured the Andean peasant clad in his ruana, mounted on his donkey, strolling through the dirt streets of his village. Now I wanted more than a photograph in a tourist brochure. I wanted to experience it first hand. Throughout my year in Colombia I discovered the friendly side of this beautiful country.

What struck me most was the gentleness of its people. The country was going through difficult political and economic times, accompanied by daily violence. Yet the people's overwhelming lust for life never abated. There is so much beauty in Colombia. The villagers go about their peaceful daily life, sorting different types of maize, leading their cattle to graze or just sitting at their front door on a sunny Sunday morning, sharing the village news with their neighbors. The 1,560 colonial churches ring their bells, and old women dressed in black head out to worship inside the whitewashed walls. The big cities also have their charms: Medellin, full of colorful chivas and spirit; Cali, where every street corner echoes with the music of salsa; Cartagena, where the noise of Spanish horses' hooves still seems to resound in the narrow cobblestone streets; and Bogota, with its museums, concert halls and excellent cuisine.

If I went to Colombia to seek adventure, I returned more than gratified. I discovered what the press doesn't print: a land full of historical treasures and breathtaking landscapes; a land of people with big hearts, ready to share their time and their culture; people who reached out to make the stranger I was a part of their family.

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