papalagi

Life is good. Time is going by so fast. Crossing the street here, which once seemed like a death wish, is now done completely nonchalantly. (Most of the time. Exceptions arise when your only choice is to run across—waving hands and obnoxious ‘gringo’ screaming included.) The fact that there are stray dogs absolutely everywhere is no longer weird, but a way of life. (Consequently, dodging said animals’ feces is also incorporated into this way of life.) Funkily painted school buses are my choice of transport after night classes. (Purple and green is a good combo.) The dudes who work at the photocopy kiosk recognize me and I, them. I know the route of my host ma’s and my morning walk, and I know which way to go to avoid sun in my eyes. The soda (aka little school café) which was once filled with unfamiliar faces is now a place for friends and an afternoon cafecito. While studying abroad is all about leaving your comfort zone, I never stopped to think that it would become a comfort zone. But then again, everything here comes in contradictions.

(A Papalagi, and his preoccupation with time)

In philosophy class, we had to read a story called the Papalagi. (Supposedly) written by a Samoan about “white people” (called Papalagi), which, to say the least, didn’t represent the occidental world in a very positive light. Among other things, the reading talked about how westerners think too far in the future without enjoying the present. I’m definitely guilty of thinking way too much about the future. I’m not sure if it’s preoccupation or excitement or a combination of both. But for now, I’ll live like a “Samoana” and enjoy every day I have left here.