January 19, 2010: Two weeks until departure. This first entry I will call: Last minute lunch.

Going abroad, I have decided, is a lot like getting ready to die.

This thought may or may not have been my main motivation for starting a blog; the thought that I would be “dead” in a few weeks without leaving some king of eulogy was apparently too much to bear. So, I sat down this afternoon with every intention of describing my anticipation of leaving this country to live in Costa Rica for a little over five months, and found that instead, I really just felt like I was dieing.

And this is why: every time I talk to an old friend and discuss my up-and-coming adventures, the conversation usually follows along the path of, “Oh, I am going to miss you so much,” and inevitably ends in, “Well, I have to see you before you go.”

So the majority of my days are taken up with hurried friend-dates, cramming in those last few conversations about boys and school and my living situation abroad and about 20 or so “be careful’s” and “what-will-I-do-without-you’s” before I commence to fall off the face of the earth. I have hugged at least five people whose last names I don’t even know. And every time I leave somewhere for the last time, whether it be from work or my final Zumba class, the well-wishers always have this look on their face that is somewhere between a furrowed brow of concern and teary-eyed nostalgia.

In no way am I saying that I do not want to see these people, or even that I resent them for acting like I am never coming home. Really, I should be blaming our culture. We are all so afraid of change that my leaving is somehow causing this ripple effect on everyone else’s life. In reality, we all know that a few weeks after I leave, the world will turn as it always has, that at least one student will fall asleep in Philosophy of Politics with Dr. Ramos, that frat boys will continue to drink, and that my mom will continue her morning ritual of comics and crossword puzzles.

Despite all of the melodrama, I do have to admit that it is nice knowing I will be missed. I would like to take all of these displays of affection over lunches and movies to mean that if I really were to die, a substantial number of people would show up at my funeral. So, if for some reason I should get into a freak accident while zip-lining over the rainforest (yes, I plan on doing that, mom), I can at least take comfort in the fact that I hugged and said I would miss everyone in my life whom I really do plan on missing, whether it be from Central America or from Heaven.

Morbid, I know, but an undeniable piece of mind that I plan on taking with me on the plane.










**A note on the title of this blog:

When I was about 12 and planning my future as a great novelist, I decided that I would conclude my literary career with an autobiography. I struggled for a while about what to call it, until one day, it simply came to me. The best way to sum up a life such as mine—one that is composed mostly of fragmented reflections and silly stories—is to call it a chowder. A Chowder of My Life. In honor of my 6th grade stroke of genius, I thought it would be equally appropriate to call my experience abroad, A Costa Rican Chowder. I actually don’t even know if they make chowder in Costa Rica, but this small fact makes my title no less relevant. My experiences there, I am sure, will be just as poignant as the many moments of love and sadness and laughter that I have experienced thus far in the United States. It will, I am also sure, have a very different taste; perhaps the moments I experience there won’t even really resemble chowder. I have faith, though, that when this Costa Rican Chowder is mixed with the one that I started cooking up 21 years ago, the end result will be delicious.