Total amount raised for the English Lab: $14,158.64

Total amount still needed to complete English lab: $679.35

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

We’re getting danger close to the point where I might get my debit card out and pay for the rest of the English lab myself.

However, given my volunteer status, I may not be able to survive the month after I do that, so if you could please give to my English Lab.

The first episode of Season 3 of The Pitt if it fully leaned into its Pittsburgh roots.

(Doc Robby gets off his motorcycle in the emergency bay of the hospital. The Doc with the chin dimple and benzo addiction sits outside hitting his Juul.)

Doc Langdon: “Ay Robby, ya back from sabbatical!”

Doc Robby: “Ain’t not being a jagoff one of dem 12 steps ya learned dahnair at St Raphael’s?

Doc Langdon: “I saw yin like my fatha once upon a time.”

Doc Robby “Dat was before you jimmied the benzers and sold dem on the innernet!”

Doc Langdon “Howzabat we head dawneir a perogie wharehas and grab a few irn cities and talk about dis like da men we are.”

Doc Robby: “Aren’t ya supposed to be sober?

Doc with chin dimple: “I‘m Appalachia Sober! Only Irn city’s and Kirk conspiracies fur me.”

Doc Robby “We ain’t saying dat name in my Pitt no more.”

Doc with dimple “Which one of em?”

Doc Robby: (Doctor Robby grabs his head in pain.) I can’t talk about them Kirk’s no more. I just wanna motorcycle arand Ft Dooquesknee.

Doc with chin dimple “It’s pronanced Duqahne!”

Doc Robby “GET AHT! Go back to the mahntains!

(Doc Robby’s flash of PTSD intensifies as he starts hyperventilating and goes into the stairwell to calm down.)

“The squirrel ill tunnel’s can’t hurt you. Peduto ain’t been mayor since 2022. Ed Gainey ain’t real. Corey O’Conner promised free rogie Saturdays. Focus on dem dawntan bike lanes. Andy Werhul lived here.”

(Charge nurse Dana finds Doc Robby in the Starewell)

Charge nurse Dana: “Damnit Robby. Haw many times I gotta tell yin, if you’re gonna have a breakdown go dawn to EQT Plaza with the rest of em.”

Doc Robby: “I ain’t in a no breakdann.”

Charge Nurse Dana: “You look like ya just saw Tebow throw a tuddy to Damario Tomlinson.

Doc Robby “If dere’s a person you should be worried abat it’s dat Huckleburry.”

Charge Nurse Dana “Stap! I ain’t gotta listen ta dis.”

Doc Robby “He’s shacking up with that Fayette canty broad.

Charge Nurse Dana “She’s frum Washinton Canty!”

Doc Robby “He ain’t gonna have time for no doctoring raising her child”

Charge Nurse Dana “You ain’t no social worker Robby. Stop Jaggin around and do ur jab.

(Doc Robby looks at Charge Nurse Dana in disdain. A ding goes off on their pagers.)

Doc Robby “We got a mass casualty comin in. Another bus went dahn a sinkhole.”

(They rush back into the Pitt. It’s Absolute chaos. Dr. Al-hashimi is in arm’s reach.)

Doc Robby :“Dr. Al-hash-mami.”

Dr. Al-hashimi: “It’s pronounced Ahl like the Aldis dahn in Shaler - Hash like the all ya can eat hash brans dahn at Denny’s in harmer, and Imi.”

Doc Robby “We ain’t got time for no geography lesson. What’s the status of da sink hole.”

Dr Al-Hashimi: “Those jagoffs over at blew cross blew sheeld ain’t letting us do no more pro bono wark.”

Doc Robby “I aint been Pro Bono since dem jagoffs downair at Apple put dem U2 albums on er music machines.

(In one of Dr Robbys signature moments of brilliance he calls Dr. Jivadi over.)

Doc Robby: “JIVAHDIH!”

Dr Jivadi: “What?”

Doc Robby: “Holler over to Jynt Iggle and get a few buggy’s and gum bands.”

Dr. Jivadi “Sir I’m from cranberry. What are buggy’s?”

Doc Robby “You know the shit you put Irn Cities in Jynt Iggle.”

Dr. Jivadi “Shopping carts?”

Doc Robby. “Airyago. Make sure you get dem ones that look like em Daytoner five hunna racer curs the kiddos go in. We are gonna give the Gurneys to the insured and put the uninsured in Buggy’s usin them gum bands as Turnkets for the wunded.

(Jivadi leaves to go to Giant Eagle. Dr Abbot walks into the Pitt. He’s got an indiscernible head wound.)

Dr Robby: “don’t tell me yin were in da sink hole?”

Dr Abbot: Yin was dawn in homestead for da strike reenactment. Jit’s only kerchup.

Dr Robby: Worsh of your damn head off. I can’t believe yer wasted good hienzes on a reanarctment.

Charge nurse Dana: “will yinz stop being a bunch of fackin nebbys. We got a critcal emergency gon on.”

(Doctor Melissa King comes to charge desk.)

Dr King: “I heard yinz ordered de gumands and buggy’s.”

Doc Robby “Yin heard correctly”

Dr King “What abat a curt a chipped ham and worshwrags?”

Doc Robby “Dis here is a haspital. We aint in no Century 3 food curt.”

Dr King “We use da chipped ham as bahnd-ahd and da worshwrags for shawers.”

(Doc Robby looks at Dr King in astonishment. The first of the sinkhole victims comes in.)

Woman in race car shopping cart “Yinz don’t touch me. My boyfriend’s da bouncer at da gentleman club in kees rocks.”

(The second sinkhole victim comes in. He’s a heavily tattooed gentleman in a Polamalu Jersey. A steel ramrod punctures his chest)

Second Sinkhole Victim “I ain’t taken off dis jersey since the o’aight Super Bowl. You as delusional as Deshaun Watson if you tink you taking dis off.”

The third comes in. It could be the brother of the second sinkhole victim. He’s also a heavily tattooed gentleman wearing a Kordell Stewart Jersey. One arms been completely severed, and not recovered from the accident.)

“You tink ion need fiscul therapy for dis Doc?”

(The paramedic stays quiet not knowing how to respond.)

“I got a cousin dahn in north shour with a tree dee printer. Yinz think ya could print at a prostheeetic?”

(The doctors look at each other grimly. The screen cuts to black. End of episode 1.)

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Total amount still needed to complete English lab: $999.35

(On a practical side the Peace Corps website doesn’t show who donated so if you have and I haven’t thanked you, I am deeply thankful for you)

WE HAVE REACHED TRIPLE DIGITS!

I REPEAT WE HAVE REACHED TRIPLE DIGITS!

You know what to do.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

It’s 9:30 on a Sunday morning.

You wanna do a quick rucking session to get the heart rate and steps in.

Avoiding an existential Sunday.

Halfway through, you change the formula from a classic Michelle Obama play 60 to a let’s follow the windy campo road.

Things go great.

Nice scenery.

A cow that looks like a camel.

A joke made to a farmer as to whether his cows make regular or chocolate milk.

A stare from said farmer as to whether I believe chocolate cows exist.

The realization I can never get that first impression back.

You head back after 2 miles

Same old campo road.

An idea of a Bolone Mixto comes to mind.

Some chicharrón y queso fresco.

Café con leche.

Yummers

Your tummy rumbles.

Life is only forward.

Wait, what’s that in the distance?

A pack of 5 street dogs walks confidently down the road like a scene from Black Hawk Down.

They’ve got that stride in their walk.

An arrogant confidence.

Their fur looks corroded as if they shower in the tears of their enemies.

Should I stay or do I go?

If I go, there might be trouble.

But if I stay and wait I’m confirming to these 5 street dogs that they own my fear.

I’ve self-defense kicked my fair share of street dogs in my day.

I’ve flat out sprinted from a few.

Each time, I’m confronted with the abdominal pucker factor of my own mortality.

What would it be like to take a street dog’s teeth to your ankle?

It would probably hurt like hell.,

That thought is why I imagine every street dog smells the fear that reeks off me.

So who do you call?

The caveman.

You big dog em.

They try and corner you with their furious woofs.

You woof the fuck back.

You show em the dirty Pittsburgher you are.

You make mean faces.

You growl.

You make that angry dad loses his child in Dicks Sporting Goods scream.

They only get closer.

One’s feet away from your ankle.

The image of a chunk out of your ankle just waits to become a reality.

The only way is to keep on walking.

Through the howling.

Through the bravo.

Big dogging them the way through.

They can’t take down my fear.

The energy shifts your way.

They don’t want to imagine what I can do walking upright with opposable thumbs.

I’m an occasional member of Substack’s Top Rising Humorists.

I’m fucking insane.

One of them backs off with a squeal and a whimper.

Then two others.

The 4th gets in front of you.

Drool runs down its mouth dreaming of a feast.

Eyes asking for weakness.

“YINZ ARE A BUNCH OF JAGGGOFFFS” You scream.

You stomp.

Hiss.

Cuss.

The weakness in its eyes shows.

It looks back to its friends.

Not today homie.

Another day without getting bit.

I’m fully aware that Ecuadorian campo street dogs are my greatest fear. I’ve had dogs all my life. I’ve been told by those around me that I freeze up when a campo street dog comes near. Even the chill street dogs give me apprehension.

At the end of the day, I think it’s nice to admit when something scares the shit out of you.

And a big-ass perro de calle.

That guys got my number.

At the end of the day, you can still enjoy a Bolone Mixto y café con leche even if you have part of an ankle missing.

So who’s laughing now?

I’ll see you in therapy Mr. Peanut butter.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Everyone I talk to is calling it a cinematic masterpiece.

Going so far as to say it’s the Dewey Cox beautiful ride of Christopher Nolans career.

For a week I couldn’t even pinpoint my dissatisfaction.

I’ve been eating my Guatita in silence.

Looking at the miners mining.

The gamblers gambling.

Opening and reopening Substack.

Typing and deleting my thoughts over and over again.

Do I have coherent thoughts?

Does anybody care about a Peace Corps blogger’s thoughts on a movie that made a billion dollars?

I woke up in a sweat reminded that my dedicated 90 substack followers that consist of my dad, mom, grandparents, my brothers, fellow PCV’s, a generous RPCV name Bruce that gives me 5 dollars a month for my thoughts, and my favorite College advisor/professor of Latin American History (Thanks for the grad school rec) cannot form a mainstream film opinion without my thoughts.

Before that, I wanna talk about a general trend.

Finding a good movie is like picking up a book from a community book drop outside a house in a really walkable, progressive neighborhood.

Let me explain

Nobody’s putting good books in a community book drop. I once stole, Newt Gingrich’s To Save America: Stopping Obama’s Secular-Socialist Machine from work and put it in my neighbor’s book drop.

You could say Netflix, Hbomax, and Peacock are the community book drop of the internet. For every good movie on a streaming service like Everything Everywhere All at Once, we get a Morbius, Madam Webb, or {Insert Chris Pratt Netflix movie}.

They’re not trying to show us their best.

So here we are in 2026. We’ve got the movie business on {Insert action movie idea into Grok with any of the famous 5 Marvel Chris’s getting paid a billion dollars} So when AI hasn’t been obviously inserted into major parts of the creative process it’s like Michelangelo being resurrected.

Hence we get The Odyssey.

I want to be clear that I’m happy that this movie is as successful as it has been. Going to the movies is one of my favorite things in the world. I think that those who advocate for a future without theaters and pressure directors to insert plot points into dialogue for distracted people on their phones, wish for a world I wouldn’t want to live in.

However, in 2026, that bet on the traditional movie experience dying seems wrong again. We’ve got directors like Curry Barker, and Kane Parsons making magic out of a fraction of traditional movie budgets. People are going to the theater to see those over and over again. I myself have watched Obsession 4 times now, and the movie gets better every time.

Given the arrival of these good movies, it’s odd that The Odyssey is seen as this end-all movie saver that will save Hollywood.

The movie’s got no ganas.

It has a desire to say anything in particular other than war is bad.

No shit Sherlock.

Nolan’s execution is to constantly wow us with visuals and sounds trying to flex his intelligence without actually saying anything.

It felt as though I was watching a movie that was on Lexapro.

It could emote, and there were times where it did, but in the end most of it’s just like

“Wow look at that symbolically important thing that we’re conditioned to feel something about.”

It doesn’t help that it seems every actor in the movie was told they were in an entirely different movie.

Anne Hathaway seems like she’s doing Shakespeare in the park.

John Berenthal’s playing a New Jersey Iraq veteran that may or may not have stormed the capital.

Tom Holland’s playing Peter Parker, but this time Marisa Tomei is Anne Hathaway.

Matt Damon is playing a guy that’s deeply regretting his role in the annihilation of the Trojan people, but also being Matt Damon.

Also Zendaya. Was Christopher Nolan like

“Hey wanna make 5-8 million dollars making the same face as you do in Dune?”

My biggest gripe is with what they do to Elliot Page’s character Sinon.

The character is supposed to be a meditation on draft dodging and duty. Sinon starts as a child servant who takes the place of Robert Pattinson’s character Antonius in the Trojan War draft lottery. Sinon later becomes one of the most symbolically important characters, as he sacrifices his life to trick the Trojans into accepting the horse.

Elliot Page does a really good job in about 5 minutes of screen time, but there’s not enough time or characterization to care about his sacrifice as a viewer. We are just supposed to do it because of the amount of visual rizz that he puts into the death scene. It’s not a small sacrifice either. Sinon’s sacrifice is supposed to be an emotional catalyst that weighs on Odysseus greatly.

It assumes you know the gravity of the poem without making you actually care by showing us.

For example one of the worst movies I have ever seen, Emilia Perez. That movie had ganas. Conceptually the movie pleased almost no one (Except the Oscars, it somehow won 2), but its story shows the audience a story about a cartel boss’s gender reassignment story. It’s not a good one, but it’s audacious in its story telling. By the end you feel a conflicting sympathy about the cartel boss, and it’s a movie I still think about a year and a half later. I don’t think after writing this i’ll ever think about The Odyssey again

So now you know my thoughts, and I can go to sleep knowing I’m forming brilliant minds.

So what would I rate it?

6/10- Go Watch Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story.

Please donate to my English Lab. :)

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

(The view from my humble abode after Spain won the World Cup)

Amount of money needed to reach English Lab goal: 2,544.35$

We seem to have hit a cooling period in fundraising, and that’s not because I’ve been on summer vacation mode. :|

(Currently me)

Even in vacation mode, I remain unbent and unbroken in making the Zumbi Colegio English Lab a reality.

That brings us to this week, during one of my more informal thought sessions on how to entertain my blog readers and also fundraise, and I remembered a story I read years ago about a woman who invited random wealthy business leaders to her wedding, hoping to get a sympathy gift.

So I thought

Isn’t that the basis of fundraising?

I did some googling.

“Email addresses of billionaires”

I found an interesting article from 1999 from The Guardian listing a few emails of some famous individuals.

You might be thinking.

“It’s been 27 years; haven’t they changed their email?”

To that I say I’ve had the same email since 2010, and do you really think Tom Clancy is changing his email?

So I sent the whole list a pretty generic email about how much I respected their work and how, if they had any available money, they should pay it forward and support the English Lab.

Moments later I received an email.

“WHO KEEPS MAKING ALL THE TOM CLANCY VIDEO GAMES, AND JOHN KRASINSKY JACK RYAN SHOWS?” I replied.

Shortly after, I received a cease and desist letter via cock of the rock informing me to no longer ask such questions.

The same thing happened to Douglas Adams’ email (He died in 2001)

… and Quinton Crisp, Bob Hope, and Bob Hoskins.

Take that! We still have the active emails of Courtney Love, Macaulay Culkin, and Clint Eastwood. (The Guardian should add a redaction saying only 3 people on the list are still alive. I will be suing them.)

As of 2:30 PM 07/23/2026, I have not received a response from any of the three living members, and assuming Courtney Love is still in her mourning phase of Kurt Cobain, Macaulay Culkin is too busy watching Brenda Song’s sweet life of Zach and Cody highlights on YouTube, and Clint Eastwood, let’s be real, is he still alive?

My point in telling you this story is that nobody incredibly famous and wealthy is going to come in and donate $ 2,544.35 to make this English lab a reality. It’s gonna come from each one of us donating anything that you are able to give. (Unless Tom Clancy comes back from faking his own death to donate, and convince Hollywood to give up on subpar John Krasinski shows)

Here’s the link to donate: https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

Weekly recommendation

Obsession (2026)

(Spoilers)

I have to say there’s never been a movie that has surpassed my expectations my entire life. From April to June, I relentlessly checked the usual corners of the internet to try and watch this movie, and each time I found shitty camcorder footage. Obviously I’m a man of taste, and finally in early June someone had uploaded the movie in perfect HD.

Since then I’ve watched the movie 3 times, and it gets better with every re-watch. My first watch, I went in only thinking the movie was about a girl who is obsessed with a guy. Little did I know the movie would go into this crazy dichotomy of what it means for someone’s expectations and dreams to trap someone into a relationship. Of course, there’s magic involved with the main characters, Nikki and Bear, where Bear breaks a wishbone out of desperation and wishes for Nikki to be completely obsessed with him.

Throughout the first watch, I sympathized with him. There’s a point where it even seems like Nikki might be kinda into him, and it might work out. Then he makes the wish, and the obsession happens, but the fantastic part is that the obsession doesn’t work like you expect it to happen. It’s like when Mark Zuckerberg goes on a podcast, and it takes a good hour for him to act like a normal human. She malfunctions, says some weird shit, makes a burial ritual with the corpse of his dead cat, and then blames it on her taking molly. The actress Inde Navarrette plays her so well that even through the weirdness, I was like

“You know what, I’d still do it. Maybe she’s a 7th day Adventist.” (I seem to have a type)

Bear must have had the same thought because directly afterwards she comes to his house to apologize and try and reconnect, and he accepts faster than it takes me to leave Zumbi for the weekend.

There’s a montage of Bear and Nikki in a type of couple honeymoon phase where it seems like the movie is trying to say that everything is okay. It’s very short, but it does its job to convince you. However, on a second and third rewatch, it shows that she shared an AI-generated meme of him with the caption.

“I want to wear your skin as a sweater”

In my opinion, she could have just saved the water and used Canva like a normal person, but that’s just me.

So after the montage shit goes really off the rails, and it starts to become apparent that the original Nikki has been banished to the Banco De Guayaquil customer service hotline, and her Spanish isn’t good enough to convey the issue she’s experiencing and the customer service reps told her an English translator would be contacting her, but that was months ago, so now she’s stuck in the shadow realm trying to get Barry’s attention by hurting her self.

This is the point where all sympathy for Bear erodes. She asks Berry to please kill her, and the Nikki he’s in love with and in a relationship with isn’t real.

He then asks her what’s so bad about being with him.

At that moment, the whole movie can be reviewed through a whole different lens. It’s no longer about a sad guy you feel bad for, but a truly pathetic guy. He leaves OxyContin out and kills his cat. He can’t tell someone his feelings for being too scared to be vulnerable, so he forces themself onto her, and I feel like that personal negligence is a scarier force than a woman being possessed by a dark spirit and obsessed with you.

I’d say more, but if I can leave you with this thought.

The main actor looks like if you put Charlie Kirk and Dave Franco in ChatGPT and told it to make their baby. (I have to give credit to someone on Letterboxd for this keen obervation not my own genius mind)

Anyway 10/10 movie. Watch it a few times for full effect.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Huge Update Alert!

Amount of Money needed to hit the goal for the English Lab: $2,644.35

Amount raised so far: $4,576 :)

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

HELLLLLLLLLL YEAHHHH!

When I say I’m ecstatic, it doesn’t capture the full range of emotions that come with being more than 75% of the way to making this English Lab a reality.

But you know how it is. The road ain’t paved, Arron Rodgers is the starting quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers, and the reflecting pool is still green.

There is work to be done!

So I’ll hit you with some facts.

Today I was having my little English camp with the little ones. We were learning about the various hot topic animals- Dog, Cat, Cow, Lion, Giraffe- the type of stuff that gets the kids hype. Meanwhile, we’re dealing with the rainy season in Zamora Chinchipe, coupled with what is supposedly La Niña.

Our little Cafe Gazebo had no chance for the beating the rain gave it. Underneath, you could barely hear yourself think, let alone learn that in my English mind, dogs go woof woof, and not Guaua Guaua . (Phonetically, Guaua Guaua sounds more like Wow Wow to an English ear, but to me, I’m woof woof till the day I die)

I was trying to turn this into charades, and I’d do a few noises, and they’d guess the animal in English, and then they would make the noises and make it into a little race, and the winner got a handful of chocolate chips. About 40 minutes into the game, the runoff rainwater came into the Gazebo, and at that point, it turned more into a classic play in the comical amount of drizzling water from the ceiling, and forget about animal charades.

Think about what I could have done in an English Lab with an insulated roof? Think about how Arron Rodgers is 42 playing quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers?

Donating can fix one of those problems, but it might make you forget about the second.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

Anyway here’s whats been going on in my brain.

We’ve reached an odd stretch of time for a TEFL volunteer.

The stretch from the end of official classes on June 1st through the exam period, the student retake period, and the grading period, ending somewhere in the second week of July.

It’s a time when I’m assuming many of us are already mentally on vacation, but we feel obliged to come into the office from 7:10 to 1:20.

Last year, I spent this time preparing materials for 2 summer camps, and coloring my way into forgetting about my Spanish fluency.

This summer, I realized there’s no Peace Corps award for overextending yourself and burning out into oblivion, and also the fact that once you create a summer camp agenda for 5-10 year olds, you can reuse it to your heart’s desire.

So I’ll be real with you, the past month has felt like a real Groundhog Day.

Waking up, drinking a cup of coffee, going to the office, drinking another cup of coffee, going home and making a sandwich, then “accidentally” falling asleep in my hammock, and then coming back into the office two hours later, a bit nervous someone’s gonna call me out on it, but surprised nobody does.

Logically, I ended up rewatching Groundhog Day, but halfway in, it reminded me of one of my favorite books, 11/22/63. Essentially, the books are about an English teacher who gets gifted a portal back to the 60s, and assumes the purpose of the portal is to stop Lee Harvey Oswald from assassinating JFK. The book is a real 10/10, and I don’t think I’ve read something so good.

So that book is like over 1,000 pages, and while it’s amazing, I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to restart it. However, they did make a Hulu miniseries starring James Franco a few years back. I first tried to watch this show directly after I finished the book, and I remember being too much of an 11/22/63 absolutist to condone some of the deviations from the source material, and I abruptly threw my phone across my room.

However, 8 years later, the exact plot points have been lost in my brain and replaced by unnecessary Peace Corps acronyms and minor names of minor Cleveland Cavaliers players like Ante Žižić or Mfiondu Kabengele. So I gave the miniseries a second shot, and it’s pretty alright.

I don’t have much to say about the actual miniseries, other than that I have very mixed feelings about being both a James Franco apologist and a truther. He’s like my less heinous Michael Jackson. You can’t make me hate the guy who played Harry Osborn, Daniel in Freaks and Geeks, or the Pimp in Spring Breakers. What I’m trying to say is I would have a James Franco movie Marathon, but I don’t want to ever meet the guy.

So I went fishing for a good book that would satisfy some boredom and went for the names that for years have been advertised to society as peak fiction- A Confederacy of Dunces- No Country for Old Men- War and Peace- I got through No country for old men, half of confederacy of dunces, and looked at the first page of War and Peace and thought I need my PB&J. It wasn’t what I needed.

So I get a text from my grandma, who sent me a NYT book review for a novel called Angel Down (2025), about a troop of no-good WW1 soldiers sent on a mission to save an angel who’s been shot over no man’s land. It got me through a few days of office time, and I’m thankful for the job it did, but I was left feeling the need for a few ingredients for my pizza pie.

A few days pass, and I’m googling “Books that are just as good as 11/22/63,” and a Reddit post comes up (That’s when you know you did a good Google), and in the conversation, a book called The First 15 Lives of Harry August by Catherine Webb comes up. The book’s premise alone gave my history-lover brain a feast and satiated me through the tedium of June.

You may have predicted from the title that the book is about a guy who lives the same life over and over, with knowledge of historical events and retained memories of skills, etc. Add to that the fact that there is a whole community of people with the same issue, and a secret organization formed by them, and you have a pretty baller book. On top of that, the world is ending, and the main character has an X amount of lives to figure out why.

I will say that the overarching story is like a 7.5/10, and for a majority of it, I was locked in, really imagining the number of ways the author can take the book. However, about 75% of the way in turns into a detective story, where I was fairly certain the author had given the mystery away in the first couple of chapters. So by the end, I’m just flipping through, and my imagination foils up like a soggy raisin.

Still, I was intrigued.

I had seen the potential of what this genre could offer, but I was on the edge of my seat, looking at what could be.

I scoured the Reddit thread where I had found the previous recommendation, and someone recommended a book called Replay by Ken Grimwood.

The book starts mid-sentence in 1986 with the main character, a middling radio executive in a failing marriage, realizing he’s in the midst of a heart attack. A real bazooka of a premise, and then ta da, the guy wakes up in his 18-year-old college body in 1962 with all the knowledge of the past, and replays that same life over and over again. (Sound similar yet?)

It satisfied the Groundhog Day itch, the 11/22/23 fascination, and felt more grounded than The First 15 Lives of Harry August, but as I read it, I couldn’t help but think that it was just a less grand but more well-grounded in its execution of The First 15 Lives of Harry August.

However, while I was reading it, I was like

“This motherfucker is stealing from 11/22/63, TF15LOHA, and Ground Hod Day.”

1. The main character attempts stopping the Kennedy assassination

1. He finds another person replaying the same life

2. The main character thinks shagging his coworker will stop the cycle, as in Groundhog Day and F15LOHA.

I look at the title page and see that the book was written in 1986.

Hear me out because because this is where my long incoherent ramble comes to its natural conclusion.

I feel as though I was inadvertently working through an author’s MLA citation page. To get Replay, we needed a short story by Richard Lupoff called 12:01, which is about a guy living the same hour over and over again, and to get Groundhog Day, we needed both Replay and 12:01, then to get 11/22/63, we needed the JFK to very publicly die (Lo siento amigo) and Replay, and la de da.

What does this mean for the world?

A few English majors might find this, read it and remember they’re unemployed. The rest of us are just waiting for enough money to buy a smart board for an English Lab in the Amazon, and safe passage to Loja.

But other than that absolutely nothing.

Now you’re just as crazy as me.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Amount of Money needed to hit goal for English Lab: $5,818.35

Amount raised so far: $1,402.64 :)

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

I want to give a huge thanks to anyone who donated, and to those who donate in the future.

However, we are at an important impasse in our fundraising (maybe something I should have mentioned earlier): Peace Corps matches the first $1,600 raised. So if you think about it, with a few more donations and using the transitive property, one of you could unlock this tier, and if you think about it loosely, your donation could be $ 1,601 or, if you’ve got that Boardwalk, Park Place Monopoly money, $5,818.35.

You may be asking, “Jack, why would I donate $5,818.35?”

To that, may I spin you a theoretical?

Can I put some syrup on your flapjacks?

Remember when your significant other, boss, dog, cat, son, cuy, sister-in-law, Tinder match, John Lennon’s ghost that haunts the left side quadrant of your room, called you a piece of shit for not taking out the trash?

I will personally contact President Trump, Joe Biden, Obama, Bush, Clinton, the ghost of the 19th president, Rutherford B. Hayes, and ask them to give you the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

So when your nephew, ex-girlfriend’s husband’s mom, or 6th-grade teacher who caught you cheating on your science test, goes to your funeral, there will be a little side part explaining that while you had your faults, you were awarded the presidential medal of freedom for making a Peace Corps volunteer happy and thousands of Zumbians the opportunity to have better access to English learning.

(I could even lie and change “Better Access to English learning” to “Fluent”, but that’s only for $5818.35. I want to express that my chances of getting you the Presidential Medal of Freedom are highly unlikely, but I’ll try my hardest. Ex.) send one Instagram DM to Trump, Bush, Obama, Biden, and the Rutherford B Hayes foundation for forgotten presidents Results will be disappointing).

WE DID IT! ECUADOR BEAT GERMANY! WE’RE GOING TO THE NEXT ROUND

So during this game, I was dealing with my 4th or 5th case of the Zumbi flu. The kind of Flu that pressurizes your whole head so badly that you end up tying a shirt around your head to somehow equalize the pressure, and bright light only aggravates it.

So naturally I couldn’t miss out on history; I did the classic buff streams on my iPad, took 2 Diphen, and went into a classic post-NightQuill phase of feeling like you might be in outer space, but pushed myself to try and lie down and at least listen to the game. I fell asleep not even 20 seconds into the game.

Fortunately for me, the elementary school in front of my apartment was hosting a watch party, and, in an apartment made of solid concrete, soundproofing seems nonexistent, so I woke up in a sweaty panic to roars of applause and screams, thinking it was in my apartment. However, I looked at my iPad and saw the highlight of Nilson Angulo’s beautiful goal, making it 1-1.

At that point, I’ve never heard Zumbi so loud and so proud. (Other than during the Reina) There were fireworks for the first goal in the World Cup, a series of horn honking that lasted for numerous minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if 9 months from now, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of Nilson Angulos throughout Ecuador.

I felt compelled to try my best to keep my eyes open through the pain, knowing that those who read my blog rely on my keen observations to build their worldviews. I tied my tri across my head and kept watching.

For a majority of the game, it kinda felt like both Germany and Ecuador were moving slower than you’d expect from a team in an elimination match. I get this insight mostly because former American National team player Landon Donovan, who was announcing the game, kept saying so.

(Fun fact: a South Korean tourist once mistook me for Landon Donovan in the Highland Park Deli when I was about 17).

Our hairlines would agree. (He recently went to Turkey.)

#Staybald

However, back to the game.

The second half was a real nail-biter, but as previously mentioned, both teams looked really nonchalant and chalant at the same time. There were times our goalkeeper made some high-effort saves that silenced the town and led to full-town eruptions when they were saved, and a few times Ecuador got really close but missed due to a weird angle or a miscommunication.

By the 70th minute, the game was ending in a tie, or a heartbreak goal by Germany wasn’t out of the possibility. I walked to the town square, wanting a friend in solace or a friend in victory, and was welcomed by each townsperson standing in the park, staring nervously at the screen with the dreams of a nation sitting in their clammy hands.

Pedro Vite kicks the corner landing close into the box, and the crowd gasps in the confusion at what just happened, not knowing whether to cheer or to swear, and all of a sudden the ball finds Kevin Rodriguez’s head, who heads it near the goal but not enough, until a foot? Is the foot German or Ecuadorian?

IT WAS ECUADORIAN. PLATA MAKES THE GOAL. ECUADOR 2-1.

I have never felt a more exciting sports environment. I remember when the Steelers won in 2009, the Cavs won in 2016, and the Penguins won back-to-back in 2016 and 2017, watching Crosby, Phil Kessel, and Malkin dominate, but this felt personal for everyone in the park. People were kissing babies. Cigs were being lit like we were in Mad Men, people were chasing agua fuerte with zhumir.

However, there were 13 minutes of a regulation left added to the 7 added for penalty time, and the Agua fuerte was replaced by sobering Clubs and Pilsner’s. The casual smoking began to become a more serialized nervous chain smoke, until the 20 sobering minutes passed by.

BUT WE MADE IT TO THE NEXT ROUND!

The celebration at the end was insane. The amount of 4 person motorcycle rides, wheelies, and attempted taxi flip until the mayor stared them down, and overall pandemonium will be discussed at a later date when I get my grant money and leave peace corps.

PRAISE XENU!

On to the next round.

(Side note to how legendary the moment was- the president of Ecuador made the following day a national holiday).

FERRRIADDOOOOO!

All in all a real 10/10 experience.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Fundraising needed to accomplish goal: $7,019.35

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

I‘ve been coming out of a month or so of burnout, racking up numbers of Bolone’s con Chicharon per week that might worry even the most ardent of Bolone enthusiasts, paired with countless skipped gym sessions, looking at a fundraising goal of 7,019 like

But in the great words of Charlie Sheen

“I have a different constitution. I have a different brain; I have a different heart; I got tiger blood, man.”

Sometimes you gotta fake it till you make it and go for a long ass hike to smell the roses.

Emailing {Insert city I’ve never lived in with a brief reference to their unique city attribute and how it relates to Zamora Chinchipe, and a quick reference to their city’s NBA team.

Or similar energy, but Boston and my only connection to the city is my cousins.

Or perusing LinkedIn to find the xyz corporate responsibility officer of the local mining foundation, and all others in that foundation, with a clear hint of community engagement in their LinkedIn titles, and sending them a message asking if they are interested in a quick chat.

I haven’t heard back from any of the returned Peace Corps volunteer organizations, but I did have a dream that I got an email from a returned Peace Corps volunteer group rejecting me on the grounds that I had no ties to said city. Fair point, subconscious.

My thoughts on Ecuador’s game in the World Cup

For the past year and a half, this game has been coming. My first few months here, I used the event as small talk, bullshitting that I knew what I was talking about. One time, I had a conversation outside of a panderia with this guy, and I only understood two words “defensa” and “Balenciaga”. I took a big swing and mentioned something about the company’s teddy bear scandal, and he looked at me, just so lost, and walked away. It wasn’t until months later that I realized he was talking about star striker Enner Valencia.

As the days went on, June 11th, 2026, became not just a mythical date when the World Cup started, but a reality where months fly away like days and days are slogging like months. You attempt to jump on the calendar to get time to stop, but that shit’s a human construct with papers and numbers on it. Then you try to stop Earth’s rotation, but it’s way stronger than you and also impossible. So instead of doing any of those things, the best thing you can do is watch the game.

So the day comes, and we have a full town celebration. There’s a farm animal auction at the church where I jokingly shouted 15 for a small chicken, and then was followed by 2 minutes of complete silence, and gave 15 dollars for said chicken in a burlap bag, and gave it to my landlord for 20$. (That’s Peace Corps training for you)

So time comes around, and I walk to the park where the whole town was viewing the game on a big screen, and I have never been so invested in a soccer game in my whole life. I usually get pretty zoned out for large portions because the national team games tend to be pretty defensively oriented and end in a tie, and this was nothing different than the rest, but it felt like my life was on the line here.

It was 90 minutes of a defensive battle. Im pretty sure we hit the cross bar three times, and for a minute I didn’t think anyone was going to score. If you simulated this game 100 times, 80 of them would have been 0-0, but don’t take that as a fact because I know nothing about the topic, only vibes. I didn’t even know a World Cup game could end in a tie, or that the first round isn’t one-game elimination until after the game. (Asking questions is often a more successful way to go through life)

Either way, a substitute for the Ivory Coast comes into the game super late into it and just kicks it in. It wasn’t even that good of a goal, and we had stopped them at every turn until that moment. That hurt so bad. On par with the Cavaliers’ game 1 against the Knicks when they were up 20 with 6 minutes, and Jaylen Brunson absolutely destroyed us, or any game the Spurs blew for the past week.

The good thing is that for us bandwagon Ecuador fans, there are 2 more games that we can win, and if we do, we head to the next round. (I think) The next game is with Curaçao, and then Germany. I’m not gonna make any bold predictions as to whether we win these games, but man, I really hope we do. It would be pretty cool if Ecuador won it all, and I could tell some kid one day when I’m 60

“ You know, kid, back in the summer of 2026 when Ecuador won the World Cup, and people were saying jobs won’t exist, I was in Ecuador teaching English and drinking Pisleners with the best of them.”

‘I’m not a kid, i’m your robot boss! Get back to the line. The new Grok Tesla robots wont build themselves! Your government mandated break isn’t until you put 60 more noses on these robots.”

‘Only 20 more years to retirement…”

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Now that I’ve got your attention.

For the past 6 months, I’ve been working on a grant project that will make a pretty substantial difference in the life of one transplant Zumbian you do know, and hundreds, if not thousands, of Zumbians you don’t know.

How does one accomplish this?

Obviously, an English Lab.

We’re not just getting a few bricks scattered around Zumbi, putting them together with some mortar a few hundred times, and calling it a day. For one, we already did that to marvelous success.

This is an ongoing community effort here. The Peace Corps requires community donations at 25%, and, not to brag, my community came up with 48% of our goal. I mention this to show the gravity of the project, shame you into feeling bad for me if I don’t come up with the rest of the money, since it would be really awkward to walk into my school and be like

“Rector, my gringos couldn’t pull through, we’re gonna have to go with the sexy car wash idea.”

My third reason for bringing this up is to share a funny anecdote where I was half committed to the grant idea in a bit of a Peace Corps slog till my rector called me into his office, letting me know the night before the school’s PTA came up with 7000 dollars, and being like

“You’re working on the grant, right?”

And I’m looking at my Google history.

“How to write a Peace Corps grant?”

“What is PACA?”

“What if the Yellowstone Volcano Erupts?”

“How to survive a 100-kilometer ash cloud?”

Since then, I know the answer to all these questions, and I’ve gotten really into the nitty-gritty details of the Zumbi Colegio English Lab to distract myself from the impending doom of a potential eruption of Yellowstone.

Here’s a quick Q&A

Q.“You’re always writing how industrious your fellow English Teachers are, why would you need more resources?”

A. Have you ever seen a Bugatti parked outside an Applebee’s?

That’s what I thought. Right now we have two fantastic full-time teachers, including one exuberant Peace Corps volunteer, and every semester we create our own handmade resources, including pronoun charts, verbs, and adjectives, so our students can look to the board for context clues.

Inevitably, the Amazonian humidity and chaos tear apart those resources, creating a moldy, odd-smelling mess, and our Bugatti of creativity is made tiresome. Our nature turns us into the 99 Volvo with only one functional window. The newly made resources turn into Midnight Red Bull sketches of verb tenses and crashed-out explanations of why regular verbs end with ED, and others are irregular.

Ex.)

TEACHER- KAROL G SINGED YESTERDAY. NO, IM SORRY. (ERASES LIKE A MAD MAN) KAROL G SUNG YESTERDAY.

Students- Teacher, why wasn’t it sung?

ME- It’s irregular.

STUDENTS- (SILENCE)

TEACHER- POINTS TO INCOMPREHENSIBLE PAST TENSE VERB POSTER WITH MOLD GROWING ON IT. (Teacher cries inside, and depression eats a turkey sandwich and black coffee during recreo.)

Think about what it means to have a dedicated space for English Class with functional windows, an internet connection, and a smart board that will allow my fellow English Teachers to create presentations without having to create magic out of thin air.

Imagine what it means to have the ability to pull up a resource that explains a classroom’s confusion, only to realize you can’t because recreating it would take the whole class. That problem happens every day, and with a contribution of even a dollar, you could enhance the English-teaching ability of 3 teachers and potentially thousands of future students.

Q.) Why does an English Lab matter in rural Ecuador?

English is the gateway drug to opportunity worldwide, due to globalism and U.S. hegemony, and being able to speak and learn it provides an opportunity to connect. You can change the world with your words, and I think if you gave my students that ability to articulate themselves in English, they could make you smile, cry, laugh, and maybe frustrate the hell out of you.

I’ve got students who wanna learn the words to their favorite Radiohead songs, and then possibly realize Radiohead isn’t their favorite band.

Students whose houses are flooded by the mismanagement of illegal gold mining. I hear their gripes about it, and you wonder what difference they could make if they were bilingual? The world might not be ready for a hundred chronically online Greta Thunbergs.

On the flip side, legal gold mining (Legal is doing a lot of heavy lifting here) is the most profitable game in town, with a Canadian mining company that pays extra to those who can speak English. If they can get the leg up while they’re in high school and provide themselves an equitable life, what else can they do?

My students are also competing for a limited number of university spots and facing students from across Ecuador. They are at a geographical disadvantage, being the farthest south in Ecuador; the closest university is 3 hours away in Loja, 6 hours away in Cuenca and Guayaquil, and as far as 15 hours from Quito and Riobamba. While it’s not a prerequisite for admission, it is for graduation.

Imagine this- You get into university, you rock it all 4 years, but you can’t get your diploma because the Peace Corps Volunteer wasn’t able to explain to you why some verbs are irregular adequately. You aren’t able to get your diploma.

A dollar from you can change this.

What happens to the English Lab when I leave?

If you read through this whole thing or read this blog regularly (Thank you for doing so), and think I’m the only thing keeping the Zumbi English Department afloat, you need a lobotomy.

I have 2 counterparts that any Peace Corps volunteer would envy. I’d say they are the Avengers and I, Hawkeye, but that would be underselling their zeal and knack for English teaching and overstating my arrow-shooting abilities.

Each day they come in and put the department on their backs, knowing every one of our students’ names, their mom’s name, and their favorite type of Encebollado. (Mixto is the only right option)

I do not doubt that they will keep the lab organized, maintain their ongoing English training, and remain unmatched in their talents.

If I haven’t convinced you of donating or sending this to your gym crush so she can read it and promptly not text you back, and then you texting them back saying

“How about the fact Yellowstone hasn’t erupted in 640,000 years, and we are technically within the eruption cycle with an error rate of 60,000 years, so we might as well get a coffee.”

You miss every shot you don’t take, but donating a dollar to my English lab has a success rate of about 100%, and you could change the life of an overcaffeinated Peace Corps Volunteer and a whole lot of Zumbians.

Here’s the link to donate!

https://www.peacecorps.gov/donate/projects/pp-26-518-006/

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

HEY YOU!

Who me? (PCV sitting in an empty cafe with Uno cards in hand, 20 minutes into English Club)

YEAH, YOU!

What about me?

DO YOU HAVE THREE ENGLISH CLUBS THAT ARE ON LIFE SUPPORT?

I wouldn’t say they’re on life support…

IF YOU DIDN’T SHOW UP AT THE CLUB, IS THERE A 60% CHANCE NO ONE WOULD NOTICE?

60% might be a little high…

(SIGH)

It might be 80%… It’s happened before.

SO WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?

Thinking about calling it a wrap. Canceling the club without acknowledging that I’m even canceling it.

FUCK THAT’S BLEAK.

It is what it is. I’m thinking of using that time for myself.

YOU CAN’T REWATCH THE SOPRANOS. 8 TIMES IS TOO MANY.

I wasn’t planning on doing that…

(SIGH)

Fine fuck off.

USE PACA NOW!

What’s PACA?

PARTICIPATORY ANALYSIS FOR COMMUNITY ACTION.

That’s real?

YES. IT HELPS FACILITATE EFFECTIVE PARTNERSHIPS BY DESIGNING, IMPLEMENTING, AND EVALUATING PROJECTS WITH A DISTINCT FOCUS ON PARTICIPATORY CAPACITY STRENGTHENING.”

I don’t really need to do all that, right? I can have some conversations with the people I live next to every day, like a normal person, without having to make kids do a survey.

HOW’S THAT WORKING OUT FOR YOU?

I can walk down the street and get a beer handed to me. That’s pretty cool.

ALCOHOL IS THE DEVIL’S MAGIC.

Fair.

DO YOU KNOW SPECIFICALLY WHAT TIME YOUR STUDENTS ARE AVAILABLE? WHAT DO THEY WANT TO LEARN? WHERE DO THEY LIVE THAT WOULD BEST FIT THEIR NEEDS? IF THEY WANT AN ENGLISH CLUB AT ALL? HAVE YOU SPENT A SECOND TO COMMUNITY MAP? SEASONAL CALENDARS? A PROBLEM TREE? FOCUS GROUPS? A SURVEY.

…I’ve talked to them extensively.

GIVE ME THE NAME OF THE STUDENT AND ALL THE ANSWERS TO MY QUESTIONS.

Sebastian. He wants to learn… verbs? The present progressive?

(SIGH)

It’s not like I’ll find anything that I couldn’t do by simply doing what I do now.

HOW’S THAT WORKING FOR YOU?

Fine, I’ll make the survey.

(2 DAYS LATER)

I got the survey results back.

WHAT DID THEY SAY?

Well, most students want to learn English, but they are busy working after school or already have obligations like basketball, soccer, and a Garden Club where students are creating a garden beside the colegio, which I didn’t know existed.

HOW DID YOU THINK THAT GARDEN GOT THERE?

The government…

THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT. YOU SHOULD JOIN THEM. YOU LIKE LANDSCAPING.

How is this English related?

IF YOU JOIN IT, THEY WILL COME.

Also, Fortnite and Free Fire are frequently listed on the surveys as after-school hobbies.

GO TO THE TECH TIENDA. CONVINCE THEM TO DOWNLOAD SKYRIM ON ALL THE COMPUTERS.

Why Skyrim?

HAVE YOU EVER PLAYED SKYRIM FOR LESS THAN AN HOUR? THAT GAME IS ENGROSSING AS HELL. YOU WONT EVEN HAVE TO TEACH.

Thank you, PACA man. I’m sorry I doubted PACA and thought it was for Youth development and Community Health nerds.

THEY ARE, TEFL IS WHERE IT’S AT, BUT I FORGIVE YOU.

Weekly recommendation

The Drama (2026)- This movie poses a pretty wild question.

What if your fiancé admitted to almost committing a school shooting when they were in high school?

I think this movie poses some really interesting questions about our relationship with gun violence, but my main criticism is whether Zendaya is the most realistic person to pose this question. It’s not that she’s not a good actress; I think she’s quite talented. But if you were marrying Zendaya and she’s like, “Hey, I almost did this when I was younger,” do you really think you’re not pulling through with it? It’s Zendaya. You’d be going through some mild mental gymnastics to make it digestible.

On the other hand, if we were to take Mr. Bean and he told you that. What are you doing?

(No disrespect to you Mr. Atkinson)

Rating 8.0/10- Theoretically 9/10

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Status of my knee: Completely healthy! Eat my shorts Cuy lady. (Respectfully)

Inside Baseball: A Day in the Life

Yesterday, I was in desperate need of groceries after putting off a robust Tia trip a week after getting home from vacation, which had me crafting slightly different Tuna and rice dishes from one of those classic Latin American 6-packs of Tuna. The classic Tuna Fish Sandwich was in play: Tuna mixed into Rice, Tuna mixed with rice with a little ketchup, Tuna mixed with some rice, Ketchup, and Mayo, and finally a Tuna empanada.

Either way, I walked into the grocery store with a greater destiny set for myself. My stomach rumbled as I walked through the aisles, and I was quite excited, thinking that the rest of the day I would have a fun English club and get a second blog post out this month. (I’ll get three out next month.)

My eyes immediately see a can of Pringles, and I get this flashback of eating a Peanut Butter Sandwich, a cold glass of milk, and a few Pringles. For the next 30 minutes, it’s all I’m thinking about. I bought pasta sauce, but no pasta. Bread with no ham or cheese. Just a bunch of different condiments without their spouses. It was pandemonium.

For any of my non-Ecuador readers, Tia is a magical place where you can get dollar hot dogs and get a lot of your major grocery needs. However, it’s not as trusty as Supermaxi, which is like the Whole Foods of Ecuador. Hence, eating one of these Hot Dogs isn’t inherently a bad idea, but it’s also not the best idea. My hunger could be comparable to the guy from 127 Hours who cuts his arm off, but instead of cutting my own arm off, I taught all 3 octavo classes in one day, so hence the Tia hot dog was my refuge.

So I take the 30 min taxi home to Zumbi, and I’m walking up the main street with groceries in hand, and I’m feeling fired up for the first full peanut butter and jelly sandwich I may house in a year and a half. This would be the first time I was industrious enough to have all the ingredients together at one time. (It’s not that hard, I’m just heinous at organizing) Im hauling ass back home, and my little legs are rushing all I can, and I feel a little stomach moan that sort of vibrates and sounds like a dying humpback whale on Whale Wars.

I get back into my kitchen, hastily putting all the things where they belong, and make two PB&J’s for myself, put some Pringles in them, and lie down in my hammock watching YouTube Cavs playoff analysis, which, if you know Cleveland sports, is just heartbreak and sadness. We pay Evan Mobley 250 million dollars to score 8 points in a playoff game routinely, trade a homegrown point-guard for a 35-year-old James Harden who will walk in free agency, and most likely will try to trade for a 33-year-old Giannis.

Needless to say, I ended up eating the whole bag of Pringles in one sitting, took a really sweaty 3-hour nap, and missed my English club entirely. When I wake up, I realize I ate a dollar hot dog, a whole can of Pringles, and two PB&J sandwiches, missed my English club, and am severely confused about whether 6:30 is in the morning or the night.

Thankfully, it was the latter, and I did some good old apologizing to my students who showed up to the club without their leader present. My point is that I didn’t get any more productive. I didn’t work out, I didn’t get this blog out, and I didn’t fulfill any semblance of what I intended to do that day. But you know what I did the next day? Worked out, wrote, finished a grant for an English lab, and made some pasta. Truly the duality of man.

My thoughts on the Galapagos

As I mentioned, I’ve got pretty heinous planning skills. Hence, a good bit of my pre-knowledge relied on a fellow PCV’s super detailed manifesto on how to operate on the island. There are limited daily flights to the island's main airport, which restricts potential movement to other islands based on each island's specific twice-daily flight schedule. There are also flights you can take that hop from island to island, but personally, I feel like that's like being hungover and doing an IV. The ferry to each island is the price you pay for greatness.

Either way, I didn’t fully comprehend the logistics of a trip like this until I was there, and I was bewildered by the mechanics of it all. For example, when you make it to the island of Santa Cruz, you take a bus from the airport to a small ferry that crosses a channel. (Think the movie Dunkirk (2018), but bluer water and no Nazi’s)

However, after the Ferry, you can take a bus or a Taxi to Puerto Ayora, the main city in Santa Cruz. I had no idea what to expect when my dad and I got to Santa Cruz, but it blew my mind. It’s got all the best parts of Ecuador, and still feels like a fully functioning town that will exist perfectly after you leave, but is happy that you are there.

I only mention this because I’ve been to Clearwater, Florida, and I’m not sure how that place functions with or without tourism. (It’s the free labor from Scientology. Come at me, David Miscavige)

However, my dad and I stayed on Isla Isabela and Isla Santa Cruz for 8 days, splitting the time on both equally, and if I were to give you my favorite island, which would be like comparing Fritada to Encebollado Mixto (Sac-religious even comparing the two)

I’d go with Isla Isabella.

Isla Isabella is the least populated, most nature-focused island of the three main islands, and it’s a truly remarkable place. Everywhere you go, there are sea lions just chilling with you, and there are just so many tours of different volcanoes, snorkeling, and body surfing. It’s also probably the hottest place I’ve ever been, and by 3 PM, a midday nap is essential. Most of our days started with breakfast, then an early morning adventure, body-surfing time, and a siesta that ended when my dad’s iPad fell on his face as he fell asleep watching YouTube. (Had to do it to them)

Let me give you a very real scenario about how tranquil the island is.

So my dad and I woke up on a peaceful Tuesday, and were quickly made aware of the president's “I’m gonna end Persian civilization by the end of the day” tweet. That's not vacation vibes, but more so, going back to sleep and hoping that was a dream kinda vibes. Either way, we had a planned hike up a volcano tour that day, and there’s a sort of existential panic that comes with learning that you may actually be on the side of the bad guys. This wasn’t any of our first rodeos on the T train, so naturally we went on the hike, and from every direction the view just floors you. It’s not that I totally forgot there was a chance of tragedy, but the island itself gives you a sense of the scale of the world and shows how small we are. Try doing the same in Toledo, Ohio.

On the other side of things the Galapagos gave me a new appreciation for the White Lotus. You see every season starts with the characters on a ferry, and by the end of all the characters end up knowing each other. While there was salacious philandering or crimes that happened on the island while I was there (That I know of) I knew a good 3 separate families that arrived on the island with us that I would see on tours, restaurants, and the beach and sometimes all three. You really start to get to know these families from a distance, and their idiosyncrasies, and which couples no longer like each-other and will soon terminate their relationship.

In all I’d give the Galapagos a 10/10. If there’s an opportunity to live there the rest of my life i’m taking it.

Weekly recommendation

The Descent (2006)

Alright, so the movie opens with a lady-friend group rafting, and an implication that the main characters husband is cheating on her with one of the friends in the raft. Almost immediately afterward, the husband is brutally beheaded in a final destination style metal pole through the windshield that also takes the life of her daughter. From the opening 5 minutes it’s also not afraid to put a metal pole through a philanderer. It’s some real gruesome shit.

So, after however long it takes to function athletically after the brutal death of your daughter and philandering husband, it's decided that the sisterhood will meet up for another adventure, this time caving in North Carolina. This time there’s some extra friends that join them that seem to be apart of the sisterhood, but also there as filler so the immediate philandering through-line has has enough breath for a 90 minute movie.

Look, the movie is scary as hell with the claustrophobia and then it pivots to the sisterhood getting trapped in the cave system, only to find out that Juno (the philanderer) brought them to an unexplored cave system in attempt to beat the main characters PTSD. Soon the movie adds blind humanoid/monster cave dwellers who feast on forest creatures and those stupid enough to find themselves down there. Due to the nature of these particular group dynamics, they end up fairing pretty well, namely Juno and the main character Sarah whose PTSD is actually turned into a strength, you see the shit she’s seen, a goblin looking fucker tearing out your friend's-jugular while hanging on a rope ain’t shit.

However through some simple communication errors that can be excused due to the nature of getting trapped two miles below the surface, having PTSD, realizing your dead husband was having sexual relations with your best friend, and also the new concept that living below us are humanoid demon goblin looking fuckers just ready to tear out your friends jugular, the main character and Juno fight off these monsters, but at the end of it all the main character Sara stabs Juno in the knee in attempt to slow the monsters down and will her escape.

I’ve been thinking about this plot point for 4 days now. They create this indomitable partnership, and then it’s shown that this whole time Juno’s been wearing a necklace of a quote that can only be attributed to the main character's late husband. I’m anti philandering. I think if philandering didn’t exist, we might be living in a better world, but did the lady deserve to take a climbing ax to the knee? What really gets me too is that after Juno gets stabbed in the knee, the main character falls into a hole and is trapped in the cave. It’s heavily implied she can’t escape and will be reunited with her late family, and that's if the afterlife exists, so she really could have not stabbed the other girl in the knee and maybe survived with her. 

Solid 10/10 concept of a movie and 8.5/10 for execution. (The sequel is an abomination im not writing about it.)

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

Percentage of Spanish I understood this week :90%

You know, as I laid on the hotel room floor in the Galápagos enjoying the sweet AC, I had a thought that really got me thinking.

The first year of integrating yourself in a new language is like being a baby again.

Hear me out.

If you're like me, you might have minored in Spanish, but a good majority of that might have been watching Pedro Almodóvar movies in class and wondering how many times you'll be able to bring that vocabulary out of the bag. (Thanks to Emilia Pérez, exactly once.)

So you might have some extensive Pedro Almodóvar knowledge you've been carrying since college, and you hit training which is a lot of

“sí, señorita, yo entiendo mucho sobre la diferencia entre por y para" (still don't) or "¡Hola! ¿Puedes ayudarme a encontrar la mejor panadería en Tumbaco?" and just spawn there each morning for the next three months, absolutely housing pan de chocolates and cappuccinos with no regard to society.

Then afterwards you Fortnite drop into site (Zumbi City)and if you're an industrious TEFL volunteer you might take the time to lesson plan, or if you live in reality you might just free ball it, and right when your co-teacher writes "present progressive" on the board you give it all you've got.

This will happen countless more times. You'll screw up por and para, struggle to articulate what you really need, and might go inward for a period of time.

Then you're forced to go outward again, whipped up in the natural inertia of your schedule. You listen more than you talk, which leads to massive dissociating and moments where you want to riff with the boys at teacher appreciation day about a pun you thought of about los lobos and los lobos and it ends with them thinking you're asking if they know anybody in Los Lobos (the gang) and an awkward silence.

There are days in between where you think you've made zero progress, and days where you're afraid others might think you haven't made progress — which might be worse. Days where you try to flirt, say word soup, and do your best the next day.

Then there are the weeks where you start to put it together and you feel it in your bones. You start to put your sense of humor into the new language, get a laugh here and there. You talk to anybody you can just to talk. It’s like the mad man inside of you unleashes onto whoever’s closest to you to try and make up for the past year of awkward silences and misunderstandings.

When I speak of madness.

This is why.

chao.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

I’ve been a full-grown man since about 16, but held on to my pediatrician’s promise I’d be 6’2.

I gave up on that dream at about 19 after realizing I wasn’t Anthony Davis.

But hey, Mugsy Bouges averaged a double-double.

A Peace Corps battle I never realized I was waging was being a grown man hybrid.

I worked out, went to work, did my laundry, and hyper-fixated on Guatita.

I gave up cooking to reduce conflict, and 3 meals were served to me.

Stopped going to the market.

Woke up late knowing a cup of coffee and a hard boiled egg would be there.

Soon, I started leaving paper in my pockets.

Repeating incorrect Spanish grammar.

Having an AirPod in at lunch.

Borrowing whiteboard markers.

Not knowing whether I should be thankful for meals or a cultural expectation given to me for being a dude.

I’m not indicting any one thing as much as my ability to be half in and half out.

So when I moved into the new apartment.

Had a whole month of not teaching.

Saw the world became an absolute shit storm.

The floor still got dirty.

I hadn’t gone outside for a whole day.

I got hungry.

I mopped.

I went for walks around town.

Made new friends.

cooked.

The next day still came.

There’s madness.

Triumph.

Loneliness.

Boredom.

That’s the name of the game.

We keep on swimming.

Enjoying the moments walking down the street, getting handed a beer from a stranger who knows your full name.

Keep it tight.

La luz se fue.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

(The picture says more than I could ever describe about what it’s like being alive in 2026)

House Hunters- Zumbi Edition (Narrated by Gilbert Gottfried)

HEY YOU! (GILBERT)

Me? (Me eating a bowl of Guatita)

YEAH YOU! DO YOU NEED A NEW PLACE TO LIVE?

No i’m good. Can we do this later? I’m getting a call from my host family.

(Hangs up the phone and looks down at the vast unknown in the mani sauce. Proceeds to spend the rest of the day walking street to street looking for open apartments.)

HOW’D THAT GO?

It seems like i’m gonna take you up on that offer.

DO YOU WANNA SEE THE OPTION?

You mean options?

WE GOT A ONE BED, ONE BATH IN THE HISTORIC, THE ARTSY, THE MAGNIFICENT CENTER OF ZUMBBBIII CITY.

Holy shit really?

REALLY

(GILBERT AND I STAR TREK BEAM INTO SAID APARTMENT)

(Apartment was only a little bigger than this)

Oh, so this is what’s on top of the ferretería.

IT’S ONLY 100$. WIFI, LIGHT, AND WATER INCLUDED.

It’s a little small for what I was imagining.

THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID.

It doesn’t have a kitchen or a window, but I mean, that’s Peace Corps, right? I signed up for something hard, and being resilient is part of the deal. Besides, the only thing I really need an apartment for is to sleep, right?

EXACTLY. YOU’RE BEING DRAMATIC. DO THIS FOR THE CORPS.

Well, thank you, Gilbert.

Moments later…

Okay, well that wasn’t that bad,

It was just a one-room apartment, with a bathroom attached, no window to the outside world, and a surprisingly modern bathroom. For a hundred dollars a month?

I could buy a little stove and put it in the corner, and have a little mini fridge.

That wouldn’t be horrible, right?

Right?

Yeah, I can get home from teaching, sit in this room, in this small Ecuadorian town in the middle of the Amazon, and just disassociate… How am I going to cook?

Besides, I only have a year left of service.

When I signed up, I didn’t think I would have running water, constant, reliable internet, or a shower. Am I being too selective?

I’m sure I am. Other Peace Corps Volunteers have lived in huts, shacks in the heartland, and I can’t live in a perfectly okay room with a bathroom.

But they at least had a window, right?

A place to cook that’s not beside their bed?

How would I know the time of day without a window?

I look up to the gray heavens, asking God,, Abraham, the Buddha, Vishnu, Xenu if this is their plan for me.

Nobody answers, and I’m just a guy looking up at the sky in a public park, smoking a cigarette on a Thursday afternoon.

Do I really believe that there are no options better for me in this whole town than this room with no window and a surprisingly nice bathroom?

What if I can’t find anything, and this is the best that I’m going to get?

I don’t have to live in Zumbi, I don’t have to live in Ecuador. I don’t have to live in a shoe box if I don’t need to.

The tension settles in my chest. Outward rage festers as the cigarette is finished, and I lean deeper into the park bench. The travelers are waiting for a bus to take them somewhere, and anywhere other than this current moment.

I see the bus going to Zamora.

I’m out of here.

(The next day, sitting at my desk, overthinking my life during Semana de deportes)

JACK GO TO THE OLD TEFL VOLUNTEERS APARTMENT.

Gilbert!

THIS AIN’T GILBERT. THIS IS YOUR SITE MATE RIAYA.

I will. They just had workers outside their house.

DO IT.

(Walks over to where I think the apartment was and takes a lucky guess at the front door)

“Hola! Me llamo Jack. Soy un compañero de otro voluntario. Vivió aquí el año pasado, ¿verdad?

“Si.”

“Muy bien. ¿Tienes un apartamento disponible?”

“Si.”

¿Tiene una ventana y una cocina?

“Si.

¿Cuándo puedo mudarme?

This week’s recommendation

A get-right Uno/Go Fish session for English Club-

Sometimes you plan an English Club session that’s just a little bit too complex, and the explanation alone takes the club from being fun to a little bit too close to being English class part 2.

However, from stealing from my TEFL counterparts in Zamora, when you need an easy win and a ton setter for the day, just whip out Uno or a pair of cards.

With Uno and Go Fish, you’re teaching.

• The word Go

• The word Fish

• The numbers 1-10

• Colors

• The words draw, reverse, and skip.

• The phrase “Do you have.”

So when in doubt, play Uno and Go Fish. Overall, 10/10 life hack.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people.

For my long-time readers of this blog, and for any new people who may be reading this for whatever reason, about a year ago, during a Cuy sacrifice/cleaning, an indigenous healer told me that, at about this time next year, I would need a new knee.

The first Monday leading up to carnival, class ended at eleven o’clock on the dot. I walked to my next class and quickly noticed everybody was packed up. I’ve learned that sometimes when a half day presents itself, it’s best to accept it, go home, and take a quick nap. (I stayed up really late watching the finale of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Sue me.)

So the next day, something similar happens, and my counterpart scrambles out of the classroom straight at 11:00 again.

Da fuck?

This time, I took a little more initiative, following my counterpart up the steps to our school and hearing Shakira blasting from our third-floor auditorium.

Promising.

I find a host of my fellow teachers all practicing the choreography to a dance number. Quickly, I’m encouraged to join, and for the next 3 days, we’ll put in 5 hours of practice on a pretty well-thought-out schedule. We aren’t the most coordinated school, and I’m not one of the most coordinated people, but together we seemed to really make quite the ensemble.

In those three days, we were all given duties outside of the standard choreography, and my job was to be part of a two-man hype group, essentially doing anything pre-dance to get the crowd going.

Date- February 12th, Where- Zumbi Playa- Amount of Redbulls- 2

We get in our spots, the music starts, and I get ready to jump in the air.

Lift off!

(Grainy photo of my jump)

Pop! Click! Tick!

Instantaneously, my knee feels like a bike chain that’s been popped off its gear in front of a crowd of your peers and students as I tried to reorient my knee and pop it back in place.

It’s been about 13 days, and the good old RICE method has done wonders, but those 13 days of listening to your body, and going slower up the stairs than normally or missing out on excursions because your knee needs more stability are humbling.

So while I may not need a new knee.

Well played, lady, well played.

Weekly recommendations

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir (2022)- This book was absolutely incredible. I basically spent two whole days doing nothing but reading it. I had already seen the movie The Martian, based on the Andy Weir book, when I was 15, and for like a whole year or two, that movie was on top of my mind. So when I saw that Super Bowl ad they had for the movie coming out in March, I knew that I had to give it a read. (That’s some pretty strong marketing)

The book is about the sun losing its energy due to an invasive alien species, and a crew of 3 must travel to a distant galaxy to figure out how to kill it, thereby diminishing the sun’s energy. I think the book is a masterpiece for the first half, and the second half is definitely good, but by the end, it feels like it’s blowing smoke up its butt. I don’t say that to discourage you, because in a sense, the first half is so good that it deserves the smoke.

9.3/10- Rocky should have died in the airlock, and Andy Weir realized he wrote himself into a hole and didn’t have the courage to kill him.

A Knight of the 7 Kingdoms- I haven’t read the novella yet, which I plan to do after a copy is available from the library, but this show makes me even more excited to do so since it’s 1/3 of that original book series, The Tales of Dunk and Egg. It’s not always that you watch something and feel the need to read that same thing you just watched.

However This show knew what it wanted to do and it really did it well. It’s a breath of fresh air when something is shorter than it should be, and not the other way around. As well, I feel like everybody’s got a lot of personality, and it captures a certain guy’s just being dudes attitude that you don’t encounter often.

8.9/10- Watch episode 5, it’ll change you

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people

Percentage of Spanish I understood this week: 82%

Last Tuesday—11 AM mandatory meeting—Zumbi Colegio—third-floor meeting area—second cup of coffee.

My fellow colleagues and I sit waiting for our rector to address us. The subject of the meeting was undetermined, but the assumption was that it concerned the passing of a respected community member.

The secretary takes attendance, establishes a quorum, and starts the session. The rector walks into the meeting room, arms folded on the lectern at the front, looking toward all of us.

“Necesitamos una nueva estrategia para ganar contra las Prides en nuestra institución hermanita.”

The entire room immediately begins ferociously arguing over the school’s best starting eleven. I hear my name getting thrown into the mix, and when your name is mentioned as one of the best at something, especially when everything feels difficult, it makes you feel a little bit like a superstar.

(Our school has 15 teachers.)

“No, I don’t go to the gym every day, just Monday through Saturday.”

“It’s not that hard sprinting at the track when it’s 1000 degrees out.”

“Yeah, I teach three English clubs, no big deal.”

“I only need one nap a week now.”

Soon enough, it’s game day.

I’m stretching, confidently bullshitting with my colleagues, when our rector calls us together into a huddle for a quick announcement.

There’s been an assignment change to maximize our chances of winning.

The rector’s cousin is now starting, and I’m on the bench.

That motherfucker isn’t even a teacher.

He’s got a beer belly.

He can’t haul ass up and down the field like I can.

I was fuming on the bench.

I do so much for this community on a regular basis, and I’m still treated like an outsider.

They know I can be a starter.

Do they, though?

Fuck.

I’ve never shown that I care about soccer.

I really don’t.

Shit. The rector’s cousin scored twice.

Halftime starts, and my rector puts me in the game as a midfielder.

I use all that emotion to sprint up and down the field.

I’m definitely not skilled.

I completely miss a kick, but I’ve got spirit and hustle, like a budget Rondo with worse footwork and better cardio.

On the last play of the game, I attempt to pass the ball to an open man in stride, but kick it hard right, sinking the ball into the net.

GOAL!

(Immediately after, I went to the tienda across the street to get water before English club and almost stepped on a dog’s tail. It ran after me, but I outran that asshole.)

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people

Percentage of Spanish I understood this week: 87%

“Ya se fue.”

These three words might make the most versatile and durable expression in the Spanish Language.

You missed the bus.

“Ya se fue.”

Your wife leaves you with the kids to get cigarettes.

“Ya se fue.”

You’re a mile from finishing a race, but your legs can’t keep going.

“Ya se fue.”

For a guy who’s had a range of understanding of the Spanish language since being here, it used to drive me crazy. When you don’t understand anything, and someone hits you with a “Ya se fue.”

You wait for a follow up that never comes.

¿Donde?

¿Por que?

¿cuando va a regresar?

Early on, you learn to stop looking for the follow-up. You start to enjoy the ya se fue of it all.

I’ve never enjoyed it more than last Monday.

I got home from school, and the maid had been fired. I had told her early on in being in Zumbi that I’d like to clean my room and do my own laundry. It may not have been wise, but standing on business is just that.

I learned not be such a people pleaser in the months following. I wasn’t going to be her best friend, she wasn't going to be mine, nor did she see me as an American ally who did his own laundry and cleaning. I don’t know why I expected that, but we all have our own internal biases.

Over time, I could see there were quite a few discrepancies in the way she worked versus what was expected, but hey, I’m a volunteer, and if the Peace Corps expected me to be conducting English clubs 7 days a week, I wouldn’t be thrilled.

However, when I get home from school, she’s not there, but replaced by a family friend of my host family, with whom I have always had a courteous and respectful friendship.

I make lunch, she tells me she’ll be working around the house for the foreseeable future, and has cafecito before I have to go to English club.

Later, I asked my host mom what happened to the previous maid, and she hit me with

“Ya se fue.”

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people

Percentage of Spanish I understood this week – 84%

(This might not have anything to do with my Spanish fluency, but today I thought it would be an excellent idea to make a puzzle challenge to review “to get” and make it a little competitive. The idea was to have definitions of the “to get” verb. For example, “to become sleepy” is a puzzle, and the puzzle piece would be “to get tired.”

Anyway, about a month ago I started working with a new counterpart, and I have a feeling she thinks I’m a bit of an airhead, so I’ve attempted to bring out my creativity in order to counterbalance that notion. Hence, I got a little too Jackson Pollock–y for the design of the puzzle (picture below), and somewhat airheady of me hadn’t assumed that the easiest thing for kids to do would be to just match up the intensely different shapes of the puzzle pieces to the base puzzle.

During this, my counterpart and I had a mid-class sidebar like, “You see what I’m seeing, right?” And I’m like, “Yeah, but after we’ll be able to go through each individual puzzle and review each form of ‘to get.’” I really was just trying to save face, hoping I might be able to get a lively discussion out of the students after. However, it was 7:30 in the morning, and the lively discussion never came.)

In the famous words of Limp Bizkit,

“One, two, three times two to the six.”

What’s been going on recently, you ask?

Well, that’s a great question.

About a month ago I started working with a new counterpart, and it came with one of those,

“Hey, it’s time to get your shit together!”

Not saying I didn’t have my shit together before, but I was getting a little too comfortable floating by. With any job, including Peace Corps, complacency is easy to come by. Going to school, taking a midday nap, waking up and going to the gym, cooking dinner, and repeating daily until you’ve found that you’re 11 months into service, and those clubs you said you were going to start and the grant proposal keep getting moved to tomorrow—and then whenever you bump into that one important decision maker at lunch…

Before I started working with my new counterpart, I think I may have lesson-planned once. That’s not a knock on my previous counterpart; she has some serious rapport with the students, and our teacher–co-teacher dynamic flowed in a way that could fill in some of the gaps of not lesson planning.

However, when I started working with my new counterpart, I could sense that the expectations for me were higher, and it would be best to get on that bus as soon as possible rather than later. It was a rough transition. I had lost all my whiteboard markers, my chihuahua ate all my papalotes, and it is insanely hard to do anything from two to three-thirty.

I drank a Red Bull, threw out the socks that don’t have a match, bought some new ones, drank a second cup of coffee for the vibes, and asked ChatGPT to create a flyer for an English club for Tuesday at 3 p.m. at a new cafeteria that’s equidistant to my house and the colegio that serves cappuccinos.

I then printed those flyers a day later, enjoying my final moments in the cocoon of contentment. Finally, I put those bad boys up in all the classrooms and made little announcements to each of the classrooms, saying that the club would be starting the next Tuesday.

All’s going well. I’m satisfied with my efforts, doing a little free-period lesson planning, making the rounds around town, proud of myself for my journey out of the cocoon of contentment.

The next Tuesday happens. I make a lesson plan for the club—a few games are prepared—and ah, only one child shows up, and he’s the son of the owner of the café.

Rats.

I thought I’d have my loyal gym bro students, at least one of my octavo groupies, and maybe a kid forced to come by their mom.

I was frazzled, discombobulated, a bit worried, and a bit tired.

One time, when I was working at PNC, I once tried to partner with a guy that called himself a franchise broker, and the thought was that we could partner and bring people into the bank. We planned a series of small business seminars at a bank branch in Brandon, Florida. I did some out-of-pocket catering with poke bowls, given it was a lunch seminar, and waited back in my chair for the people to come.

Nobody ever did, except for one elderly woman who just wanted a poke bowl. I had tried convincing my manager if I could do more, but the next day Silicon Valley Bank failed, and priorities shifted dramatically, with no further seminars occurring.

(Also, a seminar hosted by a 23-year-old who knows nothing about small business, and a guy I met by getting his number off a Chamber of Commerce website and aggressively cold-calling over Christmas, is crazy work.)

Given that I had more tangible ways to success, more knowledge on the subject of English, and hadn’t put myself in the hole for poke bowls, I found this was my great do-over.

The group activity radically changes into a mano-a-mano English investigatory session, where we went leaps and bounds over the usual TEFL starter kit of “Can you say who you are, where you are from, and your favorite food?” to talking about things in the future and in the past. I’m thinking this kid has great potential to succeed to a (hopefully) much larger future version of Jack Mosey’s Zumbi English Club Inc™.

I had a friend in a new place, and he was willing to advertise the benefits of English club to his friends and potentially support his mom’s small business through ice cream sales. We were in business.

The next English club, five people came, and as the weeks go on, we’ve grown steadily and maintained a positive trajectory.

Additionally, an opportunity appeared from this that had not been counted on previously. I had gained the trust of the café owner, who asked me if I could do two more clubs—one for adults and one for children ages 7–12.

These have only been going on for three weeks, but our progress is steady.

A thought on Los Guayacanes

So last Thursday my host parents asked if I wanted to go to a town called Zapatillo to see the guayacanes trees change color for the weekend. It was my birthday weekend, and I originally had some other plans, but I could see there was something different in the way they spoke about this place and how much they wanted me to experience it.

I agreed to go, but deep down I wanted to be disappointed. I have spent all my life in Pennsylvania and seen the trees change to fall colors almost every year.

We get in the car for the adventure drive—seven hours to Zapatillo—and as I’m looking out of the car windows, I’m trying to find a cynical, contrarian thing to think about it and confirm my preconceived notions on fall. At first, there’s a massive line of cars all waiting to drive through a really large loop. It was like going to see Christmas lights at Hartwood Acres for my Pittsburgh people. I have some fond memories of my brothers, cousin, and grandma waiting, sharing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and awing at the Christmas lights, so it gave really wholesome déjà vu vibes.

Getting out of the car, I thought I saw a yellow leaf laying on the grass, so I picked it up and was confused to see that it’s a flower with a rich yellow texture resembling more of a hydrangea than a leaf. There are rows and rows of these trees, and if you are lucky, you can see a view of the surrounding area where it’s just nothing but yellow. I’ve never been to Japan, but I have played a fair share of Ghost of Tsushima, and it kind of reminded me of the blossoming cherry trees.

On the aspect of food and beverages, Zapatillo borders Peru, so in town you can get Peruvian beer and ceviche, which are both delicious.

If you ever find yourself in the area during January to early February, it’s a 10/10—you have to go.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not necessarily reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people

Percentage of Spanish I understood this week—75%? 85%? 30%? Could be any of them. Could be none of them.

Sorry, homies, I had to take a month-long blog break after the James Garfield and Charles Guiteau deep dive. One could say I outpizza’d the hut on that one.

I hope you all had a smooth Christmas, tranquil Hanukkah, vibrant Kwanzaa, and observant New Year.

“Ah, this is my life again.”

That was the initial thought I had once I returned to Zumbi last Tuesday.

The humidity.

The forehead sweat.

Colegio students appearing from every corner of the town, saying “Hi, teacher.”

The drunk guy across the street mumbling something unintelligible as I walk by.

The gang of chihuahuas reminding me about their collections process.

The dry dog poop on the streets.

The fresh dog poop on the streets.

The snails that spawn on the sidewalks.

The respaldos guy who plays his prerecorded message—“Respaldos! Resppppaldos!”—every day at two across the barrio.

It truly was Zumbi.

Three days went by.

One was spent in a sort of contemplative cocoon, nestled in bed on a rainy day.

“This is indeed life again.”

The next two were spent in a New Year’s Eve fog, leading to a New Year’s Day hangover with a level of hangxiety about my life that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I had been with my family for a week straight, seen my friends, gone to the beach, and had the ability to get Chicken Tikka Masala any day of the week.

I got to the point where I was chugging hydration salts, doing some mental math about how many days are left in my service.

I don’t think I’ve ever spent a day counting down the individual days until the end of service.

A shitty mindset follows you across towns and borders and doesn’t care whether you’re 25, 27, or 69.

For about half the next day I was trapped in the same pattern, spending half the day binge-watching Mad Men and overloading my brain with blue light.

I went for a walk across the street.

That walk brought me to the bus.

The bus brought me to Zamora.

My mind was at the river.

My laziness brought me to a café.

At the café I ran into a friend who then invited me to a river.

At the river I wussied out of jumping off a cliff into said river, saying I couldn’t do it because it was against Peace Corps rules—but really I was terrified, and also it was against Peace Corps rules. (You’re welcome, Peace Corps.)

After we drank a few beers and talked about life, family, and the pursuit of happiness…

Ah, this is my life again.

Saturday morning comes, and I do my usual cafecito time in the kitchen. My host dad hits me with:

“Los Estados Unidos invadió Venezuela.”

I hadn’t even taken a sip of coffee.

I go back to my room to scour the news for all available information on the topic, which leads me down rabbit holes. I end up feeling ultimately powerless, retreating back into my cave and binge-watching five more episodes of Mad Men.

At about 2 o’clock my consciousness reemerges from wherever it had retreated—eyes heavy, brain painfully bored.

I am then reminded of a song from Avenue Q:

“There is life outside your apartment

I know it’s hard to conceive,

but there’s life outside your apartment,

and you’re only gonna see it if you leave.

There is cool shit to do,

but it can’t come to you.

And who knows, dude,

you might even score!

There is life outside your apartment,

but you’ve got to open the door!”

Immediately afterwards I went to the community pool and went belly-first down a janky water slide for an hour and a half having some of the most sober fun I have ever had in my entire life.

There is life outside your apartment.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people

Michael Shannon, Matthew Macfadyen, and Nick Offerman.

Those mother fuckers did it again.

They turned a president, a vice president, and his assassin, whom I knew nothing about, into a four-hour masterpiece of a show called Death by Lightning (2025).

If you havent watched it, stop reading this and get to it.

You won't regret it.

However, if you're still reading this, I'm not spoiling anything to say that by the end of the show, President James Garfield dies.

Before watching the show, I could tell you two things about President Garfield:

1.) He had a cool beard

2. He was assassinated.

I may even have mixed him up with President William McKinley, who

1.) Got assassinated

2.) Didn't have a cool beard

3.) Had some wicked brows.

However, I knew absolutely nothing about his assassin, Charles Guiteau, who Matthew MacFadyen played in the show.

Sometimes, when you're watching a historical drama/biopic, you think to yourself,

This must be included for drama to add some meat and potatoes to a dry topic.

With Mathew Macfadyen's performance, I thought just that. He plays the man with such charisma, yet tragic insanity.

You really root for the guy to get his shit together through the whole show, even though you know by the end he shoots the president.

Over the past few days, I've had some extra time due to the end of the end-of-semester exams, and I read his book and realized that, if anything, the show is toning down the real Charles Guiteau.

Charles Guiteau was fucking nuts.

I could press you for some details about the miniseries, such as the fact that he was part of a free-love, communal Christian society called the Oneida Community.

I could give you a rather boring spiel about his numerous business failures.

If I did that, I'd be no better than those noobs of Wikipedia, the clankers of ChatGPT, or the people who voice over movie scenes with AI voice-over summaries of what's happening on YouTube shorts. (We’re cooked)

I would first need to set the scene for you.

Since the first election in 1789, the problem of what happens to those who campaigned to get them elected has always been a quiet ethical concern.

Some presidents handled it better than others, and others hurdled the ethical dilemma, as President Andrew Jackson did, by firing hundreds of government officials and rehiring loyal supporters.

By the end of the Civil War and the growth of the American economy with the Industrial Revolution, to say it opened Pandora's box would be an understatement.

In those times, the US government generated the majority of its revenue from Customs houses and the post office. Therefore, senators and presidents were handing out thousands of jobs to loyal supporters who could skim from the top and create bureaucratic hell.

Imagine the federal bureaucracy like the DMV, but even less qualified, with new workers every new administration, and the most incompetent employees were the local party bosses controlling regional elections.

From 1861 to 1885, Republicans controlled the presidency, and it was evident that the problem of political patronage was front and center within the party.

There were splintered factions called the Stalwarts and half breeds.

The stalwarts wanted the status quo.

The half-breeds wanted an end to the patronage system.

Hence, we come to where the miniseries picks up: Garfield is invited to speak on behalf of a presidential bid for a half-breed candidate, John Sherman.

He ended up winning the presidency alongside Vice President and Stalwart Chester Arthur, who was the former collector of the port of New York, getting the job due to patronage.

Hence, we come to Charles Guiteau.

July 2nd, 1881- The Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Station

President James Garfield was shot twice, with the assailant, Guiteau, saying,

“I am a Stalwart, and Arthur will be President!"

The entire nation is shocked by thoughts of what happened to Lincoln sixteen years earlier.

Newspapers begin reporting facts about the incident, citing quotes

For a brief moment, maybe 1 or 2 days, there was national paranoia that this might be a coordinated hit by the stalwarts of the Republican Party.

To put this into a modern perspective, can you imagine the type of numbers that Candace Owens would be doing on YouTube with this content?

Luckily, in 1881, news traveled slowly, and people's trust in government institutions hadn't eroded to the levels of 2025. Added to the fact that people were coming out in droves attesting to the fact that Guettiue was fucking nuts.

Thus, any conspiracies faded from public view.

Imagine journalists interviewing your families, looking for a lead or possible angle at something more sinister, and they're like

“Jack's the worst. No doubt he did that out of his own free will.”

(Boston Herald Headline on July 3rd, 1881)

After the shooting, Guiteau was immediately thrown in jail, Garfield died 90 days later, and Guiteau spent the next year of his life before the trial writing a self-published book called The Truth and the Removal (1882)

Did I read it in one sitting at work while I emotionally and spiritually recovered after reading Lord Eddard Stark's beheading? (I knew it was going to happen, yet it still hurt)

The first 97 pages were a real slog. You know it’s going to be bad when the preface starts with

This is like when that one friend in undergrad constantly said they were “Pre-med” and started giving you unsolicited, obvious medical advice like

“RICE man. Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. It’s the key to recovery.”

Guiteau goes on to make a lot of religious rumblings about early Christian history, only to set up a lazy allegory to say that he’s the 1881 version of the apostate Paul, and James Garfield is the equivalent of Emperor Nero.

He takes his damn time making this point. It reads like he’s paraphrasing Wikipedia, WikiHow, and the Bible.

At the end of the 97 pages, I really wondered if this was the best use of my time.

I looked around my humble colegio teacher’s office.

Took a brisk walk outside, asking if any students needed help studying for their English midterms. (Nobody did)

Sat down at the cafeteria and saw that the students put an Ecuadorian National Team jersey on a street dog, and thought

“Yes, I think it is. “

I’m glad I continued reading because it’s where the religious fanatic part tones down and really shows just how insane the man really was.

By this point in his life, he’s already been through trial, convicted, and sentenced to execution via hanging, so he’s really just putting it all out there.

(One of the many intrusive thoughts he decided to include)

I’ll give you the highlights

• He includes his closing statements, where he defends himself in court- a speech that went on for 2 hours in court and lasts about 40 pages

• Claimed the court couldn’t prosecute acts of god, therefore he should be acquitted

• Read a forged letter he wrote to himself, claiming to be from a prestigious Philadelphia lawyer, to the jury in court, praising himself, and justifying his actions

• A few poems unrelated to the assassination

• More forged letters from his “supporters” that were obviously written by him

When I originally started on the journey, I was enthralled by the nuance of a president I hardly knew, a time period that seemed foreign, and an assassin who wrote a book after the fact.

Now I’ve come to the conclusion that the only difference between 1881 and now is that today Guiteau would absolutely have made it big as an Infowars contributor.

I’d give the show a big fat 10/10 and the book a 2/10.

Of course, I also want to express that the content of this blog is my opinion and does not necessarily reflect the views of the U.S. Government, the Peace Corps, or the Ecuadorian Government.

Keep on swimming people

Percentage of Spanish I Understood This Week: 82%

DATE: November 9th, 2025 WHERE: The Hills of Loja EVENT: Vilconoco 20K Trail Race

About two months ago, a friend of the blog and guatita naysayer, PCV Madeline Parr, sent a flyer via WhatsApp about a 20K trail race she was competing in through our province’s group chat. I knew how to run, hike, walk, mosey, trot, gallop, and crawl, so combining these skills in one race sounded compelling.

So I hit the books. Calculated my monthly guatita consumption, pondered the Ecuadorian escudo, paid the gringo tax to the local chihuahuas, and thought to myself:

“Why the hell not?”

Between September and November, I spent almost no time researching the ins and outs of trail racing, focusing more on what I had assumed would be a pillar of the sport: cardio and bullshitting. I hiked about four or five times during that span, ran from that asshole Chihuahua Tito, and wisely turned to short-distance sprinting, thinking this might really give me the edge.

However, there was one thing on my mind during this time that kept me up at night.

Many moons ago, I visited an Indigenous healer who performed a guinea pig sacrifice on me, letting me know I would need a new knee by the following year.

Over the past few months, I’ve hung that dastardly warning on the second-highest grate in the bookshelf of my mind, sitting next to the reminders to start studying for the GRE and figuring out how Bitcoin works. (Let’s be real — it’s a scam.)

I had what felt like a premonition: if I were to need a new knee, this competition might be the reason. The thought was both extremely worrying and a potential way to test the theory.

Life naturally goes on. Lessons are taught, encebollado is eaten, river beers are consumed, and I find myself at the start line of the race. I look around, trying to size up my fellow trail comrades to see who I might be able to pace myself with — looking for those who might put up an early struggle opening a fresh jar of jam, and erring on the side of caution for the psychopaths who look like they could open said jar with zero struggle.

Needless to say, I had no idea what I was looking for.

We start to get in formation, and thoughts rush through my mind:

• Do I run the whole thing or hike aggressively?

• Will the terrain be cross-country-like or more mountainous and rugged?

• How many bananas can I keep in my pockets?

• Is a 20K 10.4 miles or 12.4?

• Who killed Jimmy Hoffa?

• How much mote sucio is too much?

BOOM!

The gun goes off, and the questions leave me. I’m just enjoying the moment, learning that most people walk the hills, run the straights, and stylishly slide down the slopes. The views are incredible, and I wonder why nobody told me that trail racing was just competitively frolicking through fields and different landscapes.

I put my AirPods in to listen to some Kenny Chesney, and two and a half hours go by, and I’m really feeling myself, thinking:

“I thought this was going to be way harder.”

Confidently, I look at Strava, hoping to confirm my thoughts.

“Shit fuck.”

Only 6.3 miles in.

I take a breath and continue my incline of the separate mountains, feeling the lactic acid in my legs settling like a late-stage Jenga tower. However, from a guy raised by two physical trainers as moms, they didn’t raise a quitter. I shuffle through the Kenny Chesney playlist, find the classic “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” and lock in.

One hour later…

After continuous huffing and puffing and falling hand-first into numerous mountain cacti, I look around and see only one person close in front of me. I assume I’m in the middle of the pack. I take some pride knowing that while it’s hard, I’ve competed well enough to separate myself from the crowd. The views are incredible.

Thirty minutes later…

Completely gassed. At some point, two guys who worked for the race organization show up behind me, surprising me, and end up sort of leading me like a sheepdog. They soon confirmed what I suspected when I saw them: that I was last by a wide margin. The trail-performance market corrected itself after a brief bout of mental-performance inflation, which hit the soul hard.

During that time, at around mile 8, I hit a wall after looking up and seeing a whole other mountain range. I died inside. I hit the trail guide with:

“En una situación hipotética, yo preguntaría si había una salida de emergencia de esta montaña. ¿Qué dirías?”

He looked extremely worried for both himself and me, and out of pride for both of us, I hit him with a classic:

“Estoy bromeando.” Slapping him on the back.

His expression was enough to give me some gas back in the engine, and after a small Coca-Cola and banana break, I locked back in.

Twenty minutes later…

This guy knew my life story, and I knew his.

Fifteen minutes later…

I look at my phone on Strava, and it shows I’ve hit the 11-mile mark. We’ve started walking down the mountainside toward civilization, and what I presume to be the end of the race.

Five minutes later…

We stumble into the last elevation section, and my mind, body, and soul are reeling at the idea of climbing anything further. I look at the trail guide — he looks at me.

“Mi carro está por aquí; si quieres decir ‘ya fue’ y nos vamos.”

“Ya fue.”

Thirty minutes later…

After he forgot where he parked his car, we ended up hiking up an equally large mountain as we would have if we’d just finished the race. We finally find the car, which was parked at the finca with the other oddly similar-looking brown-and-white-furred donkey.

We make it back to the start of the race, and even though I tapped out and was disqualified…

I beat the curse! This guy’s still got a functioning knee!

Weekly Recommendation

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin (1996)

Look, I might be 29 years late to the hype train, but this book is the best thing I have ever read. I’ve been reading it nonstop for the past five days. I know the main plot points that get hammered out through Season 1 of the show, but I honestly do not care. The amount of lore in these books is incredible. I’m not saying anything nobody hasn’t said before.

Before, I never really cared that George R.R. Martin hasn’t finished the sixth book in the series, The Winds of Winter. I had thought it was just a TV show whose showrunners really messed up the final three seasons. Now I be living in it, and the books are engrossing as shit.

We really are just waiting on one man’s timeline.

Anyway,

10/10 — great read so far.