Ahhh, to be getting a (natural) tan at the end of February - it's every Anglo-Connecticut girls' dream.
And right now, it's part of my reality. Ask anyone: my parents, my sister and my friends back home will all corroborate, albeit begrudgingly, my sun-worshipping story. I even brag about my sporadic sunburns because - come on, now - at least I have the opportunity to get a burn from something other than below-freezing wind chills.
Cochabamba is known to the world as "The City of Eternal Spring". As most of the Northern hemisphere longingly awaits the end of another bitterly-cold winter, this town is welcoming the beginning of its autumnal season. Lying 1,925 kilometers south of the equator and flanked by an array of monstrous mountains, Cochabamba experiences fairly consistent spring-like weather all year long. Even during the current rain-laden months, most days deliver on the primavera promise of "seventy degrees and sunny" - or, in local lingo, "veintidós grados y soleado".
Not really the same ring to it…
And, as anyone hailing (see what I did there?) from a hometown too far north or too far south of the equator will tell you, winter in a snow-swept region can be among life's cruelest tests. Granted, the blanket of winter's first snow is dazzling and breathtaking, but soon the twinkle of the fresh flakes vanishes and the scene is replaced by muddy footprints and salt residue. The once-pristine world becomes brown and the roads portentous; when the holidays have come and gone, we find ourselves in the mid-January slump of winter blues. Icy roads foil our self-determined "cheer-me-up" excursions and vicious nor'easters rob us of fully-stocked grocery shelves and getaways to far-off lands (lookin' at you, Nemo).
In my experience, February has been widely acknowledged as the most depressing month of the year. In addition to the cold, the sickness (literal and metaphorical) and the overwhelming urge to shed our fur-lined jackets and don our impractically-designed flip-flops, couples and singletons alike must endure the harsh sting of cupid's bitchslap. For those of us idling through February sans lover, Valentine's Day is a reminder of the loves we have lost and/or the loves we are longing to find. (It is also a not-so-gentle reminder as to the corporate greed that skyrockets the price of a bag of 'fun-size' Snickers bars - a purchase made infinitely more depressing when we recall that the cunningly-hidden stash of leftover Halloween candy met its match one drunken, lonely Christmas evening.)
For those of us who find ourselves in a more "star-cross'd lovers" scenario (pardon the Shakespearian dramatics; I'm teaching my older grades 'Romeo and Juliet'), early February becomes a scramble to find the perfect Valentine's Day gift for our significant other. "If I buy her lingerie, will she be sassy or slap-happy?" "Did I get him a tie or a fountain pen last year?" "If she buys me a tie again this year, I'm moving out."
Yes, romance is dead indeed.
Well, if this long-winded tangent has done anything, it has at least confirmed to the world just how much I loathe New England winters - and how grateful I am to have avoided yet another one. Point: Bolivia.
However, the underlying message amongst this madness is slightly less evident, although perhaps equally as clichéd. Because although we blame the shortened hours of winter sunlight for our cabin fever-esque behavior, our winter lives are merely our summer lives shrouded in pea coats and pashmina scarves; when July rolls around, we'll all be blaming our lethargy on the scorching temperatures and unrelenting sunbeams. Let's face it, we all love to complain and we'll use any excuse to find company for our misery.
The reason for our self-pitying nature isn't as narcissistic as you might think. The honest truth is that, for most of us, it's a struggle to remain ourselves when the world around us is populated by a sea of strangers. Whether you're safely confined to the town in which you were born, or you've moved away in search of adventure and opportunity, each dawn breaks with the same reality: today I must be myself, or else willfully bear the visage of my solidly-imagined alter ego.
When we spend time around those people who know us "the best" (I can hear my father's voice playing Devil's Advocate in my head, begging the scholar's perpetual question: "Ah, but do we ever truly know ourselves, let alone others?"), we are met by a barrage of subliminal expectations and stigmas. Good or bad, these stereotypes that began forming in utero* have a nasty way of shaping the way in which others see us; in turn, they also begin to form our own self-worth.
Conversely, when we delve headfirst into a new environment full of new people, we often trick ourselves into believing that the aforementioned stereotypes will simply slough off and fall away: here I can be anyone I want to be.
Well, yes and no. We have undoubtedly provided ourselves with the opportune setting in which to undergo our transformation. However, more often than not, we lack the innate ability to follow through with the lofty goals we set for ourselves. When we first arrive in a new environment, most people will exhibit a conservative, public portrayal of their character; a veiled face through which they reveal merely a fraction of their "true colors". Slowly but surely, our demeanor begins to change and, in moments of comfort and safety, our inner-self unravels. Of course, it is possible for us to pinpoint moments in which we are showing the sides of ourselves with which we are content; from here we can purposefully elevate our "positive" characteristics while suppressing those we deem "negative". Nonetheless, the challenge is a hefty one, and - like our aspirational New Year's Resolutions - the desire to alter ourselves falls by the wayside and we revert to our "natural" state.
The notion of self-induced transformation is less evident in the pages of literature than its catalytic cousin: forced transformation. That is to say, most of our fictional and real-world overhauls are the result of a specific situational impetus, rather than an inner need to better ourselves. Does anyone argue that Dickens' Scrooge would have tapped into his softer side if it weren't for the nocturnal party-crashing ghosts of Christmas past, present and future? Czech author Franz Kafka wrote (arguably) his most well-known novella about a man who undergoes a physical Metamorphosis that literally turns his life upside-down.
In a more modern example, David Mitchell presents his readers with the character of Sonmi~451, a "fabricant" who is relaying the final years of her unusual life for a government archivist. Having unwittingly (and, for a time, unwillingly) begun the act of "ascension", Sonmi~451 explains how her own evolution began with the augmentation of her conventional (read: planted and cultivated) mode of thought; this mental development inevitably leads her through a maze of unknown places, her newly-discovered physical surroundings unlike anything she has seen or dreamed of. Eventually she undergoes a surgical transformation in order to avoid suspicion along her road to Union revolution. Ultimately, Sonmi~451 finds that she can take control of her destiny and embrace the tumultuous journey to self-discovery on which she travels.
And yet, we can clearly see how these later acts of free will have been borne from earlier, involuntary and reflexive "decisions" she had made - indeed, decisions that are made for her. Having been uprooted from the life of ignorant slavery, Sonmi~451 tells of a day when she returns to the site of her previous life: "[The xcursion] helped me to understand how one's environment is a key to one's identity." For one so "ascended", one who distances herself so far from the life she once lived, Sonmi~451 still bows to the changes "forced" upon her.
Still, she does so with an awareness that many of us lack. She is aware that she fashions herself to fit the ever-changing caste into which she is thrust; but she willingly converts, allowing others to affect and shape her own "identity".
And, as we now know, all good stories about introspection begin with a tan (not a burn). Which naturally begs the question: are we all fated to lead the life society has created for us, or can our free will triumph over our intrinsic human complacency? I suppose it's up to each of us to go forth and heed Tennyson's urging: "The strive, the seek, to find, and not to yield."
*All babies who kick incessantly will inevitably become world-renowned soccer players and mothers who experience frequent heartburn during pregnancy are destined to birth offspring sprouting the body hair of a modern-day caveman. We all know this; you can't argue with the facts.
