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To Be a Gringa: Part One

Posted on 02 March 2011

Tags: cultural differences, cultural immersion, living abroad, Peru, South America

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A local celebrity

How did it get to be this late? I’m lying on Violeta’s bed in her one-room home in Baños del Inca. Actually, it’s not just her bed, she shares this queen-sized mattress which sits on cinder blocks with her husband and 11-year-old daughter, Alejandra. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; I had planned to be home hours ago.

Outside Violeta's house after lunch

When I agreed to go to church with Violeta, I assumed it would be your typical hour-long service…not three hours. When I said I’d come for lunch afterwards, I thought we would slam down some sandwiches, and say chau. Instead, we spent two hours preparing a feast and another hour eating it. After lunch Violeta taught me how to prepare “fresh” limeade with tap water that spurted out of the faucet cloudy and yellow in color. But how could I refuse to drink it after watching her cut and squeeze 10 limes all the while explaining to me that it is the most refreshing bebida you can consume after a big meal?

I gulp it down as fast as I can to show my appreciation (and to get it over with). I’ll leave soon and either throw up or take an antibiotic, I assure myself to ease the nausea that is already setting in. Violeta, seeing how much I enjoyed her refreshment, proudly refills my glass. I try to politely refuse, “I should really get home to let Brandy out.”

“You don’t have to go yet! Stay! Chat with me! Just give me one more horita of your time.” Violeta pleas. And again, how can I refuse? My new friend and her family have taken me under their wing, inviting me for large meals, taking me to church, and bringing me with them to weddings and other events as if I’m a member of the family.

My new friend, Violeta, is a 42-year-old Peruvian woman who owns the only laundromat in Baños del Inca with her 52-year-old husband Alejandro. She met her husband when she was 18 and they tried for 12 years to have children. Not until she was 30 did she realize that all she needed to do was pray and God would grant her one. So came Alejandra or Lisbeth as we call her. A plump, happy pre-teen who loves watching pirated DVD’s and can recite every line from Shrek and all four of its sequels.

We have nothing in common. She has a child, I don’t. My first language is English, Violeta’s only language is Spanish. She believes Jesus Christ is her savior while the only God I’ve even known is Pachamama. My house has four bedrooms, her’s is the size of my bedroom. Despite all this, we have somehow formed a close connection. Three or four afternoons a week, I go and visit her at the laundromat, spending hours chatting, and sometimes helping her fold clothes (she fired me from ironing).

Lisbeth and I playing with my camera at a wedding.

I agree to stay for un momentito and try hard to forget about the mud-water limeade I just consumed. I’ll leave it up to my stomach to decide whether to begin the digestion process or send it back up. As we prop ourselves up on the bed with pillows to chat, I feel like I’m at a slumber party. Violeta explains that she doesn’t have a lot of friends and prefers it that way. After dealing with people at the laundromat six days a week from 9am until 7pm she likes to spend her free time by herself.

“Well then, por que yo?” I ask her, wondering what makes me special enough to be taken in by this wonderful family.

“Porque eres gringa! Duh!” She proclaims, correctly utilizing the English word I taught her this afternoon. She must notice the naive confusion in my face and begins to explain how fascinating the “gringo culture” is. “Ever since I was a little girl, I watched you on TV.” She refers to a show called “La familia Ingalls,” which I realize must be Little House on the Prairie. From an early age, Violeta watched this show, dreaming that some day she would marry a gringo and move somewhere like Europe or the United States of America.

“And I watch American TV shows every night. You’re culture is so impressive!” She went on with wide eyes. “You gringos are so sophisticated, so rich, so advanced. Your houses are enormous and you look beautiful all the time with your make-up, nice clothes, perfect hair…” As she goes on, I peek down at my outfit. With a hat on my head to hide the fact I didn’t shower today, worn cargo pants, filthy bare feet, and a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved one, I’m afraid I must be a terribly disappointing gringita.

I recall the last show I watched on TV. After five minutes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, where privileged teenage brats scream at their parents about which convertible they will receive at their million dollar birthday party, I had to turn it off. This is what impresses her? The chunks are rising in my throat, but I’m uncertain if it’s due to the limeade or her words.

I try my hardest not to cringe as she continues, “I tell my Alejandra to study her English so that maybe, some day, she can marry a gringo, or at the very least, travel to another country.” The Peruvian dream. Really. If the American dream is to work your way from rags to riches, the Peruvian dream is to marry a gringo and move to the States. I can’t take any more of this. I’m going to puke up two hours of cooking, and two glasses of limeade. I need to get home, and fast.

“Thank you so much for today, it was wonderful.” I tell her honestly. I will visit her on Monday at the laundromat.

What have we done to you people? I think to myself as I run home. I storm into the house, grab some Ciprofloxacin and a glass of water and plop down on my couch. Feeling unsettled, I mull over a conversation I once had with a Peruvian friend of mine about Christmas. “Why,” I asked “Do you Peruvians put plastic snowmen and fake tinsel pine trees everywhere for Christmas when it doesn’t snow in Peru and there are hardly any pine trees?”

“You did this!” He exclaimed as if it was obvious. Then, after seeing in my face what a blow he had just delivered, he softened his voice. “Well, your country did…or the country you come from…”

Peruvians are laid back, have strong family values, beautiful folkloric music and bright colors. It pains me to think that people from a country as culturally rich as Peru would want to be anything else. They want to be like the “classy” gringos who start wars for money, who shake hands instead of kiss and love to be politically correct. Ugh. This realization pains me almost as much as the thought of Peruvians watching our TV shows and thinking that is what our lives are like.

I am overcome by disappointment and guilt. The fact of the matter is that I haven’t invited Violeta to my house because I once told her it was small. After seeing that her and her husband share their bed with their daughter and their kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all fit into a room the size of the one in which I sleep, how I can ever show her my four-bedroom home with TV, sofa, refrigerator, coffee pot, closets? The fact of the matter is that I am gringa and the quality of my life is better than that of many of the Peruvians here in Cajamarca.

And yet…I suppose I do the same thing. I yearn for “the simple life.” I admire the rich customs in Peru and want nothing more than to take part in them. I’ve left my culture behind to immerse myself in another. Who am I to judge?

Either the antibiotics are kicking in, or my stomach chose digestion. As I sit on my couch, reviewing this afternoon’s conversation in my head, I recount Violeta saying, “You know, we don’t see gringos here often, and when we do, we think ‘Wow! Look how nice they look!’ We want to listen to them speak their perfect English to be just like them.” This is true. When I go running in the countryside, people come out of their houses just to watch. The other day a woman yelled “gringita, please wait. I want to show you to my children!” I kept running. People honk their horns, follow me, and the brave ones greet me or try to speak the only English they know. “Hello!” they call. “Gringita!” they yell and wave. Children follow me and ask questions. “What country are you from?” “What are you doing in Peru?” “Why is your dog on a leash?”

I hate this attention. I want to say “didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?” I usually try my hardest to scoot by as quickly as possible without making eye contact or reacting.

But, aren’t I guilty of the same crime? I watch when a campesino woman walks by with a heard of animals and marvel at how one person can control five sheep, three cows and two burrows at the same time. I study their skirts and hats and wonder what their lives are like. I gawk when they shamelessly whip out a breast in the middle of the street and massage it to squeeze the milk into their infant’s mouth. They call me gringita, I call them the hat people.

I am a celebrity in the countryside only because few gringos pass through. If a campesino walked into Concord, NH, hat on head, and baby in blanket on back, we would stare too. Thank Pachamama we still have diversity. People will continue to gaze at the weirdo gringa who walks her dog on a leash every morning; I can’t change this. My only choice is to be the best weirdo-gringita I can be. I can answer their questions, return their Hello’s, and every now and then wait, so the woman can show me to her kids. Turns out, I’m representing a culture. “The gringo culture.”

An American in Peru, Blogs 7 Comments

Thoughts on One Year in Peru

Posted on 19 February 2011

Tags: cultural differences, cultural immersion, culture shock, living abroad, Peru, South America

By Danielle L. Krautmann

“Six months ago, I was living in Seattle with roommates, working as an occupational therapist for a home health company. Now, I am a housewife in Lima, Peru.”

Can you believe that in January I celebrated my one-year anniversary of living in Peru? This country and I have had a turbulent relationship with many ups and downs. I personify Peru and can’t count how many times I’ve found myself directly cursing it for its defects…and sometimes for my own. I once forgot the keys to my apartment in a taxi and screamed “I hate you, Peru!” as the taxi quickly drove away.

Danielle of the Jungle

Peru has long lines, every task is far more complicated than it needs to be, and the men can be terribly rude. But I think, just maybe, the best relationships happen when you can love someone (or a country) deep enough to see past their faults. I know I love Peru because when I reflect on my past year, its hard to remember what was difficult. All I can think about is what I’ve gained.

Alone but not lonely

“All Alone.
Whether you like it or not.
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.”
~Dr. Suess

Upon arriving on January 4th, to my new apartment in Lima, Peru I had two hours with my husband before he left for four days to go work at the mine. I found myself with a cell phone and no one to call. As I paced around my sterile living room, I immediately understood what my new life would be like…lonely. Charlie would be at the mine in Cajamarca most of the time and I would be in Lima, alone. With no friends, afraid of everything outside the apartment, I decided to sit for four days and wait for him to come back.

One of my favorite places in the world. The Rainforest.

I spent weeks walking around my block and eventually my whole neighborhood looking for friends and things to do. I would run home in tears after being kissed at, followed and harassed by men in the streets. I would sulk and stew inside the apartment over the loss of my family and friends, my career, my independence, and my former last name. And for what? To be sexually harassed, to watch TV, drink wine, cook, and be a housewife. How had I gotten here?

Hiking over the Salkantay pass en route to Machu Picchu.

I was so lonely. I wanted to go home where I had friends, people to call on my cell phone, people who spoke English! Charlie was working hard at the mine. He was too busy during the day to chat and too exhausted at night. During one heated discussion I told him, “When I agreed to move down here, I had no idea how much you would be away at the mine. I’m alone all the time. I hate this.” His reply? “You’re not alone. You’ve got Brandy (our dog). You can talk to her.”
“She doesn’t speak English either!!!” I screamed with frustration. Poor Brandy, who was listening nearby, hung her head in shame. I’m sure she understood.

At some point that first month I remembered something. I had come to Peru with a goal of my own. I was here to learn Spanish and it wasn’t going to happen on its own. I joined a running group, started Spanish classes, and began talking to everyone I could. I baked desserts for the guards in my apartment building for the sole purpose of initiating a conversation. I would hand them a plate of cookies and if they replied “gracias” and I replied “de nada,” I felt successful. I spoke to Brandy in Spanish. I began wandering further and further from the apartment on foot and by bus. I got lost all the time, giving me perfect opportunity to ask for directions on how to get back.

Sand Dunes in Huacachina, Peru

Despite my slow accumulation of the language, friends, the ability to run long distances, and a job tutoring English, I still found myself alone a lot. The evenings were the worst. I was by myself in the apartment at least five out of seven nights a week. Rather than wallow, I began to fill the time. I ruled out TV and drinking alone and replaced it with books, cooking, exploratory runs around Lima, and a job I loved in the rainforest. I refused to get bored. Little by little, I began to enjoy my alone time. As nice as it was to have Charlie around (of course this is what I would prefer), I minded less and less when he left for the mine. I had a job, friends, and a purpose here of my own.

Visiting Huacachina during my parent's visit, Peru.

Marilyn Monroe said “I restore myself when I’m alone.” To be able to be alone, without TV, booze, a cell phone, or other distractions is nothing but an opportunity. In fact, I now find myself craving solitude and taking pleasure in it. Peru has taught me that alone is not lonely.

On learning Spanish…

Learning Spanish continues to be a humbling experience I would never give up for instant fluency. I still furrow my brow when trying to understand, botch verb formations and tenses when I speak and have yet to master the sexy rolled “r”…maybe I never will. But at this point, I can understand most of what people say to me and can express just about everything I want to…sometimes it just takes a while.

Celebrating our first Peruvian Easter with a Paneton.

Recently, I went searching in Cajamarca for a curtain rod for the shower in the apartment. When I arrived to the ferreteria (hardware store) I realized I didn’t even know how to say curtain in Spanish. I figured I could improvise. I approached the sales clerk and began, “Estoy buscando algo para mi ducha, pero no se como se llama en Espanol.” (I am looking for something for my shower, but I don’t know what you call it in Spanish). If this hardware store was anything like a grocery store, pharmacy, or anywhere else I have played the guess-what-I’m-talking-about game, the clerk would begin guessing until he got it right. I would then jump for joy as he showed me the adjustable curtain rod. Instead he stood silently looking and me waiting for more. “Well…” I continued, “No quiero agua en mi piso.” I don’t want water on my floor. “Ah! He said! “Cortina!” Okay, it was a start. Now that I knew how to say curtain, I could surely get to “curtain rod”, and from there, “adjustable curtain rod.”

In Cajamarca with my new English student, Bersa.

“No,” I explained, I was not looking for a curtain, but it was “a thing to put the curtain on”.
He engaged in the tango that I have become quite familiar with.
“Window?”
“No, it goes in the bathroom.”
“shower?”
“No, its for the curtain that goes in the shower.”
“towel?”
“No. Something for the curtain that is long and made from metal or plastic. It holds the curtain.”
“Cortinero?”
“Si! Si! Si!” I exclaimed jumping up and down. I was overjoyed to have figured out the word and could have kissed him. While this particular ferreteria didn’t happen to carry cortineros, there were about 8 more on the same block. I left the store and bought a coke to prepare for step two of my mission: the purchase.

FINALLY getting my work papers at SUNAT (after many trips there).

The next three hardware stores carried curtain rods, but not the adjustable kind. I wandered down the block slowly examining the clerk in each store until I found a friendly and patient looking female whom I was sure would help me. Her name was Violetta, and I was convinced that a chick working in a hardware store would be compassionate with my situation.
“I am looking for a cortinero…” I started…
“Ah! Cortinero!” She replied and went on to show me three different models (all the type you need to install). “The thing is,” I explained, “I need a cortinero that has a size you can change…” She tried to understand me, listening and watching patiently (along with everyone else in the store) as I used my arms and body to try to lead her to the word “adjustable”. “Ah!” she said finally, “cortinero a pression!”
“Si!” I hugged her, I couldn’t help it. While ferreterias generally don’t carry cortineros a pression, my new BFF, Violetta, wrote the words for me on a piece of paper and gave me directions to a block filled with shops that fabricated curtains. After asking in four of them, I found my cortinero a pression, and after that morning, I will never ever forget how to say ‘adjustable curtain rod’ in Spanish.

Learning the language has been humbling and rewarding. My confidence increases with every conversation. Fortunately I love to talk and practice makes perfect, right?

I'm sprinting across the finish line in Lima Marathon!

A new career?

The most difficult part of moving to Peru was leaving behind a career I loved and was good at. Occupational Therapy does not exist here the same way it does in the States. The job market barely exists, the income is minimal, the patients are not the same, in fact, most people don’t even know what an OT is. Perhaps one day, when I am completely adjusted to Peru, I will start my own private practice here. Probably not.

I tried teaching English, and it was nice to find work, but it didn’t satisfy me the way rehabilitating a brain injured patient did. Gaining the trust of a privileged Peruvian child was nothing compared to gaining the trust of a rebellious twenty year old who wanted to party but couldn’t because she was dying from cancer…or gaining the trust of a person suffering Schizophrenia…or a woman with 70 years on me. My English-teaching job was too easy.

Horseback Riding in the Colca Canyon, Peru

Things turned when I found Rainforest Expeditions and agreed to spend a month in the jungle of southern Peru gathering content for their Facebook page. I breathed the air of Tambopata and felt immediately restored from the pain of living in the city. I began to learn about marketing (I am still learning), about ecotourism, and about birds and mammals I never knew existed. I am no longer holding the fate of vulnerable sick patients in my hands. I am vulnerable, attempting to do something I didn’t study for six years, trying to speak in Spanish with my co-workers and fit in with an all-Peruvian staff who refer to me as “the gringa.”

A different culture

Things are different here. Even after a year, I struggle to understand certain features of Peruvian culture. But I’ve learned that I don’t get far by focusing on what’s different. I can be an ex-pat or a resident. I choose resident.

Why not focus on what I love about Peru? Everyone here drives like I used to in the States and they aren’t considered bad drivers. Being late to meetings and parties is accepted…almost encouraged. Everything is negotiable. The language is beautiful. The people are warm, welcoming, and kind. The terrain is incredible. From high peaks, to mountain valleys, desert oasis, to my favorite: the rainforest. Peru is a country with never ending possibilities for exploration. Oh yeah, and the parties rock.

A year ago, I found myself a lonely housewife in Lima, Peru. Now I’m a marathon runner, a friend, an explorer, a teacher, a gringa, a social media marketing manager, a writer and a cook. I shop at the mercado, kiss everyone I greet, play volleyball in the street with the neighbors, and take combies to town. I cook Lomo Saltado, Causa Rellena, Chifa, Pachamanca and Anticuchos. I can speak Spanish, buy live chickens, make a Pisco Sour and walk in high heals.

Despite our many struggles, I want to thank you, Peru, for an amazing first year together. I look forward to (hopefully) many to come.

An American in Peru, Blogs 11 Comments

On Culture Shock

Posted on 04 March 2010

Tags: cultural differences, cultural immersion, culture shock, Peru

Culture shock refers to feelings of anxiety, depression, or confusion that often go along with adjusting to life in a foreign country. The process of adjustment can be broken down into three stages: The Honeymoon Stage, The Negotiation or Frustration Stage, and the Understanding or Acclimation Stage.

The Honeymoon stage generally occurs when you first arrive in your new country with vigor to experience a new culture. “Symptoms” include an eagerness to learn the language, a love of the food, pace of life, habits, architecture, etc., and an excitement to experience as much as possible of the new country. Why can’t honeymoons last forever?

The frustration stage can be expected to set in within weeks of your arrival as the initial enthusiasm begins to wear off. During this stage, you begin to resent characteristics about the culture that you originally found appealing. You may also feel homesick or become frustrated with the process of learning the language. Mood swings and feelings of depression are not uncommon. You may realize that you’re actually very lonely when your husband is away at the mine in Cajarmarca and wrongly resent him for it. Some people have been known to have difficulty keeping their regular blog.

During the frustration stage, you might be so preoccupied with your feelings of sadness and loneliness that you get lost on your way to meet your friend, and then forget your apartment keys in the taxi you took to help you find the spot. You might even sprint four blocks after the taxi, pushing people out of the way, crying and screaming in English “STOP! MY KEYS! MY HUSBAND IS IN CAJAMARCA! I DON’T HAVE A SPARE!” only to have the taxi continue to drive away leaving you looking like a crazy person, crying hysterically on the sidewalk blubbering “I hate Peru!”

DiversityAbroad.com assures readers that the frustration stage occurs to millions of people and offers suggestions for coping. It recommends that you try not to blame your host county (or husband) for your frustrations and to remember that adjusting to a new environment takes time. The best way to handle it is to try your best to stay positive and focused on all of the new people, food, and experiences you’re having. It also suggests keeping a journal…hmmm….or blog?

Fortunately, eventually most people who study, work, or travel abroad reach the Acclimation Stage. This is when you begin to feel more comfortable functioning in your host country. You build up a network of friends and have a better understanding of the language. You feel relaxed in your environment and are able to compare both the good and bad of your native country with the good and bad of your host country.

Posted by Danielle L. Krautmann on 4 March, 2010

I have receive more than 30 messages via email and Facebook over the past two weeks asking me what happened to my blog. I’m sorry I haven’t written much lately. I’ve been in a slump. I intend to resume more regular entries and look forward to telling about my Spanish classes and our recent vacation in Arequipa and Colca Canyon. Stay tuned!

-Danielle

An American in Peru 13 Comments

Kissing in Peru

Posted on 02 February 2010

Tags: cultural differences, cultural immersion, living abroad, Peru

An American in Peru

What time is it?

Every greeting starts with a buenos dias (good morning), buenas tardes (good afternoon or evening), or buenas noches (good night). This is fine and dandy, but sometimes adds to my anxiety of beginning a conversation, entering a store, or asking for directions. In addition to figuring out how to say what I want to say, I need to quickly determine what time it is. Who pays attention to that anyway? Usually I wait for the other person to greet me and copy them, or just say buenas and mumble the rest.

They pay for things differently

This is not one of my favorite things about Peru. Usually the purchase of a simple item goes something like this; first you need to tell a sales clerk what you want, they print a receipt which you take to a different counter to pay. Once you’ve paid, you get a second receipt to return to the first clerk so they can finally give you the item. That’s how I bought my vacuum cleaner. Buying a $15 alarm clock at an electronics store was even more complicated. I told the clerk at the clock counter which one I wanted. He printed the receipt and sent me to the pay counter where I waited in line and paid. Then I needed to go to a third counter to retrieve the clock, but when I got there, the clock hadn’t made it from the original counter (which was less than 15 feet away), so I waited for the clerks to figure out the problem. By the time I was holding the alarm clock in my hands, I could have made one from scratch! Oy.

How much does this cost?

Unless you purchase an item at a store, or a restaurant with prices on the menu, the cost of most things is debatable. When I ask how much an item costs, I usually get a ridiculously high number quoted to me (commonly known as the “gringo price”). From here, I need to barter. I laugh at the vendor and tell them I’m not an idiot and give them a more reasonable number. We argue back and forth until we finally arrive at a compromise (which is probably still far more than I should be paying). I have been given lines about how the exchange rate between Dollars and Nuevo Soles varies depending on what time of day it is or what district of Lima you’re in (not true). Sometimes the vendor will pull out a calculator and begin quickly performing nonsense calculations, conversions, “discounts” and “taxes” as a part of their argument.

The tactics Charlie has given me to combat this include telling the vendor you will just go to the other guy across the street who is offering a better price, or showing him the money you’re willing to pay and telling him to take it or leave it. The most common thing Charlie and I barter for is the price of a taxi ride. The whole process feels uncomfortable and annoying, but is perhaps beneficial to my marriage. I do believe that the constant bartering Charlie and I need to do throughout the day has drastically reduced the amount of energy either of us are willing to exert into daily bickering with each other. Since we’ve been down here, I’ve heard nothing about how many pies a month I need to make to be a good wife (a common topic of debate from the past).

PDA

Where I buy my veggies

Back in the day, Charlie and I used to argue about our opinions on public displays of affection. When we were at parties I didn’t like how he would either treat me like one of the guys, or ignore me. I would say to him “Charlie, how are people going to know that we love each other?” His reply was, “Why do other people need to know we love each other?” Fine. He had a point. PDA is far more common here. Every time I look around the park in front of my apartment, I notice at least one bench occupied with a couple kissing. If you get a good show, sometimes they’re making out…or even groping! And not just teenagers, you see this across the ages. It’s hard not to stare. Charlie feels it’s insincere. He tells me that the men I see making out on park benches and whispering into their girlfriend’s ear probably have a wife at home or another girlfriend living in a different part of the city. If you think about that way, it’s a little less endearing. But for the most part, I think it’s nice to see people expressing their love for one another. It’s better than fighting.

Kissing

Speaking of PDA, in Peru (and I think a lot of Latin America) everybody kisses everyone all the time!!! When you are introduced to someone or meet up with a friend; most familiar greetings and partings are followed by a kiss on the cheek. I kiss Gaby, I kiss this girl I keep seeing in the park (we talk while our dogs play together), I kiss Charlie’s boss, and I kiss Carlos, our driver. It’s great! Again, Charlie and I differ in our opinions of this. Charlie feels like the affection is not always genuine. He points out that as a social obligation, you are forced to show affection to people you don’t know or don’t like. Maybe it’s the “rubia puta” in me, but I love kissing everyone! Oh well, different strokes, different folks.

Dressing

If I keep walking around in workout clothes and flip flops, I’ll never fit in. In the business district of San Isidro, Lima, where I live, people dress quite nicely. Maybe this is a city thing as much as a Lima thing, nonetheless I feel the need to adapt. Since my hair color, skin color and accent don’t help me, I figured if I start dressing the part, it might make me look more Peruvian. So I went to a clothing boutique near my house and told the sales clerks I was looking for some nice pants. By nice, I was thinking anything other than workout pants or baggy jeans.

They chose several pairs for me to try on. The first two pairs I couldn’t get up over my thighs. By the third pair, basic black, slim hip huggers, the three sales clerks were determined. As we faced the mirror, one stood behind me and gave instructions to hold my breath while the other two tugged the pants over my butt. Then each pulled in towards the middle until the button met the button hole to seal the deal. Sucking in my gut as far as I could, they were able to pull the zipper up. They all stepped back triumphantly and watched and waited for my opinion as I reluctantly studied the new look in the mirror.

Presenting it as a question, I suggested that maybe, just maybe the pants were one size too small. The girls looked at me like I was crazy and told me to look at the fit of their pants, which, sure enough, fit just as tight if not tighter than mine. “Okay,” I thought to myself “when in Rome…” While I was talking myself into the purchase and trying to figure out how I would get the pants off, a sales clerk brought out a pair of four-inch stilettos. Standing in them with ankles wobbling (I’ve never been very sturdy on my feet), she explained that this would make the pants the perfect height. I purchased the pants and two nights later went shopping with Gaby to buy two pairs of stilettos: one three-inch, one four-inch. I’ve been practicing wearing them, but keep a pair of flip flops in my purse when I go out in case I need to do any significant walking. I must admit, the outfit is flattering. No wonder everyone I greet wants to kiss me!

Posted by Danielle L. Krautmann, 02 Feb 2010