Right now, I am where my ghosts live.

You must have this place: The place that, when you go, you're surrounded by memories. 

Mine:

My dog, prowling the house and romping through snow. 

Cartoons at night then going to the pool too late, knowing that everything was going to be alright.

Walking across the golf course to meet her. 

 

This place is the outer subrubs of Chicago*, and I have no love for them. Most of the time I go, I'm horrified by the sprawl, the replication of houses, the swarm of cars (though the accent, with its extraneous use of "there" and hard, flat vowels, I love). 

But, times like now, on the weekend of my grandma's funeral, I'm crushed with them. I go through photo albums, flip through journals, see so much of myself past. Too much. These things mattered so much, pressed into me like a stamp into wax. 

There's a lot that I'm happy about and proud of in the life I have now. But it's without. What I'm realizing is that where I am and most people I know in San Francisco are not going to stay with me - some will, I hope, but even then ... When I leave, I will be missed at work and I will miss the people I work with (whose amazingness cannot be overstated). But outside of that, I will not be missed. It will be as if I was not there. I will keep no shoeboxes of momentos, have no journal entries that crush me to read years later. I'm not so dense as to think suburbia holds only good memories; there are plenty of painful ones. But, with San Francisco, I will return for job conferences or to see old colleagues or maybe to get some Humphrey Slocum ice cream. I will not feel joy, nor will I feel crushing sadness. I won't feel much at all.

I can't tell if this is sad, that I'm either holding on to too much or not letting myself open up to more; or if this normal, that as you progress through life, you become who you are and people and places stop impacting you so profoundly.

Either way, I am making no ghosts. And I think I miss them already.

*This isn't the only place I have them, but it's a weird confluence of potency here. It's not even the place where I grew up; through high school, I didn't even know what I was or how to feel things. Here, I was becoming me and figuring that out, while being deeply impacted in all facets of life by culture, media, dreams, and, most of all, people I knew at the time. The other places that I connect with deeply - Boulder, Chicago, Europe (but not, weirdly, Costa Rica/Latin America) - are rich with people who meant things to me and still do - whether I'm close to them now or not. 

Chicago radio station WKQX, more commonly known as Q101, got bought and is flipping to all-news Thursday at midnight. I'm unbelievably sad about this. So much so that I'm compelled to re-open the blog after a year of silence.

There's no way that I'm down because of the station itself. Q101 had a huge glut of faults - Mancow Muller as a morning host, the Creed/Limp Bizkit years, a rotating-door staff. In music variety, Seattle's KEXP and Chicago's WXRT blow it away. And even so, it's not as if the music itself is gone. What's disappearing is the corporate-based vessel, the people, and the brand. Why mourn?

It comes down to this: Something I grew up with and that shaped me in a huge way is gone. I remember getting on the bus in middle school and debating about which song should have won last night's "Cage Match" voting contest, and when "Supernaut" by 1000 Homo DJs went on a weeks-long winning tear. We'd laugh during lunch about shenanigans of the morning show guys Lance and Stoley, and for some reason it sticks in my head how they'd constantly make fun of afternoon personality by relentlessly repeating "Join me, Steve Fisher." Aside form all that, it pulled me away from moronic pop and into my unending love for rock and dance music (I remember the first time I heard an electronic song, and that was on Q101 - it broke my brain that a song could have no lyrics). 

As I got older, it became the soundtrack to my life, to sitting around listening to lyrics and figuring out which ones spoke to us; to sleepless nights with friends, Cheetos, and Super Nintendo (and later, Nintendo 64); to getting our first cards and driving around with the windows down, driven by the freedom of blaring music, not knowing better, and 99-cent gas. It would supply the backing notes to numerous triumphs in sports and in love and in art -- and it carried me through the always-more-numerous failures. 

When I came home from univeristy one year, I had an internship with a suburban newspaper. The commute took forever, both ways, and Q101 kept me company there and back. It was a beautiful time: We were all possibility, coming in to our own as people, looking forward to our successes and hanging on to the old weekly volleyball games that would go until we couldn't see anymore, someone's car left on with the windows open, DJs and commercials punctuating our yells and cheers. Then, later in school and after I moved to the city, I'd go to the suburbs for Christmas and hear the year-in-review playlists, where the station would play the top 101 songs of years past each day, giving me a double-shot of nostalgia.

It would give me songs that told me my relationship with Tracy was going to be alright, and then it gave me songs that helped me through when it very much wasn't. Lots of those have been playing today, the station's second-to-last on air. Unwritten Law's "Rest Of My Life." Bloc Party's "I Still Remember." They still bring hope, still hurt. 

Something special is at work here, something that only radio can do (I was so sad when WOXY shuttered, too). I don't think this can happen with TV, or movies, or books - when you're consumed with them, you're IN them, and it's harder for life to go on around you. But with radio, things happen - life happens - while it's constantly going. Somehow, all of those small moments with Q101 playing in the background added up to something huge. And you can't re-listen to Q101 on DVD, nor can you put it on a shelf. It is gone. 

This is what happens as we get old: Markers of our life crumble and blow away. Q101 is now playing "Say It Ain't So" by Weezer. But it is. It always will be. 

 

I recently wrote about 826 National, the organization I'm going to intern for.

This post, I'm writing about how to help that organization. 

August 26 is Youth Literacy Day. To celebrate, 826 is holding a nationwide campaign of mobile-messaging donations tabbed "$8.26 on 8/26." Mobile donations are becoming popular with public radio stations and other user-funded groups. It's cool to see 826 jump on this.

How does it work? Simply text "WRITE" to 20222. That will make a donation of $8.26 to the organization (there's also a $1.74 service fee, but "$10 on 8/26" just isn't as catchy). Additional legalese: "Messaging and data rates may apply." The website link above has a PayPal option if the phone idea is too newfangled.

To sweeten the deal, if you donate via either medium then leave a comment saying so to this post, I promise to send you a very nice thank-you note through the actual mail. Doesn't matter if we're best friends, awkward ex-lovers, or strangers across the world: I'll do it! I can't give much back, being an intern and all, but it's a little something. And, hey, it's the written word -- that's what we'd all be supporting.

Much love and thanks!

 

Having left Latin America, I'm officially off the La Vida Idealist roster. Here's my last one. I'm a little bummed it's a "list" post, but I was running out of steam at the end of my travels. Too much to do, not enough time to reflect and write. 

The Centries: Handing out Awards to Central America

It was a fun and rewarding experience, being part of that community. If you are at all interested in Latin America, you must read it. Here's my archive, all 29 posts of it, for posterity's sake. 

Just one more thing to miss.

---

The joke of a giant, life-changing venture like the one I embarked on is that it rarely offers the crucial insight you're hoping for when you set up the thing.

In no way do I have a sense of What I Want To Do With My Life. It was silly to think that would have come from teaching abroad, yet I did so anyway. And, having spoken with people who've done similar life shifts, I think with not a little confidence that this lingering vagueness is normal.

You have to have the insight or direction first. Then the new experience can augment it. Or, if you have none, perhaps the experience can spark a fire. But rare are the moments in which a person goes from having no idea to getting in over the course of a few months.

Me, I have known that I'd like my life to go toward improving my little corner of the world. I think of it like the mantra we used as Boy Scouts on a Philmont trip: Leave each place you stay better than what you found it.

Great. But how? International development M.A.? Continue working as an English teacher? Go back to a regular Joe Paycheck job and volunteer on the side? Those all sound appealing and not interesting at the same time. Thus, I remain stuck.

Even though I don't know what I want to do, I do know what I am going to do. At the end of August, I start a position with 826 National. It's a short-term gig, and who knows if it would lead to something longer. I hope so. This group fits me like skinny jeans on a Ramone.

Background: 826 is a creative writing and tutoring center founded by the writer Dave Eggers. His signature work is “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.” He used a healthy portion of his royalties from the wildly popular book to found 826, which aims to establish a fun and free atmosphere for kids to let loose their creativity.

Here's a video on Eggers' vision for the organization:

http://www.ted.com/talks/dave_eggers_makes_his_ted_prize_wish_once_upon_a_school.html

An example of this are the stores. 826 is named for 826 Valencia Street in San Francisco, where the original tutoring center is located. The short story is that this building, which Eggers really wanted, was zoned commercial. He said, screw it, let's open a pirate supply store in front. The whimsical items helped cover the costs of the rent. As such, every subsequent center (there are eight) has a store: time-travel supplies in L.A., robots in Ann Arbor, spies in Chicago.

I volunteered with the Chicago chapter, 826CHI, for three years. I helped kids with their math homework, led a workshop on newspaper writing, and helped them to prepare for interviewing musicians at the Pitchfork Music Festival. It's been a cavalcade of rewarding experiences, and, to boot, I've seen it work: Students are excited to come; they love the freedom we give them to write, and they love that their work often ends up in published books. They also don't mind doing their homework with the volunteers. This is because 826's cultural cred attracts engaged and interesting adults, people students want to emulate.

I've met some of the most giving, talented, and unique people I've ever come across in the 826 volunteers, and those superlatives must be multiplied for the wonderful staff I worked with: Mara, Kat, Patrick, and Pat are all wizards in the art of working with students, and anything good I did in Costa Rica must, in part, be credited to them. They've been kinder to me than I ever could have deserved, and I wanted to work harder as a volunteer to show them that I earned it.

If they miss me, it's their own fault. Their attitudes and talents made me want even more to contribute to 826-land, and I'm beyond excited to work with this group on a national scale. I'm hoping it will give me a better understanding of the nonprofit education world. I think I'd like to work to improve education but not in the oft-dysfunctional public system. Even if that doesn't pan out, it'd be okay. Meeting good people, having fun, and helping some young folks would be enough.

So, here's to plunging ahead, flash of insight be damned. I knew I wanted out of my job, so I got out and did something different. While doing that, I saw this gig, and I knew I wanted it. Now, I've got it. I don't need any more right now. I'm on a path, and even if it isn't the path, I'm seeing some excellent things on the way.

I got my Spanish school certificate today. It signifies that I'm an "Intermediate Level III" speaker/honorary goalkeeper-for-life. 

That second bit comes from the fact that in our occaisonal after-school soccer matches, I'm the portero. I love it. I get a huge rush from stopping shots and will sacrifice my body to do so. 

We play in a giant cage; it's surrounded by chain link fences, it's got a roof to keep out the rain, and it's equipped with lights so you can play at night.

This is all excellent unless the lights go out.

But God love people in Guatemala. A simple thing like a lack of vision won't stop a soccer game. A couple of the guys turned on their car headlights and splashed the field in light. It created some cool effects, players' silhouettes dashing, shadowed soft rain falling. 

I love the comet-tail of water trailing behind the kicked ball. I was so proud of this shot I ran into the dinner table to show Lyss. 

The setting made it nearly impossible to stop shots. I had to gauge where the play was by listening to feet whack the ball and other feet, then hope I'd be on the right side when the other team made a rush.

A night this fun, surreal, and special could have only happened on this trip. Though that's not necessarily true, it probably will be.

Makes it hard to fathom the idea of going home. 

I always walk the same street to my favorite cafe. Not because I'd get lost if I didn't. I do it because the road is narrow and stone-made but not so roughhewn that you can't walk it, and the buildings are low-slung and colorful with doors of heavy wood, all surrounding you as you head down the hill, rounded volcanic mountain jutting upward in the distance. 

It feels classical and old and European, and all not those things at the same time. 

That vibe permeates Xela, which is why I love it. The mix of modern and old, that you can have wi-fi in so many places and yet no heat in your house. Doesn't hurt that it's surrounded by mountains, either.

I included the last photo because I think it's wonderfully composed and showcases the photographic talent of Lyss, my roommate. Most of these were taken by her. She's been a treat to have around, and not just for photo-sharing purposes.

See why?

To be accurate, though, she's in no way a "room" mate. More "housemate." Our house mom, Catalina would go on a rampage if she learned of coed habitation. And speaking of the family ...

Here's Catalina encouraging some bad behavior at Lyss' birthday dinner. Mom made hamburgers. Great for Lyss, less so for me, though a bun, a slice of cheese, and lettuce isn't half bad.

Next we've got Wendy and Erkia, Catalina's nieces who live at the house most of the week. Erika's holding a local delicacy: corn on the cob slathered with salt, ketchup, mayonnaise and shredded cheese. To date, I've been too scared to try this.

Finally, there's Antonio, our 9-year-old little bro. He helped to make the cookies mentioned in the last post, and he always wants to play games, be it "Basta," a good Spanish word game, or tazas, which are sort of like pogs. As you can see by his knife-wielding skills, he's generally awesome. 

I've spent most of my writing ruminating on how I'll have changed after teaching abroad and traveling in Latin America.

Lately, though, I've been thinking about how I haven't changed. The parts of me that seem to endure whateverI go through. These don't always seem to be good. 

Yesterday I realized no matter how much of a fully functioning adult I've become, I morph into a whimpering mess when it comes to A) shopping for recipe ingredients and B) dancing. 

The first came about because we had a dinner Friday at Sol Latino, my Spanish school. The idea was that students would prepare "comida tipica" from their home country. Since the school has people from the States, Canada, Belgium, the Netherlands, and China, among others, I was worried that there would be a rich palette of worldly cuisine. Also, I was worried that my cooking ability is as good as my time-traveling ability. 

Rescue came in the form of my friend Annie, who not only helped found Samara Farm in Shelbyville, IL but also is a stellar cook. She'd sent me a recipie for peanut butter no-bakes, which are the simplest cookies you can imagine, requiring only mixing and a few minutes of heat. To make them, you need butter, sugar, milk, peanut butter and oatmeal. 

Easy? Hah. First I was stumped for 5 minutes deciding between sugar and brown sugar. Then I spent another 5 or so pondering what size package would give me the amount I needed with little left over and in the end had to ask a cashier. Repeat this scene with milk and then peanut butter. Butter was easy (1 stick - I can handle that) but then I became flustered with the right kind oatmeal ... and ended up getting integral oats, which are apparently different, so I had to later buy a bag of actual oatmeal and now have a plastic bag of oats I'm not sure I'll ever use. 

It was a sad spectacle. Every time I've cooked anything, shopping trips generate more perspiration than should be sanely expected, and also often go hand-in-hand with stressed calls to my mom. (to my credit, the preparation went very well; I enlisted Antonio, my Guatemalan little brother as my assistant - good times). However, it could not compare to what happened when we went out dancing after dinner. 

Now, I know I'm not a good dancer. Never claimed to be. But I do dance in the States, and I enjoy it a ton. Partly it's because I usually go dancing in groups of people with whom I feel confident. Mostly, though, it's because dancing here has form -- read more about this in La Vida Idealist. In the States, it's more free and thus more ridiculous, but I can actually do it. The key back home, for me, is that you can't be wrong (this is also probably connected to my love of improv). 

But with salsa and meringue and bachata, you have to actually know steps. The people here, especially the guys, do, so everyone looks good doing it. Faced with this, I tried to hide behind the coats people piled on our table. 

My roommate Lyss, God bless her, dragged me out on to the floor. She asked Mariella, her Spanish teacher, to show me a step or two. Mariella did, for about 108 seconds, and then passed me back to Lyss proclaiming "he's got it!"

I did not in any way "have it." I don't know what the "it" was I was supposed to have. 

Lyss good-spiritedly coached me, and I wish I'd done better for her. I repeatedly failed to string together more than four steps in a row, all the while launching a shock-and-awe assault on Lyss' feet with mine. After foreverthree minutes, a local dance teacher broke in and swept Liz away.

I'm generally okay with public embarrassment, but I did not do well with this. I felt so miserable and self-conscious, which was ridiculous, but my thoughts took over. I hated being there and being myself, so I left to take a walk in the park. Weak, I know.

It was part of my never-ending struggle to leave my head. It's something I try so hard to do and have been trying hard to do. This sort of cloud descends on me often at big, active social events (clubs, parties, wedding receptions). Even with the perfect opportunity to topple this complex and reinvent myself -- a new city and country, surrounded by people who have never seen me in this type of situation -- I failed. I think it's why I once wanted to be a DJ. You get to be part of the party, almost run it, but you don't have to be in it. 

Those aren't the only constants that have popped up. I'll always be a reader. I live to help people. I will never not sing along to Phil Collins songs. Those, at least, are things I like. They'll hopefully be the sort of things that define me. 

That's why I really need to find a karaoke joint here in Quetzaltenango. I'd like for Lyss to see me in my element -- by which I mean a wrenching, heartfelt version of "Against All Odds." She has, after all, already seen "I Can't Dance."

It seems ridiculous to do the long-promised San Blas post after such a delay, and now having two weeks under my belt in Quetzaltenango. But, a promise is a promise, so I will.

... but, I realized there is very little to say. These are the white-sanded, crystal-watered islands that exist only in movies and Richard Branson's portfolio. I never really believed I'd be on one, but there I was. They're populated by the Kuna Indians, who make a meager living selling their traditional clothes and hosting tourists.

Meager, however, is maybe not fair. Because their life consists of driving boats, fishing, hauling tourists, playing with the dogs, playing guitar, and, for a treat, sipping some condensed milk out of a can. It struck me that this is a life people have, one so far removed from the developed jumble of the States. I'd never comprehended such an existence before. Though I'm not sure I could do it, it was a wonder to see.

I realize no one will read this, with the World Cup final on. I'm okay with that. I'm distractedly posting it only to keep my Sunday promise.

---

After my Nicaragua chicken bus experience, I swore I wouldn't complain about the CTA or any other developed-world transit system ever again. Of course, that doesn't mean I can't point out areas in which the CTA could improve. I found one such area in Panamá City's diablos rojos. These are the ridiculously colorful donated school buses that barrel around town, horns and reggaeton a-blazing. Here's my La Vida Idealist post on them, and a bonus picture.

Imagine on getting on the Broadway #36 and seeing this. How could you be mad at the delays and too-high cost? I'm offering myself as a consultant on this, Daley. Skype me.

---

Traveling makes it hard to keep up on blogging. You do and see so much, and suddenly it's a week later, and you haven't committed anything to text. This had made my journal suffer, too.

So much happened in Panamá, but I'll try to take you through it. I went there at the end of June because I was worried about the time limit on my Costa Rica visa. I took an afternoon Tica Bus, which, after the time-mangler that is the border crossing at Paso Canoas, put me into Davíd at 11 p.m. (Does anyone, anywhere, know of a pleasant border crossing? Why don't we invest in these?)

I stayed in the Purple House, which I do not recommend. The owner is such a control freak and so high-strung that she kills the laid-back ambiance a hostel should have. I listened to her chastise an employee for a minor offense, and she made the same point about eight times. I wanted to check out right then and might have done so had it not been after midnight.

Davíd was full of unpleasant experiences. Besides being one of the most unattractive places I've ever seen and totally devoid of character, I stumbled into my first American-style supermarket and had a mini-breakdown.

I was relieved to catch a bus to Boquete, which touts itself as the adventure capital of Panamá. Two English girls and I chatted on the ride up, and we walked to the same place, Hostel Nomba. This place gets bonus points because the owner, Ryan, is a University of Colorado alum. He'd put up stickers from lots of my favorite Boulder haunts, including Illegal Pete's and The Fitter. ♥

 

Colorado love in Nomba

My plan was to shape up by doing some of the town's shorter hikes and then tackle Volcan Baru, an extinct volcano and the highest point in Panamá. It offers views of both the Atlantic and Pacific when the clouds clear away, which happens slightly less than never. But, then I met Hayden and Karin, two Texans who had organized a night hike up the volcano that very evening. They invited me along, and I eagerly accepted. It's difficult to set up tours solo, and tossing an opportunity like this would have been stupid.

It was stupid anyway.

I was not ready for this hike. The volcano is 3,474 meters tall. Doesn't sound like much, but it's 11,398 feet. I did not know this. Couple that with the fact that it was steep going and that we left at 1 in the morning, and, well, it didn't go well.

We were 6: Our patient, excellent, and amazingly in-shape guide, whose name I have forgotten; Mike, a Florida-born college student living in Panamá with his parents; Karin and Hayden; two Quebecois girls who'd also hopped on the tour; and me.

Mike, our guide, and Hayden stop for a break. The group reaches a fork in the trail, where the fog surrounding the mountain is evident. 

We started out great. It was dark and cool and there was a lightning storm in the distance. But slowly, the difficulty wore on us. One of the Quebec gals was less in form than I was, and I stayed back with her, not wanting to ditch her and also hoping to conserve energy to make the summit. She eventually had to stop and turn around, and I wish I'd done the same.

We were about 5 kilometers from being when she broke off, and I kept lagging behind the group. With 1 kilometer to go, many things happened: The clouds cleared, and I saw just how steep it still was to the summit, and whether because of that or coincidentally, I got dizzy and a headache hit me. I think it was my mind stopping me from serious harm. I just stopped, and I didn't even have the wherewithal to call out to the group. I sat on a rock, bundled up from the wind, and munched on some granola.

Thankfully, they didn't wait for me, and everyone else made the summit. I met them on the return. I'd contributed in some way, having given Mike a Snickers bar that they'd all split at the top. And I wasn't disappointed. I'd read a Zenhabits post about eliminating expectations and the power that can give you, and I'm really trying to adopt this tactic. I was genuinely impressed that I'd made it as far as I did in the shape I was in, and we had a good time and fun stories to share. However, at the end of the return trip, when I met Hayden and Mike at the ranger station, and we were all panting and in pain and surrounded by pestering flies, I had only three words: “Fuck that rock.”

---

The next day, the Texans took off, and I stayed to watch the Brazil/Netherlands World Cup game. The World Cup has made this a such a good trip that I'm half-jokingly considering quitting whatever job I have every time it rolls around so I can travel and watch it. So many days I have taken my time and not rushed around because a game was on. It's a guaranteed people-meeter, and I enjoy the hell out of it anyway. I had the bonus pleasure of watching it at Hostel Nomba with two Dutch girls and a Brazilian who just happened to check in that day. Cultural note: The Dutch celebrate goals by dancing together, Brazilians by running up and down the hall screaming.

I almost wish I'd stayed with that group, they were all such good people. But my blisters from the hike and lingering leg-pain made enjoying what Boquete had to offer nearly impossible. I said goodbye and took a late afternoon bus back to Davíd, from which I would take a midnight overnight bus to Panamá City.

What do you do when you have a few hours to kill in the character-suck that is Davíd, Panamá? I don't know about you, but I watched the “A-Team” movie with Spanish subtitles. It was big and loud, like a marching band comprised solely of elephants, and roughly equal in quality.

---

Panamá City. I spent time there at Jungla House, which happened to be owned by the same folks who own Nomba. Again, a great place, and the people there were knowledgeable and helpful.

I spent the majority of my first full day walking around Casco Viejo, the old historic part. It's not only got some great colonial buildings but also some really wonderful restaurants. I found it interesting that it managed to bring together the oft-separate worlds of historical bonanza and slum; many parts did not feel safe, or reeked of poverty and desperation. Then, you'd reach the ocean and look left and be blasted by the modern skyline.

I hung out a lot in the city with my friend Lauren, who I know from Uncle Dan's and who is interning at Copa Air. We ate out and talked business and travel and what's next and life. She's one of the most fascinating people I could have ever met, with the best stories from growing up. Hell, she's got good stories now; she has family in Panamá, and apparently, they've got serious business influence. Her cousin is a popular artist who has major gallery showings and his own edition of Chanel No. 5.

What circles I manage to dip my toe into.

---

One day, I went to the Miraflores Locks of the Panamá Canal. It's not that impressive of a place, sadly, unless you happen to catch a massive ship going through, which I did:

There's a museum, but it really doesn't do the canal justice. I wanted to learn more about the human toll the construction took, but it was glossed over in both the exhibits and the film. (I think I still had in mind the last museum I visited, the National WWII Museum in New Orleans, which did an excellent/sober job of outlining the atrocities committed by all sides). The film also came complete with propaganda language about the importance of the canal's $5.2 billion expansion, and how it will spread wealth and power to all of Panamá.

Hearing that, I thought of all the massive skyscrapers that jut from Panamá City and of the omnipresent cranes pulling up other massive skyscrapers, remembered all the luxury cars and the ads for elegant condos, and pictured the mall with its Armani and Diesel shops. Then I considered passing through the decrepit rural villages I'd seen, with shops run down and farmers hauling stuff on their backs (not to mention the troubled Casco Viejo), and I had to wonder if some of those people saw even a cent since Panamá took over the canal.

Don't get me wrong. I had lovely time in Panamá and enjoyed everyone I met. But this glaring failure of trickle-down economics really rubbed me the wrong way.

---

Notice that I talk of Panamá in the past tense. That's because I'm not there now; I'm in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. I'd planned to attend language school in Panamá, but the one I was looking at turned out to be too expensive, and the Texans told me about a really great school they'd gone to that I plan to check out.

Sadly, this wrap-up narrative has omitted much of my Panamá experience, including the most stunning part of all, the San Blas Islands. It'll have to wait for another entry, but here's a teaser.