I spent a large chunk of my day is a desolate funk. I woke up sad and discouraged, smiling only a little through my coffee with the usual jests between my love and I. My nose was stuck in Eva Luna by Isabel Allende, even though I’m thinking it might be my second time through, I found myself lost in the woe of her story rather than the joy that shoots through those sad words. I finished a job application that I was really excited about Saturday, sure that I would get it then, now only filling in the words by obligation rather than pure interest.

Finally, while searching for jobs after completing the application, I stumbled onto a post that sparked an idea: “Teach English Abroad!” It wasn’t the first time the idea had been bounced around in my brain, as fellow students I’ve known in passing are rumored to have done the same. OK, I thought, I could do that. And as the doubts clouded my head, I pushed them away. No, really, I could.

And suddenly, I saw myself in Santiago, taking in a cup of coffee in the sun as I graded student papers. I could teach in Chile, a land that has always held a certain fascination for me, a romance, a strange longing. I could finally realize that dream, live in Chile for five to ten months, check something off my lifetime to-do list.

Then came the poison, the practical questions. How much does it pay? Where will I live? What about my financial obligations in the US? Visas? How do I get hired? Could I actually sit in a classroom and teach people?

For five hours I sought to answer the questions, determined to get them out of the way so I could get back to that image of myself in the streets of Santiago. Instead, I found more questions, which grew to concerns, and then to disgust and frustration. It all came back to money, the biggest evil and corrupter of romantic ideals, the king of all practical concerns. There would never be enough money. Payment for a teaching English as a foreign language certificate, payment possibly for a placement service, for airfare, for an apartment, for food, transportation, phone, internet, ect, ect — and all on a very meager income.

But I’ve got Mark Twain on my left shoulder, whispering that I should follow the adventure, the experience, and the color. And on my right shoulder is a big, heaping stack of bills. And a stack of very real bills is enough to squash the whisperings of a long-dead novelist.

It’s a war that never stops with me, and pragmatism always wins out over the romantic leap. What’s safe, what’s practical, and what’s smart tramples over the pack up and go urges that sometimes strike.

So I guess that Santiago, even with all the mysterious pull it has on my heart, will have to wait until I can afford a month to go appreciate her.