Adventures of... an Ex-Mo

The keys to my new nest

2011-06-21T20:12:00.000-07:00

There are about 15 posts I have knotted into a big ball of words in my brain from the last two insane weeks of my life. And now that I have the KEYS to MY APARTMENT in the West Village (!!!) I surely will have little to no time to untangle them onto this screen. Because I will be packing my life into little boxes, again. And then I fly to Mexico, because that's just what you do in the summer.

But I sure am going to do my best, so stay tuned.

Anatomy of a great date.

2011-06-14T21:19:00.000-07:00

I had two terrible days. And then I went on a great date, and had such a good time, and that felt so gooooood.

I'm not a great dater. Yet. I am an attractive, single young woman in Manhattan, but I'm also right in the thick of really learning how to be that. Successfully. I'm used to seeing myself as an unattractive, awkward, quiet, undesirable. And it takes some doing to completely recalibrate. Until you get to that point where you don't have the knee-jerk reactions, the oblivious non-flirty responses to flirtation, the automatic eye-diversion. So, as I think I've said, I'm right in the middle of that learning curve, and that is A-OK.

So I've been dating a bit lately. Quite regularly. And I've experienced the unpleasant, the humorous, the awkward, the embarrassing, the mediocre, and occasionally the great. (One guy's idea of a compliment: to tell me how adorable my 'chubby cheeks' are. I graciously chalked that one up to a cultural/language barrier.)

So. Friday. Post-crisis. I take a shower, wash my eyes with contact solution, put on a pretty dress, and head up-town to the Met. I don't go to the Met nearly enough, so it's just a treat to be there on a summer evening. Add to the equation one of the most stunning exhibitions I've ever seen: Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty. Theatrical, gorgeous, emotional. Whoever created the actual exhibition itself deserves an award, I've never seen anything like it. You should be bummed if you never get to see it, but at least click over to the website and take a look around.

The suitor: I knew immediately that even if we didn't end up being compatible, I was, at the very least, going to have an interesting time.

He moved a little quicker than I would have through the rooms, but it was ok, I knew I'd go back. And the museum was closing in an hour, after all. Someone who wants to go to the Alexander McQueen exhibit on a first date in the first place is already a winner anyway.

Following, after sitting on the front steps for a few minutes chatting, we decided to get out of the Upper East Side and head to my stomping grounds, and a favorite Italian place of his, conveniently around the corner from my apartment. Perfect, Caffe Dante had been on my list of renowned coffee houses in the area I needed to try. He ordered a bunch of scrumptious favorites (tiramisu, tartuffe - yes, we started with dessert- eggplant & zucchini panini, cappuccino with a shot of Baileys, and strawberry gelato with a shot of vodka), and we split them all. Deeelicious.

Good conversation.

He wanted to see a favorite DJ in the East Village at Home Sweet Home, one that would apparently call for dancing. So, since we were right by my apartment, and my dress wasn't an ideal one for dancing, I suggested I pop upstairs to change (this date even called for a costume change...) Good move, because the DJ, Jonathan Toubin, plays '60's soul music, not a bad song in the mix, and that is absolutely my favorite music to bust a move to. We danced, and danced, and danced, and this man knew how to lead, my friends. I had such a blast.

I got home at 2 or 3 in the morning, curled up in bed for a few hours, before I woke up to a full day of work. But I didn't mind a bit.

Again, I don't know how compatible this suitor and I will end up being, it's only been one date, after all, but I had such a good time, after such a shitty couple of days-- it just felt so good to talk, laugh, eat, and dance with such gusto.

And now you all know the recipe to win my heart: art + food + dancing.

Bon.

S'il vous plait.

2011-06-14T07:17:00.000-07:00

I find myself wanting to start every day lately with a (soy) cappuccino and a croissant. And I find myself wanting to conclude every day sharing a glass of wine with a friend. Neither of these habits are in my diet. And maybe I am turning French.

Open up your plans and, damn, you're free.

2011-06-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

Oh friends, I had a couple of intensely bad days last week. The wonderful thing about having such dark hours, is that those are the times when you recognize what a lucky girl you are for having a few people in your life who just really love you. It's so easy to allow yourself to stop believing you have these stalwart few, these gracefully indefatigable supports. Can I say, especially when you're single? I don't get that daily, physical reminder that another human being loves me. I genuinely think I am a lovely person, and it's still a surprise, a beautiful little discovery, when I witness someone's selfless care for me.

I can only hope I return it in kind.

For the second time, in less than a year, I have been given notice to vacate my little home. There are a few reasons why this lovely surprise brought me crumbling to my knees on Thursday. It's true, there have been things about my little nest in the Village that have been less than satisfactory. But living in this neighborhood is genuinely one of my favorite things about my life right now. (Wise words from la soeur: 'then more things need to change in your life, Laura.') I felt like that big piece of happiness was being robbed from me. Because you know what? You can't find 2-bedroom apartments in Greenwich Village for the rent I pay.

I also have about 2 1/2 weeks to find a new place. A permanent place, because I am not a college kid anymore and I have a real life, with real things. And that feels like an exceptionally tall order when piled upon my demanding job. In addition to, you know, packing and actually moving and then unpacking. Which in itself is exceptionally tiring. Do you know how short 2 1/2 weeks are?

How many times must I gather my life into boxes and carry them across this City?

I also feel like I am currently trying (struggling) to answer some Big Life Questions. I'm trying to allow myself the time to explore them enough to adequately offer myself an answer, and having the stability of a home threatened while I'm trying to explore those Questions is just... a bit overwhelming. And making a big choice about where I'm going to live, for how long, for how much, on or off a lease, when I have not answered those Questions is also just a bit much. I know I'm being vague. I would so prefer not to be, but you know, this is the world wide web, after all. If we went out for coffee I could really unload on you.

Nothing feels right when your home is in flux. Keep your fingers tightly crossed for me. I am trying to take things moment by moment, day by day, and not fall apart. Again.

And as for those Big Life Questions, change is sometimes exciting, and always scary, but nothing is gained when nothing is risked, and what, my friends, is the point of that? I'd be getting nowhere, and pretty damn slowly at that, and that would certainly not make me happy.

Running on croissants, cappuccinos, and steel-cut oatmeal.

2011-06-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

Not my ideal diet, but I guess things like this happen. I just don't make the best choices when I'm tired, just worked out, am therefore impressed with myself, feel like I should reward myself, and then have a coffee date. At least I got to that 11 AM spin class. Since I was still up this morning when the sun was rising at 5 AM, eating baklava on a stoop around the corner, I am surprised I made it to the gym. The memory of that falafel drove me to it.
Speaking of falafel, I was at the world-famous (well, NYC-famous?) falafel house on Macdougal, waiting in line like all the other bar-closers, when a brawl breaks out in this TINY falafel house. Macho idiocy at its finest. The rest of us were just like 'Cut it OUT guy, we just want falafel!'

I love the power of the high heel to instantly provide that little umph of sex-appeal, and of course the whole legs-looking-great trick. You definitely feel different walking down the sidewalk to the click of a heel. But I do not love how I cannot practice my usual speed-walk, I'm really quite impatient. Maybe I'll like them better when I don't live in a walking-city.

Last weekend, Rachel and I spent the most delicious evening, night-strolling around the uber-charming, quiet West Village streets, and ended up at a lovely cafe/wine bar, Doma. We split a bottle of prosecco, and whiled the late hours away with conversation. On the meander back toward 6th Ave, we passed a packed bar, Highlands. It's a modern 'Scottish gastropub' specializing in whiskey and Scottish ales. Now I am not partial to hard liquor, I'm more a fan of the vine, but I did like the vibe to the place. And I couldn't help but notice the high percentage of attractive men in there, and I liked how it is nicely off the beaten path. So I made a mental note, and Rachel and I headed back there last night.

I feel like I am just way behind when it comes to the dating game. For years I was shy/had low self-esteem/was slightly socially awkward. So I am still learning. ALL the time. Oh my but this learning curve just isn't ending. But last night I showed up to this bar, I was wearing a favorite dress, some high heels, had a great wingman, and was feeling confident and happy. And I behaved in a manner I've always thought out of my reach. Rache and I had a great time, met some interesting gentlemen, and didn't even notice the hours ticking by til we were headed back to my neighborhood for the afore-mentioned falafel and noticed birds singing and the sky slowly lightening behind the Empire State Building. Oh summer nights in Manhattan, there's nothing like you!

As much as I love a good sleep, I really just wished I could stay up and head straight into my day. I cut my sleep to 5 hours so I wouldn't waste my much-prized Sunday off in bed. And considering that short sleep, I was fantastically productive on my lazy sunday: gym, shower, coffee/lunch, date, grocery shopping, catching up on emails, blogging, and even a little housecleaning.

And on to another week.

I'm planning on doing a whole lot of this this summer.

2011-05-31T18:38:00.000-07:00

Hello, polka-dot bikini. (Today is the first time I've ever worn one.)

I love Long Island ocean. It's rough. I always get scared swimming out. I am usually by myself, because I like to swim a long way out. I test myself by staying out there as long as I can bear it. The lifeguards inevitably whistle me in. The ocean is pretty terrifying-- you have no idea what could be lurking beneath you, creepy (and very real) ocean creatures that you couldn't even begin to imagine (who knows how God, or who/whatever, came up with them), riptides, silent, muffled, death by drowning. It's just so legitimately scary. So I can never stay out there very long by myself, but I also love how I am literally submerged in nature. In this primal force. Every muscle in my body is constantly interacting with it, and I am carried in its heaving and swelling. And then the dichotomy of how it drives you into the beach, while it sucks you back further into its depths again. I love how you have to fight to climb your way out of a Long Island ocean. And how bracingly cold it is! You always spend enough time lolling about on the sand while at the beach, it's refreshing to play with the opposites of laziness and warmth. And getting to flip-flop between both whenever it pleases you.

And what is it about eating outside? Everything is more delicious when tasted in the elements.

And now, the inevitable return to work tomorrow. But I'm sure my next beach visit is just around the corner. Hello, summer! How beautiful you have looked this weekend.

Sparkly

2011-05-25T19:48:00.000-07:00

I have a problem: my love for carbonated water is battling my habitual reduce/reuse/recycle mode.

I generally dislike water. I know, it's ridiculous, it's stupid, and it's just my reality. I love it when I'm kickboxing, but kicking it around the house? No thank you. I therefore usually wake up in the morning with a raging thirst. Because I am constantly dehydrated. I don't think it tastes that great, and I kind of resent my need of it. Yes, that's just my stubborn streak making itself known, let's move on.

Many places in Latin America, I was offered soda, (not generally a fan), agua, or agua con gas. It was purely on accident that I ordered agua con gas the first time, because I know as I child I was not a fan of it (I expected it to taste like sugary sweet soda if there were bubbles in it). And after that fateful day, agua con gas was my go-to when I felt I needed a treat. It was just as (in)expensive as a regular bottle of water, but it was a little extra special, and tasted just right on a hot, sticky day in Buenos Aires. I couldn't afford anything fancier, and backpacking is all about the simple pleasures.

Plus, Pellegrino? Please, amigos, what is classier?

I had dinner with a multi-millionairess the other night, and she definitely preferred sparkling water. I rest my case.

The problem with carbonated water? It doesn't come out of my tap. I cannot reuse the same aluminum bottle with every bottle of carbonated water I desire. You guys, if I were God, carbonated water would be gushing forth from our faucets. That's ok, you don't have to live on my planet, I didn't want you anyway.

Your answer is obviously to buy one of those machines from Bed Bath & Beyond with which you can make your own soda/carbonate your own water. If you had seen the postage-stamp size of my NYC apartment and the COMPLETE LACK of kitchen counter space, you would know this is not an option.

My current solution? I treat myself to an extra-large bottle of sparkling water whenever I shop at Trader Joe's, or when I have guests over. The weight of carrying more than that home (with the rest of the produce stand I am lugging), forbids me from overdoing it on the extra plastic. Until I have my dream kitchen with enough counter space for my SodaStream/espresso machine/juicer/Vita-Mix/food processor, this simple pleasure will just have to remain a special treat.

Foursquared

2011-05-24T23:52:00.000-07:00

I've received some requests for more blogging. Which I find A) flattering, and B) curious. Because almost everyone I know is my Facebook friend. And I'm sure you've noticed what a fan of Foursquare I am. So you're pretty much aware at almost all times where I am and the gist of what I'm doing. Some people might find this enthusiastic use of Foursquare creepy. I'm basically inviting you to be my stalker. Some people probably see it as overshare.

What do I love about Foursquare? I really RELISH my outside-of-work-time. Because I work A LOT. Foursquaring about all my non-work activities is my technological celebration that I am doing something simply because I choose to. I also think it's that, rather arrogantly, I think I have excellent taste, and I don't mind sharing it with you.

One of my top Foursquare check-ins: the gym. Yeah, I'm sure you've noticed how frequently I'm there, and half the time it's with my fabulous accountabilibuddy, Rachel. Sometimes you can find me there on a Friday evening. I am not ashamed of this. My interest in physical activity, all-around wellness, and nutrition has really sky-rocketed in the last year. Ok, I admit it, I'm probably bragging just a little bit when I check in here. But I am also just genuinely proud of myself that for the first time in my life I regularly exercise, and in fact quite enjoy it. This required some major reshuffling of priorities. I did not grow up in a very physically active family, previous to this year I'd been overweight my entire life. I was always unhappy about it-- intensely so. I never felt like my outside truly reflected who I was inside, i felt such a disconnect. I couldn't wear the clothes the Real Laura would wear, I couldn't physically accomplish the activities the Real Laura would enjoy. I didn't feel like myself. That's a horrible way to feel (and not feel) for 20 years. I feel so much more connected with my body now- I feel strong, capable. It's truly delicious to leave the discomfort and shame behind me.

All 3 books that I'm reading right now are non-fiction and are related to the above:

Coincidence? I think not.

Another frequent Foursquare check-in? Third Rail Coffee. It is literally a block away from my front door, I have never been so spoiled. I have a lovely Italian Bialetti at home with which to make my own coffee. But 2 things have led me to Third Rail just about every day: A) the best soy cappuccino I've enjoyed in my entire life thanks to the Stumptown coffee beans and Intelligentsia coffee beans they brew there (has rudely/brilliantly awakened me from Starbucks mediocrity), and B) the decrease of my coffee consumption. About a month ago I felt miserable and out of balance. To try to level out my emotions and general feeling of (un)wellness, I started eating differently. The eating choices discussed in Kris Carr's book, Crazy Sexy Diet (not a huge fan of the name) are basically how I would eat in my ideal world. Vegan, low-glycemic, alkaline, sugar-free, plant-based, organic, unrefined, whole-grain, gluten-free. Ok, I don't know if I'm COMPLETELY sold on the gluten-free part. But it has helped me avoid many a baked good calling my name. Coffee is very acidic, the whole idea behind the caffeine jolt is completely out of line with keeping your body and blood sugar level and balanced. But I LOVE coffee, coffee culture, and cafes, and I think it is absolutely valid and good that I keep this pleasure in tact. So I decided to cut my coffee intake from about 4 cups of coffee a day (usually ingested in the form of 2 very large cups) to 1 REALLY GOOD cappuccino (albeit with 2 shots of espresso) every day. That was my compromise. And it's worked out really well for me. I feel fantastico.

And if you've had breakfast with me lately, you may have noticed my new-found penchant for green veggie juice. Love it!

the Mormon question

2011-05-24T20:30:00.000-07:00

I received a lovely email from my sister, Amy, this evening. She lives in Utah, and had been listening to a discussion on a radio show today about Huntsman vs. Romney, both being LDS potential candidates for the next Presidential run. Romney is pretty straightforward about his membership in the Mormon Church, and recently, Huntsman is apparently less so. When asked straight-out if he was Mormon, his reply was, "It's complicated." She understood there was some political strategizing going on, trying to appeal to multiple populations, but he also did not feel it actually as that complicated. You either are, or you aren't, Mormon.

She then started to explore the different possibilities. Is he less active? But his name is still on the Church roll. How about a caller in to the show who shared how, though he doesn't practice the religion actively anymore, he still calls himself Mormon because his family has such extensive cultural history in it? And then there's that shared acquaintance who doesn't attend Church anymore, but would still say yes if someone asked her if she were Mormon.

Which brought her around to me. How do I answer that question? (If you couldn't already tell by the title of this blog...)

I was so pleased to get her email-- such a graceful, curious, welcoming opening dialogue raising a topic that I have had some anxiety about with my family. I tend not to bring my departure from the Church up in conversation, because I am afraid of making someone feel uncomfortable, awkward, or sad when there is no need to be.

Here is my response:

"It seems like Mr. Huntsman's team would have come up with a more graceful answer to the question I'm sure they were all expecting. I agree, if he is less active now, it certainly is much trickier, more awkward, and difficult to successfully circumnavigate than if he is a fully-active member. And just because his name is on the roll of the church certainly doesn't mean he's active or believes in it. You actually have to go through quite the rigmarole to get your name removed from the church roll. It's quite a lengthy, inconvenient, particular process, which is the only reason I haven't done it. (I am a terrible errand-runner, and finding a notary to sign my exceptionally specifically-worded letter is just not something that's at the top of my to-do list. Let alone talk to some bishop I've never met about how I do actually want to leave the Church, you would think a notarized letter would be proof enough...) But either way, he should have been able to say something that was a bit more of a statement, rather than an obvious attempt to dodge-- especially as this show was airing in Utah.

When the topic comes up, as it surprisingly frequently does (I feel like the majority of first conversations actually raises the issue-- as soon as people find out I lived in Utah for an extended period of time, or went to BYU, they ask. And then they inevitably have 20 more questions. People are FASCINATED by Mormons, and I think especially fascinated by someone who used to be a Mormon and isn't anymore.) Oh, and there's the answer to your question. I say I am no longer Mormon. Follow-up questions almost always include who else in my family is or is not Mormon, at which point I acknowledge the extensive familial and cultural history that will always tie me to this religion and lifestyle, but I no longer identify myself as Mormon.

[Acquaintance] has made the argument that I will always be Mormon like non-religious Jewish people are always culturally Jewish. The Mormon religion isn't nearly as old as the Jewish religion, or as populous, or as geographically-specific, though I see her point. But the reasons that led me to leave the Church also lead me to not want to be linked to the Church in ideology. I do not choose that label, and I feel like I get that option at this point. The Mormon religion is a part of my family history and story, and it has clearly shaped so much of who I am, which in some significant ways I am very grateful for. But at this point in my life, I get to choose how I put myself forth to the world as, and I choose words and connotations such as vegan, New Yorker, artist, woman, agnostic, American, over a religion and lifestyle I do not believe in."

This post brought to you by 'Winter Song'

2010-12-22T12:47:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I imagine New York City from a birds-eye perspective, and pinpoint the tiny dot that represents myself, there, almost at the very top of the island. With all of the thousands of dots milling around me that represent everyone else. And then I see all of the dots that represent those people who mean something to me, and where they might fall on the map at that particular moment, amidst all of the vibrating stranger-dots.

Right now, almost all of those friend-dots are gone. Vacated the island for the holidays. All of my go-to phone numbers for when I want to see a friendly face are not currently available. I am still here, just me and my City. And these absences make my interaction with Manhattan feel unaccountably different, even though this day may have progressed exactly the same even if all my friend-dots ran along their usual tracks on the map. But today feels not unlike one of those days in Latin America, alone in a foreign city, divvying up my day according to only my own needs and desires. Except that I'm in the city I know best in the world. But isn't that the thing about New York? You never really know it?

I will actually be going home this year, unlike the last two years spent respectively in a retail-bound New York City, and then the far more relaxed Caribbean waters of Panama.

I am really looking forward to seeing Pittsford again. Upstate New York is so beautiful, and though I would much prefer to be there in warm weather, I can't wait to take a long winter walk in the country. I loathe winter, though every day I do my best to find reasons to like it, and a country winter walk is the best thing about it I can think of. Silence, peace, stillness, and snow crunching underfoot.

I also anticipate some forced-relaxation at home, as even a day off here in NY compels me to run errands, and yes, even frequently do some work. Speaking of which...

The butternut squash tomato bisque, cornbread, and a soy cappuccino, please.

2010-12-01T12:51:00.001-08:00

I don't know if this is going to paint me as a loner or lonely, (which right now, at least, I am not), but I am sitting down for my first solo meal, in a restaurant, with a waiter. To be fair, I guess it's a cafe, but I'm sitting at a table that gets waiter service. Even when I was traveling alone in Latin America I never went to a restaurant with table service and sat eating all by myself. I would order things and take them to go. More likely I would have stopped at a grocery store for a simple meal of local bread, cheese, and produce. Often I passed a day or two or three with someone else on the road.

It makes me feel very professional adult woman in Manhattan. Heaven knows that every Manhattanite woman's role model, Carrie Bradshaw, sat down for plenty of meals by herself. And that's exactly how I imagine the waiter thinking of me-- seeing me sitting here on my little netbook typing away with my soy cappuccino in the corner of my eye-- I am obviously a writer. With my my vintage-looking (but not) ring, my hair twisted into a braided french bun, my galoshes crossed under my Anthro dress. I think partly why I feel so at ease with eating my meal sola is because I'm so well put together today. It may be different if I felt like I'd just washed up in my tee-shirt, jeans, converse. Not to mention my usual day-off outfit consisting of sweaty work-out clothes.

Sigh. This is NYC in the winter for you. I can't go sit in the Park and eat my food, I have to tuck myself indoors, at the mercy of these lovely waiters. The first of December. I'm not sure either how that is supposed to make me feel, nor how it actually does make me feel. I reserve my 'holiday spirit' for work, and in the face of my currently breathtakingly overwhelming life, I focus on taking one task, project, emotion, day at a time. So the fact that it's December doesn't quite make an impact on how today is going.

If I did let myself think about it for a moment, I might think about how it's the first day of the last month of this eventful year, and consider how that would make me feel. I might think about how nervous I am heading into the winter season-- I don't do well without sunlight on my skin, and growing things within arm's reach.

What I do think about is ALL THE STUFF I have to do in the next two months and how I better stop writing this blog so I can get back to that. On this, my day off. That's life. At least if I'm working on my day off I can do so in a delicious, charming, cozy vegan cafe.

Blast from the past

2010-09-20T23:11:00.000-07:00

Did you follow my blog while I was on my trip? If you did, you may recall this sailboat trip. The never-ending one... led by a perpetually intoxicated crazy captain?

I was recently tagged in this photo, posted by a lady I barely met on this night: New Year's Eve going into the year 2010. I do not have enough pictures of me on this trip and I was DELIGHTED to be surprised by this. All the way on the left is Llani, I can't remember the name of the next guy, above him is Joe, the infamous Captain Dennis (look at those rosy cheeks!), myself in the center (I AM SO TAN), and Kathryn to the right.

Ug. I cannot believe this was me 9 months ago. It is CRAZY how worlds-away this whole trip feels. I was writing a piece for my acting class about an event that occurred during this trip, so I was looking through a bunch of old blog posts. I still can't believe I did this. I want to do it again. Not next month or anything, but maybe next year. For the time being though, things are going really well. I feel some great momentum building, and I am really excited about some things happening, some expectations developing, and some results occurring. Yup, super vague. But suffice it to say my 3 jobs are progressing, I'm the slimmest I've ever been, I love the 2 acting classes I'm in, and I'm being really proactive about my career. For, really, the first time since leaving school. I am thrilled with the state of affairs.

Scroll down to the next post... Yeah, don't I look a whole lot better with a bit of makeup on? I am still really impressed I went this whole trip without a stitch of makeup. Cute boys and everything.

Headshots

2010-09-02T10:36:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday I poked around friends' experience, brains, and the internet to find a headshot photographer in NYC that I liked. Last Thursday I met with one. This past Tuesday I shot with one. I got extraordinarily stressed out about this shoot. Not in a non-functional way, just in a 'Am I doing everything possible to make this a success?' way. I tried to pinpoint the castability I was aiming to emerge with. I shopped for hours looking for colors, textures, necklines that flattered. I didn't buy much. I worked SO MUCH I worried. A lot. I walked a lot. I didn't sleep well. I worked out.

I am an actor. Not a model. Acting feels very different to me than taking pictures. It's not what I have experience doing. It's not what I'm trained in. The only training I have is the school of America's Next Top Model. But what is training without practice?

My photographer and makeup artist were fantastic. I was really reticent about using the required makeup artist. I am a makeup artist and I haven't let anyone else do my makeup for years. But Joey was really wonderful, and open to anything I wanted to tweak. Laura, the photographer, was so professional, unbelievably detail oriented, and was a great coach. Also, so open to any tweaks I wanted to make. Since I'm a slow decision-maker I unfortunately didn't have too many tweaks to work with, but she knows how to take charge anyway. Take a look at her very impressive website by clicking here.

I thought positive thoughts. I thought confident thoughts. I had fun. I let go of the death grip I had on this photo shoot and tried to experience it as openly as anything else. Not as an imperative tool that would make or break my career. It's a really exciting, positive step forward. Do you remember my last headshots? They were lovely, but I needed new ones.Please take 10 minutes and help me decide on a few to get retouched and printed. Before you do, please read the below excerpt from Dallas Travers' book The Tao of Show Business.

"Until your resume stands alone, your headshot must clearly and specifically explain how you're best cast. Casting directors are busy people and in order to stand out, you must convey a clear, specific message. You don't need a ton of specific photos with lots of specific costumes. You only need one to three key photos that speak to your castability in a drama, a comedy, and as a specific character. You've got to know yourself, know how others perceive you, and be willing to showcase your specific and authentic self. The more you showcase your glorious self, the more easily success will meet you. Be your best self. Know who you are and embrace it... Remember that the sole purpose of your headshots is to get you hired. That's accomplished with a riveting photo that showcases the real you and speaks clearly to your castability. It doesn't matter if you're smiling or not. It doesn't matter if your body is off-center, or the photo is cropped tight to your head. It doesn't matter if the photo is horizontal or vertical. It doesn't matter if it's a close-up or shows a little body. What matters is that the photo captures the eye and showcases the real you. That's it."

I'm looking for a commercial shot, a drama, a comedy, and maybe just one solid could-use-for-anything master shot. Remember, I'm not ingenue, I am character. Open a word document or your email so you can jot down the number of the picture and your comments on it as you go. I appreciate any feedback I can get, whether that be specific photo numbers or even just "I like the blue for your commercial shot." Even though any decision I make is ultimately mine, I'm not very good at narrowing things like this down. My photographer narrowed over a thousand shots down to more than 400, which I have narrowed down to 78. Help me out with the last couple of steps by clicking here.

Thank you!

Hello Summer

2010-08-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

I've had so many lovely New York moments the last couple of weeks, sometimes I wonder whose life or what film I've inadvertently walked into.

It started in Brooklyn. I baked some previously-mentioned amazing cookies and joined two sisters and a roommate at Prospect Park in Brooklyn for some free tunes performed by The Low Anthem and The Swell Season. Brooklyn is the most charming if you're in the right part, I kind of wish I lived there. The line snaked out through the park, but we had no problem scoring an acceptable square of grass and proceeded to enjoy our delicious picnic. It was the perfect temperature, with delightful company (I get along with the hipsters of Brooklyn so much better than with the uppity socialites of Murray Hill), gorgeous sun falling through the leaves, and warm golden melodies floating back to us. The Swell Season was absolutely fantastic. I wouldn't mind seeing their act again at all. Glen was sufficiently passionate (read: VERY), and they even played my favorite song from the Once album, 'Golden'! I wouldn't have minded whiling away a couple of more hours lounging on our picnic blanket in the park (I. Love. Summer. Nights. In. The. Grass.), but everyone else was done in for the night so we joined the masses exodusing to the subway.

A couple of days later, a friend invited me to some Hitchcock on the big screen in the Upper West Side. Done and done. I know that any Hitchcock enthusiast would roll their eyes at this, but I couldn't stop thinking of Mad Men. And I felt great about that. If I wasn't in love with the style of the 60's before Mad Men, I surely am now. Some great shots, some great style, some classic Hitchcock.
Post-film, friend and I joined a friend of his at an exclusive rooftop lounge/bar in Soho. How rarely do I get to say that I got into somewhere exclusive because I know someone who knows someone? 'Just drop Vanessa's name at the door, and they'll show you right in.' And the view. AND THE VIEW. I'll leave it at that. Great company, great atmosphere, great music, great drinks, and that wasn't the end. The rooftop lounge closed, and The Friend told us that she and the girls always go down to a small swanky club downstairs for live salsa music every sunday after the rooftop closes. Our group hesitated in the lobby, but after hearing those familiar, delicious strains of salsa I said that we at least had to peek in. And then once we were in, I, at least, could not leave. It was indeed small and swanky, with an absolutely fantastic three-man salsa band. (Word has it they play for the Moore/Kutcher clan.) The vibe was perfect, and the dancers were skilled. We had corner seats, and enough dance partners to go around. Plenty of flirting to go around too, including a very attractive lesbian-- I was so flattered. The night was unexpected, unpredictable, and absolutely perfect. And I didn't even have to take the long subway ride home alone. (Hmm, I did not mean by that what you think I am implying...)

The work carries on, as ever. I continue to work about 60 hours a week, so yes, a late night like that in the middle of my work week does take a toll. But luckily, at the end of my work week, that one day when I might find an hour or two to take a breath before plunging into my next work week, my glorious Thursday, my absolutely wonderful boss treated me to a massage at the Caudalie Spa at The Plaza to reward me for my hard work. I arrived after a liesurely stroll through Central Park and took every spare minute I had to relax in that peaceful refuge. And took about one moment to feel imperiously impressive about having reason to be at The Plaza.

The next night I attended an absolutely lovely cocktail party in the Upper West Side. Dreamy apartment, dreamy company, and it might have been my first bona fide cocktail party. I made sure to enjoy that. Drinks with a girlfriend after that.

And, finally, on Sunday I attended a dear friend's going away party. I am absolutely not happy about this dear friend's departure (well, except for the important fact that this is a momentous and good move for him). But his going away party was so much fun. It started at a little Italian restaurant in the West Village, and continued on to Marie's Crisis Cafe-- a hole-in-the-wall piano bar where everyone gathers around the piano to belt out showtunes with each other. It is tiny, dirty, and perfect. Most of the people there were obviously regulars. The creator/producer of Glee joined us for a few songs, and though I sang my loveliest for him, he was making out with some guy so I'm pretty sure I didn't snag his attention. He requested Funny Girl. Typical. The night included many good songs, a few bizarre people, and some weird-therefore-perfect moments. The piano player made some very inappropriate gropes to some males of our party. There was also a very tanned, bleached, Big Papi rich man who apparently owned half of the Dominican Republic who could not tear himself away from the males of our party, and told me that when speaking Spanish I have no accent! There was also this BRILLIANT MOMENT: the room suddenly went silent (I was mid-conversation and was both shushed and snapped at), and this woman, who I'd assumed was homeless, emerged from the shadows under the stairs to sing us a truly glorious song. Everyone was transfixed, figuratively bowed down to her, and then she retreated back to her shadows, where she remained, silent and motionless, for the rest of the night. And finally, as it was time to depart, Michelle and I sang one last song. There weren't many people left in the bar, and my back was to the door. Somewhere near the end of the song, I saw Michelle's eyes widen as she looked behind me at the door. I turn my head, and making their entrance sidestepping down the staircase, is a trio of truly made-up fabulous drag queens. There is always something dream-like about a drag queen's entrance, let alone a trio. My West Village dream night was so deliciously complete at that moment.

Tomorrow night: stargazing in Central Park at midnight.

Of conditioners and cookies

2010-07-31T19:59:00.000-07:00

Naturally.

There are a lot of things about living in New York City that are inconvenient. But looked at askance, it's easy to see them as charming. One of these things is how in-your-face and drastically affecting of your life/plans/weekend the weather is here. When it's cold, it's f-ing cold. And you have to speed-walk umpteen blocks imagining the toastiest thoughts no matter what, every day (no running to the protected bubble of your car). You have to wear a hat or you will die, and that messes up your hair. And in the summer, it's laughable how quickly your best attempts at a toilette become the sweat trickling down your lower back. And when you're home, you seclude yourself in the one room where you can attempt to control the temperature: your bedroom with the air conditioner hanging out the window. And that drastically affects your electric bill, (although at least now I am environmentally guilt-free on this account because I use WIND POWER!) BUT. Isn't it sort of charming that even though central air conditioning is commonly used across huge swatches of our country, our old NYC buildings still cling to this antiquated solution to the temperature concern? Doesn't it make you smile just a little to see all those boxes in those windows? By the way, how terrifying is it that these colossal, heavy machines are preciously perched on our windowsills?! I frequently have visions of my unit suddenly, soundlessly, swinging backward over the edge of my window to crush some unsuspecting passerby below.

I do still have a so-called beef with my air conditioning unit though, even if I can squint and see the charm in it. And that is that it is ugly. There is no way around that. Well google found my weakness and advertised the above, beautiful air conditioning unit this morning as I was perusing my gmail. If only.

And now on to more delicious talk. Behold:
That may look like any old chocolate chip cookie, but it is not. Oh no, that, my friends, is a picture of some of the most delicious cookies I have ever created. Are you ready for this? Organic, whole grain, vegan, banana-chip dark chocolate chunk almond cookies. (Ok, those aren't MY cookies, they are Heidi Swanson's, from whom I pirated the picture and recipe and substituted to make them vegan.) THEY ARE DELICIOUS GO MAKE THEM NOW AND THANK ME LATER. Well, make them after you get back from Whole Foods because who has wheat germ sitting in their refrigerator? Oh, that's right, after this, you do.

(If you really want to make these un-vegan style, you can check out the original recipe by clicking on Heidi's name above. But go ahead, save some chickens and cows some grief, and make them vegan, because you can.)

Note: I am generally pretty generous when I bake. As in, I might throw in a few more chips, or quite a few more chips, just... because. Well, the measurements for mix-ins here turn out to be pretty spot on, so if you're as generous as myself, you might find that the actual dough isn't quite stretching as far as you'd like to hold the mix-ins together. Mine turned out fine in the end, but just to save yourself the worry, really just use what is recommended on this one.

Banana Chip Cookie Recipe

I look for organic banana chips - the ones I like are made with organic coconut oil and bananas.

1 3/4 cups whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cup (toasted) wheat germ (Toast them in a pan over low heat until they turn a darker brown and smell toasty. Really, this makes a difference.)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
scant 1/2 teaspoon fine grain sea salt
1/2 cup coconut oil (solid, if it's too hot in your apartment, as in mine, put it in the fridge for an hour)
1 cup natural cane sugar (or brown sugar)
Egg Replacer for 2 eggs, or 1 mashed up banana
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2/3 cup banana chips, loosely chopped
1 cup chocolate chips
2/3 cup toasted almond slivers, chopped (or walnuts if you prefer)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees, racks in middle/upper middle. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Whisk together the flour, wheat germ, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, or stand mixer, beat the coconut oil, then beat in the sugar until it is the consistency of a thick frosting (this didn't happen for me, so I just beat until well-combined). Beat in the egg substitute, and scraping down the sides of the bowl a few times along the way (important!). Stir in the vanilla. Add the reserved flour mix in two increments, stirring/mixing a bit between each addition (but not too much). By hand, stir in the banana chips, chocolate chips and almonds - mix just until everything is evenly distributed.

Drop 1 heaping tablespoon of dough for each cookie onto the prepared baking sheets 2 inches apart and bake for about 7 - 8 minutes, until barely golden on top and bottom. Resist over baking, they will come out dry and not as tasty. Cook on racks.

Make about 24 cookies.

Each cookie is 140 calories, and is packed with some mighty-fine nutrients. That can be important information to know for guilt-free consumption.

What's in a name?

2010-07-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure I am automatically biased to enjoy the song "Laura", covered by Mates of State here. Yes, it's a cover, get over it.

I'm also pretty sure I have totally fallen in love with my name. Took me long enough, eh? I always loved my nickname, Lola. I couldn't get enough of it, and wished more people would take hold and run with it. The nickname was given to me before it was linked to any connotation of sauciness or seductress in my young brain. I've never been this kind of Lola.

My newfound love for my name began in Central America, where everyone pronounced my name Laurrra. Rhymes with pow-ra. I've never taken to any other versions of my name, such as the 'Lara' pronunciation, or the French 'Laure' by which I was addressed in French class throughout middle, high school and college. But BAM-- here was a name I loved. And it was already mine! One that fit just right, and thrilled me to the core whenever anyone said it. Well, let's be honest, especially when boys said it. I thought, if only I could claim a drop of Spanish blood, maybe some Argentinian blood (they're pretty light-skinned in general, more likely to be believed), then I could make everyone start pronouncing my name the Spanish way. And though many (many) people have asked me if I have any asian heritage, no one has ever considered that I may be of Spanish descent. Anyway, I don't like to lie. I wouldn't want my very name to be a lie. A name stands for something.

My name means: victorious. It comes from the laurels the Romans used to crown victors with. When I would read this in baby name books growing up, I just shrugged. Big whoop. But now, I love being reminded of it whenever my name is used. As we all know, there are many (many) people in this world who have exceptional challenges to overcome. And compared with them, my life seems easy. But we all have our demons, and I like the occasional encouragement I get in my battles just from hearing my own name.

I've been thinking about this post ever since I downloaded this Mates of State cover. I called my mom one day-- much to her surprise, it was my third call that day due to some postal service challenges. She was surprised to hear from me, and certainly surprised to be sidelined by the "Why did you name me _____?" question. I'd never asked before. And her response, as I'd anticipated, was a vague dance around Laura Ingalls Wilder and not remembering. Not exactly the meaningful, story-laden response I'd been hoping for. (Not to downplay Laura Ingalls-- we all very much enjoyed her books growing up, and though I haven't read them recently, she is to be very much respected for being a female authoress in times when it wasn't easy to be so.) But that's alright. We can all make of our circumstances what we want, what we need.

I'd also like to say, in relation to songs of names, every time I hear this song I wish my name was Kate. I have wanted to send a CD to my niece Kate with just this song on it, because I think she'd get a kick out of it (very danceable), but I already fear that her parents are going to be concerned about the un-LDS influence I could have on their children (TOTALLY my own paranoia here, not their's... as far as I know), and I don't want to be the one responsible for any of the Thomason kids asking the "what does it mean when they say she smokes pot?" question.

Typecasting

2010-07-16T23:05:00.000-07:00

I'm more than a little trepidatious about sending this query out into the internet world. But I have a few projects going on, and I've stumbled upon a question I think I could use some outside opinions on. So really, please tell me what you think.

There's a lovely thing in the acting world referred to as Type. I'm pretty sure that's all the description this concept needs. I'm trying to nail down, specifically, my type. Physically, characteristically, acting style. What cookie cutter mold can I easily be inserted into? If an agent were to ask me, 'Where do you see yourself? What type of roles can we market you for?' I would like to answer with a specific, relatable example. One whose response will be 'Hm, yeah, I can see that.' with firm nodding of the head. So I've come up with some ideas, and I'd like your response. (You can click on each other the actress's names for a reminder of who they are/what they've done.) I'd also love any other ideas you have to throw my way.

Elisabeth Moss (though who doesn't want to be Christina Hendricks right now?)

Samantha Morton circa In America

Alison Pill (Milk, Dan in Real Life, various Broadway)

Maggie Gyllenhaal circa Stranger than Fiction

Early Kate Winslet, circa Hideous Kinky or Sense and Sensibility

Other ideas are: Melanie Lynskey (not well known enough yet?), Rachel Griffiths (though too old), Toni Collette (though too old), Natalia Tena (I don't think she's had enough exposure yet, she's not well known enough, more her theatre career), Lauren Ambrose...

Oh yes, and if you need a reminder of what I'm looking like these days, (though Type is a little more than just what you look like), this was taken a couple of weeks ago...

Excerpt

2010-07-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

If you've ever asked for a book recommendation from me, I have surely recommended Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Chabon is such a talented writer, and I thoroughly enjoyed this recent book of essays he published about some of his experience being a son, husband, and father. I read the book a few weeks ago, and haven't stopped thinking about a few of his pieces, including the one this excerpt is clipped from, briefly exploring Chabon's struggle with David Foster Wallace's suicide, and his wife's near-suicide, and how what he does comes into play. (Not all of his essays deal with such dark/weighty concerns, but they are all poignant in some respect, and usually funny as well.) I recommend.

The world, like our heads, was meant to be escaped from. They are prisons, world and head alike. "I guess a big part of serious fiction's purpose," [David Foster] Wallace once told an interviewer, "is to give the reader, who like all of us is sort of marooned in her own skull, to give her imaginative access to other selves." The purpose or the blessing of that kind of access-- which I have often thought of and characterized by means of the word escape-- is ultimately to increase our sense of shared experience, of shared suffering, rapture, nostalgia, or disgust with our fellow humans, whose thoughts and emotions are otherwise locked away. And yet that gift of access, for all its marvelous power to console the lonely and to dislodge the complacent, is a kind of trick, an act of Houdiniesque illusion. When the vision fades and the colored smoke disperses, we are left alone and marooned again in our skulls with nothing but our longing for connection. That longing drives writers and readers to seek the high, small window leading out, to lower the makeshift ropes of knotted bedsheet that stories and literature afford, and make a break for it. When that window can't be found, or will no longer serve, or when it inevitably turns out to be only paint on the unchanging, impenetrable backdrop of our heads, small wonder if the longing seeks another, surer means of egress."

Dear Readers

2010-07-03T17:47:00.000-07:00

After my prolonged absence, I'm surprised you're back. Let's move on, yes?

An assorted combination of events has resulted in my having two whole days off this weekend. In a row. I cannot find the words to adequately impress upon you the rarity of this occasion. Due to other events, I have nothing whatsoever to do with myself. Friends/family are working, out of town, or otherwise indisposed. I had plans to return to Montauk via train today, but alas, the best laid plans... I am destined to eat all my delicious picnic food by myself.

What has driven me back to the blog is not the desire to write. Nor a need to share with my friends/family/unknown audience what's been happening to me. I think what really drives me here is the fact that my therapist is out of town for two weeks, and at the end of week one, there are far too many thoughts and feelings crowding my head and heart, and I am looking for some sort of pressure-relief valve. (I never imagined I'd grow so used to my weekly sessions that I'd feel such a difference when denied them.)

I am a pretty busy girl, but I don't, in truth, think that's the reason I've been avoiding this here ol' blog. I think the reason is that I had a lot of adventures while I was away. And as much as I love adventuring, I don't do nearly as much of it here in the City. That's not for lack of opportunity, I could create opportunities if I wanted. Yes, that does require some effort. Yes, that does require some wheedling of friends to come and adventure with me (and I hate wheedling). And yes, it usually does involve some money, even if it's just for a post-adventure refreshment of some kind. But I live in New York City, in the land of opportunity, and I just don't go adventuring every night. Or every week. And I think I'm a little ashamed of that. I feel the need to work up something more impressive, something more worthy of blogging. And when I don't, I don't write.

Well, maybe you won't mind some non-adventure posts.

Some thoughts of late:

--I went to Montauk on Monday. I've wanted to go to Montauk since I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and witnessed Joel Barrish fulfill the ultimate work/Valentine's Day doldrum dream of just getting on a train and getting the hell out. To Montauk. I've been wanting to obey Kate Winslet's beckoning voice to, "meet me in Montauk..." Well, I did not run into any Clementines or Joels there, but then I didn't have the whole 3 hour train ride to catch the eye of one because myself and a couple of friends took a zipcar instead. The ocean there was fantastic. Rough, cold, engaging. There was only a small span that we were allowed to swim in because the water was too rough outside of those limitations (which I certainly discovered when I accidentally swam out of the lines). Luckily, not too many people wanted to swim, so I had plenty of space to myself. I love swimming in the ocean, because it's a constant battle. Chris McCandless's character said something I love in the film Into the Wild:

The sea's only gifts are harsh blows, and occasionally the chance to feel strong. Now I don't know much about the sea, but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once. To find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions. Facing the blind death stone alone, with nothing to help you but your hands and your own head.

That last part is the part I love. I love how the ocean demands physical engagement of you. And I love how, in the ocean, I am quite literally immersed in nature. I don't know when I'll have the opportunity to go out there again, which makes me really sad. It was a perfect day.

--I saw the Broadway production of Red by John Logan. It was transferred from the Donmar in London. It was f-ing brilliant. I savored every single word. Kept chewing on them for days afterward. I want to watch and read that play until the entire thing is memorized. I want to play Eddie Redmayne's character so badly. Damn gender.

--I was sitting in my friendly neighborhood bar this afternoon watching the Spain/Paraguay match of the World Cup. A Spaniard happened to sit down next to me, and we chatted throughout the game. When it was over, Vanessa and I paid our bill, and the Spaniard paid a little more attention to me, as his eyes no longer had to be glued to the screen. He was interested. I found him interesting. Without even thinking about thinking about it, my instincts kicked in and I deftly flitted away from the prolonged eye contact he was offering me, and the opportunity to exchange numbers. I ran away. And beat myself up as I was doing it. WHY do I do such things?! What is so scary about not being rejected? I could have had a Spanish lover, but now all I have is regret over sidestepped potential. I am now sitting in my friendly neighborhood Starbucks, hoping this local Spaniard will stop in for a beverage, and a second try at me. My chances don't look good.

the way I see NYC

2010-05-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the interruption in programming, folks. I swear, one of these days I'll find a balance. I finally moved into my new place, so my hour here and there of spare time is going to unbelievably slowly unpacking. But I have been thinking of the ol' blog as I've scurried from one appointment to job to lunch to job to bar to girls etc. Here's a log of my last month in the City, as my iPhone sees it. (Using Hipstomatic and Tiltshift Generator applications.)

Spring is coming!

What could be cuter than a chubby stripy baby? I hopped down to Pennsylvania for a day to visit the Thomasons (sister and fam) for Easter. This is my adorable nephew, the Tobester.

Oh Chrysler Building, you steal my heart every time, and remind me where the hell I am.

Spending plenty of time on one of these, as my job regularly takes me out to Long Island, Connecticut, Westchester. Train=romantic. Even the LIRR squeaks by with that label, as the trees slide past.

(Favorite train moment: approached by a wayfaring Mexican drag queen at the 125th train station, he had fled from his homosexually-intolerant mother-country, traversed up the Eastern coast, only to arrive in NYC, his new home, with nothing else but the clothing on his back. ALL OF THIS RELATED IN SPANISH, AND I COMPLETELY UNDERSTOOD IT ALL! I gave him my strawberries and a ride on the subway.)

I am not going to begin to gripe about my transportation challenges with the train schedule. Let's just say circumnavigating the entire continent south of the U.S. was easier for me. And that includes a language barrier and a generally relaxed attitude towards punctuality. This may just be a personal challenge, who can tell.

Plenty of this. Tall Peppermint Mocha with soy milk, please.

My favorite cafe in Soho! Cafe Ceci Cela. (Oh how my French comes in handy.) The service sucks, but you can't beat the food, coffee, prices, ambiance, or location.

Yum.

Bookshop dedicated to travel literature. My kind of place.

My sister Emily came to visit with the chillens! We visited the Museum of Natural History. If slightly dated, CLASSIC. And we snuck in without paying- win!

Fantastic subway art in Brooklyn.

Union Square= one of my favorite places in Manhattan. Farmer's Market? Love.

Crashed at Opulence (the well-deserved name of their apartment) for a weekend of fun with the girls in Brooklyn.

Soaking in some sun in a field in Central Park. I laid there for a good hour and a half on Thursday after moving in the morning. It was BLISS.

Central Park=Love.

More coming soon. Stay tuned.

Jobs with benefits. Unfortunately not those kinds of benefits. Or those.

2010-04-02T20:28:00.000-07:00

But the benefit of bringing me to all different parts of this beautiful city/area. Parts that I wouldn't normally go to or spend time in. Places like Staten Island (first pause in Battery Park, then free ferry with great view of the skyline, the Brooklyn Bridge, and Statue of Liberty!) A beautiful drive through Connecticut. The East Side, midtown-ish, where, apparently, the city's attractive young wealthy men have been hiding. Flatiron, great shopping. Union Square. Well, this is one place that I certainly would be if I didn't have this job, as it's one of my favorite areas of Manhattan. Likewise, Soho. If only I could live in Soho. Queens... ok, there's not much to say about Queens...

And today I spent the afternoon in the Financial District. Who would have expected that this playground of suits had such beautiful architecture? Spires, gargoyles, gilt clocks abounded. It was a glorious day, and I happily wandered around Wall Street for a while after I left the store. I kind of felt like I was in Gotham City.

The following is a fantastic graveyard. If you couldn't already tell from my Boston photography, I am a fan of old graveyards. This one's a treasure, right smack in the middle of BUSINESS as it is. Complete with gothic engravings.

I ended up in Bowling Green park. You would think, based on the name, that it used to be a green for bowling. You would be incorrect. But it is the oldest public park in NYC, so that's something. I soaked up some sun while enjoying my refreshments: Falafel wrap, some sparkly herby drink, and a famous mini brownie from Pret a Manger. I love Prets. It may be because I associate them with London, the first place I saw them on a regular basis. It may be that their moniker is French and I understand it. It may be their fresh, delicious food. It may just be that damn good brownie. It may be their whimsical play with food and photography. They are overpriced, but I patronize them anyway. With glee.
Can we talk about how head over heels I am with New York City? I am living a semi-insane schedule, so I am often quite tired/utterly exhausted as I stride down the Manhattan streets, but the beauty of this city is not lost on me. I feel so lucky to live here. It's a city that keeps growing on you the longer you live in it. The first time I visited New York, I'll be honest, I didn't love it, even if I pretended I did. By the fifth time, I liked it ok, but it still felt foreign, large, unfriendly, over-my-head, and maybe even over-rated. (You're wondering why I chose to live here then-- my opinion of NYC dramatically improved during my college years visits.) After living here for a year, I can see that the City just opens up to you little by little. So even if you think it's amazing the first time you visit, you have no idea what you could be experiencing a year down the road. It's the city of endless opportunities and new experiences. The history is thick underfoot and overhead. And even if I may eventually be driven insane by the anxiety and frustration caused by the Metropolitan Transportation System, and Starbucks lines, I am loving every day I have here. Despite that homeless man cursing at me.

I may have found my soulmate

2010-03-31T21:29:00.000-07:00

"I enjoy shopping at Whole Foods nearly as much as I enjoy browsing a good bookstore, which, come to think of it, is probably no accident: Shopping at Whole Foods is a literary experience, too. That's not to take anything away from the food, which is generally of high quality, much of it "certified organic" or "humanely raised" or "free range". But right there, that's the point: It's the evocative prose as much as anything else that makes this food really special, elevating an egg or chicken breast or bag of arugula from the realm of ordinary protein and carbohydrates into a much headier experience, one with complex aesthetic, emotional, and even political dimensions."

Stay tuned for more pics.

2010-03-29T05:54:00.000-07:00

Atop a towering pyramid in the ruins of Tikal, Guatemala.

Pretty adorable.

2010-03-29T05:52:00.000-07:00

Music video of the week goes to... She & Him.

Yeah right, like there's going to be a weekly music video, I barely have the time to write a little blurb here and there. Enjoy while it lasts.

A bit of Bolivia and Chile

2010-03-24T22:44:00.000-07:00

These are Nikki's shots. Mine are coming soon-- some day when I'm not working, which actually, on second thought, might be never. So I guess I better just get myself to Starbucks with my laptop and be one of those people.

In San Pedro de Atacama, there is a fantastic bakery. Great food, great vibe. Veggie empanadas, I miss you.
Pretty excited about the Bolivian salt flats. Rightfully so, rightfully so. (This goofy look on my face in the last two shots? Totally influenced by the one and only Sara Moncivais.)

Taking a walk by a laguna in Bolivian desert. This is the land of Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, and Salvador Dali. I'm on the left.
Sometimes this happens when you're attempting a self-portrait.
Bolivian Salt Flats. I think Nikki is winning this fight.

Living the life in amazingly cheap Bolivia. I was pretty happy about that umbrella in my drink.
Oh, Emma and the Nikster. Reunited in Bolivia.

Six Black Lines

2010-03-23T23:15:00.000-07:00

During my last winter at BYU, a friend, Kevin Snow, wrote and directed his first feature-length film, Six Black Lines. It was also my first feature-length film. It stirred up a bit of controversy in the BYU arts building, but I responded to some beautiful, important ideas in the piece, and when I was cast as Sister Young, I was excited to be part of the project. Now, about 4 years later, the film has received some interest from Circus Road Films, and the film should be seeing some action from a few film festivals. Check out the film's website, where you can also watch the trailer.

A lot has changed since then, we'll just put it that way. It was one of my first experiences on camera, vs. onstage, and I wish I could tackle this role again. I had more innocence back then, but I have more layers now.

In conclusion, I would just like to leave you the words of the writer/director. Kevin and I have been friends for years, and I was not only privileged to collaborate with him on Six Black Lines, but also to star in his production of Alas, Babel, another original work. He crafts words and ideas beautifully.

"This film is a study about questioning faith. The characters in the film are entirely fictitious, and the situations are, too. The setting is specific: a group of Latter-day Saint missionaries. The time is an arbitrary 24-hour lapse in these six missionaries' histories. What is real is the logic behind the character's thoughts and dialogue. The conversations by the characters in "Six Black Lines" are meant to reflect common contradictions and frustrations faced by people who are ambivalent towards one's religious practices and one's individual identity. Both are seen as truth, but both come in conflict with one another. What is not suggested by my film is an evolution of politics or dogma. The roots of this conflict are more human and quiet, lying deep within the psyche of perception, cognitive processing, and observation of human nature. By listening and watching, we come closer to a full understanding of our own individual spiritual state and draw together as peoples and communities. My hope is that the conversations in the film will inspire young people to empower themselves with ethical moral intelligence.

Please, enjoy."

-Kevin Snow

Pachyderms on parade

2010-03-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is where I was at 1 in the morning tonight. No, not with Jim Carrey. But witnessing elephants parading through Manhattan at 1 in the morning (elephants apparently can't keep to a schedule, as they were expected at 12:20).

All of my friends let the rain dampen their sense of adventure. But I have conquered Latin America, a little rain does not keep me from experiencing one of NYC's secrets: the fact that when the circus comes into town, the elephants are too big to use the elevator at Penn Station, so they have to march through the Midtown Tunnel and down 34th street to get to Madison Square Gardens. In the middle of the night.

In fact, the rain kind of added to the strange atmosphere, as the tops of skyscrapers disappeared into cloud, and clown-packed cars careened through carless streets.

After wrapping up a workout after a supremely stressful day of work (first day on a new job, my boss got fired so I ran THE ENTIRE SPA by myself til close! Untrained!) I burned some time reading magazines in a 24-hour CVS. Then a couple of kindly boys-- med school students-- sheltered me under their umbrellas as we waited for the grand arrival.

The elephants did not disappoint, they even held each other's tails with their trunks. SO CUTE! I wouldn't monetarily support the circus, through fear of animal mistreatment. But it's fun to just happen to see elephants amble down Manhattan streets.

I apologize for the interruption in posts. My first week back home has been filled to the max (delightfully so), and I will get back to regular programming shortly!

Adventures in Solitude

2010-03-11T02:58:00.000-08:00

''Balancing on one wounded wing
Circling the edge of the never ending
The best of the vanished marvels
Have gathered inside your door''
--Adventures in Solitude, by The New Pornographers

I think I may be ready to go home.

That doesn't mean I am ready to give up this gypsy lifestyle. Or the way backpackers meet new friends every single day. Or the prospect of seeing jaw-droppingly beautiful sights multiple times a week. Or being surprised every day. Or meeting BEAUTIFUL people from absolutely every and anywhere in the world and getting a taste of who they are, how they do. Or speaking a different language. Or hearing beautiful and different languages constantly being spoken around me. Or what a puzzle each new place and transportation system is, and how fun it is to solve them. Or the mountains. Or showing up at a bus station and getting to choose any of those destinations being shouted repetitively by the attendants, and just getting on that bus, and GOING. Or having the beautiful option of being able to do absolutely anything any given day. (I hope this last one isn't actually something I'll have to say goodbye to back in NYC.)

It just means I am ready to see my family and friends again. The people that I know are in my life permanently (though I hope there have been a few additions over the past five months.) I am ready to be in my city. Where I know the public transportation system. Where I have my favorite cafes, bookstores, restaurants, reading spots, people-watching spots, haunts. I am ready to go the gym again. I am ready to look pretty on a regular basis again. I am ready to wear jeans again! To eat pad thai again. To eat The Sandwich again. To use my phone again. To catch up on all the delicious film and television I have missed. To know that a beloved friend is just a phone call or text away. Most of all I am ready to put my arms around all that I have learned in the past five months and shove it into the shape of what my life was. I am ready to move forward. I am ready to pull strings and tie things together. I am ready to carry the vibrancy that has seeped into me back to my beloved grey city, and live my life.

Sometimes I refer to my NY life as my 'real life'. But isn't that misleading?. This is real life. What is more real than traveling? Every experience, emotion, connection, relationship is intensified and concentrated. I have experienced 180 degree turnarounds so frequently it makes my head spin. Travel carries me through places and societies more real than I've ever known. I've experienced several emotions or levels of emotions I have never reached before. I've had so many firsts. I've seen beauty, pain, kindness, poverty, creativity to an exponential degree. Isn't the term 'real life' frequently meant to imply a boring life? Doesn't it often have negative connotations? The daily life. The offices and appointments and paychecks life. I resolve not to have that life. I think I've generally avoided it thus far, and I intend to continue that trend. It's easy to slip into, it's comfortable to slip into, because extraordinary takes a little effort, a little extra energy, a little more drive and ambition. I am recharged, I am reinspired, I am alive with expectation.

My head is flooded with such a deluge of thoughts, here at the close of my journey, that I don't know how to spill them all onto this screen effectively. I am sure I will be concluding and reflecting here for two weeks.

Before I embarked on this journey, I wrote the following:
'So what do I expect from this grand adventure? I expect to come back a different person. I expect to learn. To learn to an exponential degree. I expect to practice self-sufficiency, and to live without modern convenience. I expect to see great sights. I expect to meet so many people. I expect epiphanies. I expect mistakes and mishaps. I expect frustration. I expect laughter, tears, songs, stories, sun, friendship, and spirituality.'

I expected a lot, and this Adventure delivered on absolutely every single point. So how is it that I feel that this trip has turned out completely unexpectedly? I could never have predicted what has happened, how I have felt, what I have thought, what I have learned, how I have grown, what I have done. All I knew for sure, as it turned out, was where I was going.

During the months before I left New York, and I shared my upcoming plans with friends, coworkers, family members, etc, I was asked the same question over and over again: Why? Why leave your job, your city, your people, for 6 months, traveling dangerous 3rd world countries, blowing all of your savings? Why travel? A couple of concerned family members even called me to extensively try to convince me not to come. I was always a little exasperated as the inevitable question popped out, and a little perplexed in how to answer it. I think the obvious answer is, Why not? Why wouldn't I want to go explore the world for myself? Why wouldn't I want to go on an adventure, see beautiful things, meet great people, eat delicious food, stretch my mind and heart over countries and continents? I have traveled before, and I know that I love it. When I travel, I come back a different person. And it has always been, inevitably, a better person. In my opinion. A more educated person, a more compassionate person, a more open, wise, empassioned, vivid young woman. Isn't it evident throughout history's stories and literature that travel is beneficial and desirable? From The Odyssey, to Alice in Wonderland, The Alchemist... this list basically never ends. The hero's journey will include painful challenges, extraordinary, unexpected beauty, a huge amount of learning and self-discovery, and the hero returns, triumphant, to carry on their life's pursuit in a more effective way.

Well. That is a very long-winded way to say that this hero is returning home, triumphant, having slayed a couple of dragons. The woman I am returning, and the life I am returning to, is why.

Things that Latin America has hooked me on:
coffee
tea
wine (my Mormon family members are aghast at this point...)
carbonated water
mountains
Spanish
grenadillas
SCUBA diving
empanadas
fresh juice
mangos
avocados (like I wasn't before)
reading (like I wasn't before)
trekking
the ocean
Spanish music (after my year in Washington Heights, and all the late nights due to music pounding the streets, who would have thought?)
independence
travel

Ooooh how I am deliciously hooked on travel. If I didn't have it before, (which I did), I am certainly infected with the travel bug now. I am already planning my next trip. Summer of 2011, visiting the European friends I have made on this trip. Countries I am hoping to add to my ever-increasing List: Norway, Sweden, Holland, UK (again). And then just for fun I would love to throw Switzerland and Germany in there. And if I have time Italy and Greece-- though those last two may have to be a trip in themselves.

Just so you know, dear readers, even though this particular journey is coming to an end, I do not intend to stop writing. Please stay tuned to my adventures back in New York City. They will be pretty fabulous, I promise.

And you have no idea how many pictures are headed this way.

Buenos Aires, San Telmo

2010-03-08T09:49:00.000-08:00

a little hooked and nostalgic

2010-03-08T08:36:00.000-08:00

So maybe I got hooked on culling through friends' facebook photos. I have become completely nostalgic. THIS FEELS LIKE SO LONG AGO. In fact, it feels like an entirely different trip. Well, it was in a way. The above pictures the famous Eva, Krista, Sarah, and myself sitting down for our first dinner in Caye Caulker, Belize. This was within the first week of the trip. It was this restaurant that does not look like a restaurant, more like a random hut set up on the street, with a grill tucked in the corner. But my was it tasty. (Notice how paleI am in this pic, as compared to my last round...)
On top of a pyramid in Tikal.
My favorite mode of transportation this trip: the back of a pickup truck! Semuc, Chempey, Guatemala. Here is Adam, Jake or Sam (they are twins), and Ellie. This was early in November, and I just ran into Adam in Bariloche, and Ellie here in B.A. SMALL WORLD. When Adam came up and said hello, I think I couldn't put together a coherent sentence for 30 seconds I was so surprised to see him.
Ok, I couldn't resist. Doesn't this just pull at your heartstrings? We look so happy! (Wait, isn't there some stage of a breakup where you look through pictures and get nostalgic, and you know you shouldn't really be looking through these pictures...) Sarah and I took this with Ellie's disposable water-proof camera after emerging from the caves at Semuc Chempey, Guatemala. We had found our own way out while everyone else was waiting for a guide to lead the way. We took initiative like that. My knee was gashed and bleeding profusely, but since I had been holding onto Ellie's camera for her, Sarah and I couldn't resist leaving her with a surprise pic of us when she developed her film. We were mischievous like that. This was just before the shit hit the fan.

From the mixed up files of Ali

2010-03-07T14:31:00.000-08:00

Ali was my British writer companion of Chiloe, so these are from her facebook album. That's us below in Chiloe's National Park (such a good one!) Oh for the days of mascara. Can't wait to have luscious eyelashes again.
And, I just have to point out, do you see how absurd my tan is? And trust me, it is much more noticeable when you see me in person. I am pretty sure the first thing I am going to hear from each and every friend when I get home is 'Holy hell you are tan!', or something with the same intent. I didn't know it was physically possible for my skin, lily-white of hue, to turn this color. I actually am missing my days of being pasty-white, I don't think a tan suits me. Though maybe things will balance better when I can use makeup again. And my freckles are bright and bold, which I don't object to in the slightest.

And that is Georgie on the right, a certified lady from England. (She went to a fancy Lady's College.) Good times feasting on bread, cheese, and vegetables as we watch a beautiful sun set over the bay of Ancud, Chiloe.

wandering

2010-03-06T14:57:00.000-08:00

This morning I took a long walk up to Recoleta. It is the 'posh' neighborhood of Buenos Aires, and home to the famous Recoleta Cemetery. The one which contains the remains of Eva Peron, among other political greats. Don't worry, I restrained myself from breaking out into song.

Cemeteries in Latin America are more like little towns of the dead. Because all of the graves are actually little houses or crypts above ground, rather than IN the ground. So I wandered through the alleys of this city of the dead, with death and dying on my mind. I've had a little previous experience with it, so it's not a new topic to ruminate on. I am also reading a book about the Plague, so more encouragement to think about death. My therapist asked me once if, now that I am post-Mormon, I had different, more troubling views of my best friend's death (which happened during my college, Mormon years). The Mormon religion is pretty comforting when it comes to death, it helps a lot of people cope. Because the Mormons are pretty confident they know what happens when we die. At the time, I thought I knew that Katie was in a good place. That didn't make it easy to have to unexpectedly say goodbye, without having someone to say goodbye to. No, nothing about that time was easy. Now that I have rejected those beliefs, I have had to question a lot of perceptions of life, reality, death, sin, etc. I don't know what happens when we die, but I do know Katie was a good person. So I'm not worried.

In some ways I find the contemplation of death inspiring. Thanks to the entrance of death in my life I frequently resolve anew to make the most of every day of my life. Because, I have personally experienced, you never know when it will end. That's part of what got me down here, on this trip. I had my doubts, I thought about Katie, I bought my plane ticket.

There were so many angels in this cemetery. A common theme, of course, in a graveyard. I think they are so beautiful, and what a beautiful human invention. Who was the first person who imagined a pair of wings on a human's body? Something so human, and so not?

I loved all the cemetery cats. Ragged creatures curled up amongst the tombs and squares of grass. Slinking through this town of the dead.

Speaking of burial practices: when I die I want a green funeral. No coffin, no embalming, no burning. Just put my body into the earth to decompose. I wish I could be buried in some national park, but I am sure that is illegal. Maybe by the time I die I'll have a friend who has a farm and I can be buried there. Not that I am averse to cemeteries, I just want to be someplace green and growing, where I can be part of the earth.

Actually, my death may be imminent. I noticed a LOT of mosquitos out today. In the middle of the day. It is mosquitos who are out biting during the day that carry dengue fever, AKA Black Vomit Disease. It is a disgusting and powerful virus, with no preventative measures possible. And indeed, when I was leaving the cemetery I spied a poster warning against standing water, because 'tis the season for dengue fever. I thought I was finally free of mosquitos, as I am now in a city. But I have 7 bites from today. Holy hell, how irritating.

This asian girl came up to me in the cemetery. I thought she was asking for me to take a picture of her. Claro que si! But then she backed up, putting the camera to her eye, and I realized that she had told me she thought I was very pretty and could she take a picture of me? Well, I thought that was a little odd, but I was very flattered. And then I imagined this girl traveling the world, telling people they are beautiful, and then framing them forever in her camera. And I thought, that is completely delightful. We should all tell each other so easily how pretty we are.

I wandered around the Recoleta feria, or market. I love a good market, and this one had some beautiful pieces. I found a cheap toe ring, finally. The Caribbean took mine on the first day of this trip, and I have been looking for a replacement ever since.

This city obviously likes two things: books and ice cream. They are everywhere. I approve.

Also saw some tango in the park. Check. So sexy.

A wee taste

2010-03-06T14:43:00.000-08:00

Dear readers. I know that one of the greatest faults of this blog is the lack of pictures. Well, my good friend, Nicolaine, (that´s her on the right there,) just posted some pictures to facebook. So here's the smallest of tastes of the picture storm that is going to overtake this blog once I am back in the states (in less than a week!!!).
We were all velcroed, strapped, and clipped into our safety gear for our bike road down 'Death Road'. Yes, I felt silly, but I also felt badass.

Slight downfall of our gear: you it is slightly difficult to tell who is who. Can you spot me here?

This was in Cusco. Our hostel was on a hill. In a city of very high altitude. That picture is a pretty apt visual description of my experience in that city, except for the hippie pants. I have still not purchased a pair. Though I have thought about it-- great pajama pants.

More to come soon.

Among all the graceful angels of the cemetery stands this tribute: a man in his pajamas. Interesting choice.

2010-03-06T14:10:00.000-08:00

From the meat-eating land of Argentina, a book recommendation.

2010-03-05T18:16:00.000-08:00

This is the book I have downloaded onto my iPhone as my Emergency Book. In case I am caught somewhere without my book (unlikely), or in case I cannot find a suitable book in a book exchange on my journey (likely). So I have been reading it off and on ever since I left NYC. And it sure makes me glad I have been a vegetarian for over ten years. And a vegan for the last year. (A relaxed one, I will admit, but I am ever more inspired to embrace that 100% once I get back to the States.) A book that is as thorough a review of the meat industry in the states as you can find, and written by one of my favorite writers. Win.

I recommend.

End of the line

2010-03-05T17:35:00.000-08:00

Here I am. Final stop: Buenos Aires.

It feels a lot like New York City. I hope that once I get out to some other neighborhoods it will feel more foreign. Even if it doesn´t, I have need of some city things, like a pedicure. Because my feet, after almost 5 months of flip-flops or Chacos, trekking through the entire spectrum of temperature and humidity, need some professional help. In fact, I may have to go get 2 pedicures to really complete the job.

Barriloche was nice. I met some nice people, trekked through some beautiful country. I felt like I had to get my fill of green and growing things before heading back to NYC in the dead of March. A lot of the trees there are HUGE. Just so deliciously old. And there were acres of hills and fields overflowing with Christmas trees. It was dramatic scenery. Barriloche, as in the town itself, is far too touristy for my taste. And it felt like Midway (Utah) on steroids. It is the so-called Switzerland of South America, so there´s plenty of chocolate to be eaten. Impressively, I only had chocolate one night. I know. I think the nutella that some silly traveler left on the free food shelf satiated any cravings I may have had. Silly, silly traveler.

This weekend is the Oscars in the States. I know that I hardly ever agree on who is awarded what, and I usually end up being frustrated by the time the credits roll, but I am a little sad I am missing them. Well, actually a lot sad. The Oscars are like my Superbowl. I LOVE the film montages. Seriously. They give me loads of chills every time. I LOVE MOVIES! And the achievements of the film industry throughout its short history are so impressive, and so moving to me. Tonight I bit the bullet and finally saw Avatar. I figured I better see it on the big screen, and I hoped it might be cheaper in Argentina (I´m not sure it was). I was prepared to be underwhelmed. But I really did enjoy it. Yeah, the writing could have been better (it boggles my mind when directors can´t recognize when they should delegate to someone more talented. It just works out better for everyone involved...) Yes, it was basically the love-child of Ferngully, Pocahontas, Princess Mononoke, with a little Sailor Moon thrown in. But it told a good story, it had a good heart, and it was technically told very well. Maybe I am just a sucker for an environmentally-friendly-fueled film, but I responded to it. And I think the power of films to connect human beings, and inspire them, is close to magic. I think it is beautiful. And far too often underappreciated, and squandered in the name of sheer entertainment.

Anyway, enough rambling. Tomorrow I am off to Recoleta. I will try my best not to break into song at Evita´s grave, but I can´t promise anything...

I know that Jesus has had quite a few guest appearances already on this blog, but I couldn't resist the green one. He's like fairy Jesus. And not in the gay way.

2010-03-04T09:52:00.000-08:00

This writer is stalking me.

2010-03-04T09:51:00.001-08:00

I can walk on water too

2010-03-02T10:54:00.000-08:00

On my ferry to Chiloe, I saw a sea lion and a penguin swimming alongside the boat. Chiloe: a massive win already.

I arrived in Ancud, Chiloe, promptly got lost walking to my hostel, but luckily almost every square inch of the island is picture-perfect, so I had some nice things to look at as I walked. The token old man came onto me. If life keeps going like this, I guess I'll never have to worry about ending up alone, there always seems to be plenty of old men who want me to keep their bed warm.

After arriving at the hostel I shortly became acquainted with two 19-year-old British girls, who made me feel old in no time. We wandered, and in addition to the afore-mentioned (pictured) iced coffee, I picked up that book on Chiloe mythology. I'll come clean here, one of the big draws to Chiloe, for me, was this mythology. My Rough Guide had mentioned the stories of mermaids and witches, and this type of folklore completely delights me. Somewhere in Central America I remember asking a companion why we hadn't come across more sea-centered legends. I mean, with other lands tossing around their stories of mermaids, sirens, selkies, the sea seems to have inspired such lore for centuries. Why had I not heard of more stories like these in a strip of countries lapped on both sides by ocean waves?

Perhaps there's a certain type of ocean that inspires these stories. Not the aqua waters of the Caribbean, but the rugged cliffs and rocks of a dramatic coastline. The kind that you find in Ireland, Scotland, Greece. Because that's exactly what Chiloe (and Chile in general, for that matter,) has. The next morning myself and three Brits drove west to a beach where we could take a boat out to see penguins, and honestly I felt like I had stumbled into the film The Secret of Roan Inish. And such a setting is obviously suited for fostering mysterious legends of women in the waves and sneaking demons.

Chiloe has a lovely light to it. No matter the time of day, I felt like I was in perma-sunset. The golden hour that photographers know and love, just before the light slides to the other side of the world. The island was completely idyllic. It still largely subsists on farming and fishing. I actually felt like it was how I always imagined Avonlea (of Anne of Green Gables fame) to be, minus red roads, plus some penguins.

Oh the penguins. I don't generally get too excited about seeing wild animals. I think I got over it in Kenya when I saw plenty of monkies, elephants, insects, what have you. I didn't squeal with glee in Central America when I saw sloths hanging from trees or spider monkies skittering by looking for food to steal. But the penguins totally undid me. I squealed along with the rest of the tourists on my boat and I took a million pictures. Though unfortunately a picture cannot capture HOW ADORABLE the penguins are when they move! No matter what they did, whether it be spreading their wings, ruffling their feathers, especially WALKING. Let alone running. And then, as if I wasn't undone with sheer cuteness already, SEA OTTERS appeared. The boat trip was far too short.

I met such a lovely temporary travel companion in Ancud: Allie, a British author visiting briefly while she is crashing at a friend's house in Pucon. We bussed down to Castro together, an altogether charmless town on a completely charming island. As soon as we left the town, on a bus to the national park, we slapped our foreheads wondering why in the world we weren't staying in any of the darling little towns along the road. Anywhere would be better than Castro. Oh well, lesson learned for next time.

We discovered a fantastic beach at the national park. It was looooooong. And almost completely deserted. When we settled into our cradles of sand, we felt like we were the only witnesses to the crashing layers of waves. It was fantastic. I have always been a fan of a dramatic coastline, much preferring it to the more-often-sought-after Caribbean coastline. So I was completely content, even though the water was too cold to swim in (not to mention the rip tides I could see!). Set in between cliffs, and beyond the grassy dunes, this beach was expansive and flat, so that when the waves lapped in, the water was spread extremely thin, creating sheets of ocean that slowly slid up and down the sand. When I walked towards the waves, I could walk forever without getting too deep in the sea. And when I walked along the coast, these sliding plates of ocean gave me the impression I was walking on the water. It was awesome. And it was all mine. Allie, left behind sun-bathing, was the closest witness, and she couldn't see me. So I could run, dance, sing, splash along the coast as much as my heart desired. For a few hours, a good kilometer of gorgeous, dramatic, Chilean coastline was the property and delight of one Laura Sorensen. It belonged to me, because I loved it. And then some beautiful cows joined us, who sees cows at the beach? Good times.

Yes, Chiloe was lovely. It didn't feel much of the earthquake, in fact many slept through it. Internet, electricity, and phones were down the next day, but Chiloe was lucky and escaped the profound destruction visited upon its sister cities.

I've got to say, I was so touched at the number of inquiries I found in my inbox once internet came back. I wish Chile had escaped such destruction, but it was nice to know how many people cared about me. Thank you.

Chile is so lovely. So much coastline perfectly suited to me. So much beautiful countryside. And a relatively small population to put it to use. I hope I get to spend a couple of months settled here sometime in my life, to get a better sense of the life here. The bus ride into Argentina was a gorgeous farewell as the bus plowed through ancient forests, mountains, and lakes in Patagonia.

Oh Patagonia, I am not finished with you.

I've owned this book for 3 years-- I could never get far because the tone is so somber. But I'm finally working through the depression in Barriloche, and Chabon's words, as always, are beautifully crafted.

2010-03-02T08:15:00.001-08:00

This is where I am now. Perched up in Barriloche, Argentina.

2010-03-01T10:10:00.001-08:00

Chiloe is famous for it's tuen of the century churches. I really liked this one, I felt like I was in a church made of kappla blocks. So airy and light, like a small push would bring it tumbling down with the clatter of wooden blocks.

2010-03-01T10:09:00.001-08:00

Oh religion, what strange things you do inspire. At least this one hasn't been dressed up in home-knit clothing like some of the other idols. Oops, I meant figures.

2010-03-01T10:07:00.001-08:00

I was unprepared for te splendor of this iced coffee. Good companion for studying Chiloe's awesome mythology.

2010-03-01T10:06:00.001-08:00

The World of the Potato?! Who wouldn't want to go into this cafe? Island of Chiloe.

2010-03-01T10:04:00.000-08:00

Brief anecdote.

2010-03-01T09:22:00.000-08:00

One night in Valparaiso I went to dinner with a guy I had met at breakfast in the hostel. We had dinner in a nicer restaurant than I generally allow myself. We were there for a very long time, and eventually there was only us and another couple of guests, and the restaurant was closing. Valparaiso is very relaxed, and as is the custom down here, dinner is enjoyed late in the evening. But we were still the last guests. The chef, maybe owner of the restaurant, was on friendly speaking terms with us, and he started asking if myself and my dinner companion were a couple. And since we were not, why not? Did I have a boyfriend? Well of course my dinner companion and myself were ending up together, we'd been sitting there deep in conversation for 5 hours. He was so open about this possibility, something that is generally shrouded in dating mystery until someone makes a move. He wouldn't let the topic go and had a lengthy conversation about the subject with one of the other guests who spoke better Spanish than I.

I was thoroughly delighted by this Chilean man who was quite a bit more nosy than any American restaurateur I have ever encountered. Who was so open with his romantic expectations of these two travelers he just met.

He also had the most beautiful Chilean accent. I find them exceedingly difficult to understand, but completely delicious.

I gave my heart to Valparaiso.

2010-03-01T06:35:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Valparaiso at midnight. Nevertheless, I fell in love immediately, as soon as the taxi driver got to the Cerros. The Cerros are hills, and they are old. They have a beautiful view of the harbour. Hills give a city such character, I should always live in a hilly city. And I swear they somehow foster the creativity in artists, juding by the hilly cities I know. Valparaiso's buildings are jumbled one upon another. You see stairs rambling off all over the place, like an Escher drawing. Valparaiso is not a city your mom would like, or approve of. It's a bit gritty. I don't know who commissioned this, or gave permission, but almost all of the old buildings in the cerros are covered in art. And not just the standard graffiti you see splashed up in every city. It's more like hundreds of different artists used the walls of Valparaiso as their sketchpads, their notebooks that they doodled and explored upon. Art, creation, expression is a presence there, and it seeps into every nook and cranny. And it seeps into you. There are studios around every corner. Anyone can make their mark, wherever they want. There are growing things everywhere, popping out of the middle of streets.

Valparaiso. No wonder it fostered people like Pablo Neruda. I think any artist would delight in it, love it, want to live in it.

I should have stayed.

My first day there I walked the half hour to Neruda's house, La Sebastiana. I want Pablo Neruda to be my decorator. His house was so full of life, whimsy, expression, personality. It was so friendly. I love looking at people's houses, apartments, rooms. You can learn so much about a person and their stuff. I generally think well of an anti-materialist tendency. But I cannot deny that, like Neruda, I love stuff. I love my stuff. It's not that I pride myself in the ownership of something like a BMW, it's more like my things are an extension of me, and an expression. I will never be one of those people with a minimalist decor. I will always have books spilling from their cases, being piled in corners. Mementos, reminders, items that inspire me. Not complete clutter, but happy gatherings of things. It makes a space more vibrant, more living. More fostering of my creative bent. You can ask anyone who's lived with me, I am not a stridently tidy person. I did not inherit that from my mom.

There were some performers singing and playing live music when I got to La Sebastiana-- best live music so far. Phenomenal guitarist, great singer. I was sitting there, completely overflowing with happiness. And while once in a while I still feel that I am not experiencing the full potential of beauty or joy because I have no one to share it with, at this particular moment I was just sad that no one was there to receive this extra vibrant joy that was pouring off of me.

Valparaiso. I was so happy there. I couldn't believe how happy I was. I have hit this level of general happiness that seems absurd. I, as usual, am over-analyzing everything, and my brain can't stop thinking how strange it is that I am so euphoric. I don't know when the last time was that I felt this way for such a long period of time. Every day is a gift. They are shot through with dazzling, gorgeous rays of gold. Every moment is more intense, more concentrated. I feel like a kid again in that I have recovered a remarkable sense of wonder. I feel so inspired and am planning so much for when I get home.

It reminded me of the following quote from one of my favorite films, Before Sunset:

"I remember as a teenager I went to Warsaw, when it was still a strict communist regime... Something about being there was very interesting, I found. After a couple of weeks something changed in me. The city was quite gloomy and grey, but, after a while, my brain seemed clearer. I was writing a lot more in my journal, ideas I'd never thought of before... It took me a while to figure out why it felt, you know, so different. And then, one day, as I was walking through the Jewish cemetery, I don't know why, but it occurred to me there, I realized that I had spent the last two weeks away from most of my habits. TV was in a language I didn't understand, so, all I'd been doing was... walk around, thinking, right! My brain felt like it was at rest, free from the consuming frenzy, and I have to say, it was almost like a natural high. It felt so peaceful inside. No strange urge to be somewhere else, to shop... Maybe it could have seemed like boredom at first, but it quickly became very, very soulful, you know?"

While my trip is not exactly like communist Warsaw, traveling has taken me completely out of a situation I know or am comfortable in. I am constantly surrounded by strange places and strange people. I have my internet connection with my old world, but that takes up a very marginal amount of my day, and sometimes I am disconnected from that for several days at a time (which feels like an eternity). Meanwhile, I have so much time at my disposal to just let my thoughts roam, wander free, with no direction, no guidance. I used to hate being left alone to my thoughts, I found they would easily wander into negative territory. I certainly still have my moments, but they are so few and far between. I constantly find myself in vast vistas of beautiful natural landscape. I read a book once about yoga and meditation, and it advised me to walk about in nature for an hour every day. Our bodies, our souls, our minds, respond to it. It is far too small a part of our lives anymore, especially as I live in the concrete jungle of New York City. I find that in these spaces everything about me breathes deeply, and opens up.

It has been interesting being, for lack of a better term, at my leisure for 5 months. The last time I was not at school or work was right when I moved home after graduating, and I was out of work for a month. I was miserable. I think there were a lot of factors contributing to that misery, but I generally like to be about something. I feel uncomfortable at my leisure. Before that month, the last time had to be in high school. At the beginning of my trip I wrote about how ridiculously difficult it was for me to lie on a beach all day in Cancun. I didn't like it. Well, my beach days have turned out to be as productive in a different way. The thoughts I explore, the words I explore through books, the beauty I soak up. It is easy to get caught up in work. Away from work, for so long, my brain has cracked wide open.

My situation, as an artist, is a little different from your regular careerist. My day job is certainly important, I need to pay my rent, and it behooves me to find a day job I can have some amount of passion for. But my job isn't my life's work, as it is for some. And I think I have been too caught up in it. That is easy to do-- it's where I go most days. But there is so much more of my life that I have been neglecting somewhat in favor of that day job. My brain, my life, my passions are big enough to hold my job as well as the plethora of other things I should be doing and exercising.

Life is more full, more varied, more exciting. I intend to bring this back home with me. I, in fact, have developed a list. Of course I developed a list.

-I want more art in my life. Everywhere. When I get an apartment room again I am painting on the walls. Yes, direct inspiration here from Valparaiso.
-I have been very frugal for the past year in preparation for this trip. While I have other things to be saving for, I want to stop sacrificing art and life. I will buy a new album every two weeks.
-I will not, however, be allowed to listen to my iPod on the subway. Subway time is reading time. I should be ripping through more books. On more subjects.
-I am going to listen to live jazz once a month.
-I am going to see plays whenever I want. (Thank god for student-priced ticketing, my BYU ID without an expiration date, and my youthful face.)
-I want to cook more good vegan food. I will cook one full-fledged good meal (and desert of course) a week, which I am not allowed to eat by myself, I must always invite at least one friend to come share it with me. (This one directly inspired by Pablo Neruda. He considered a meal eaten alone, a meal wasted.)
-I will take my camera out once a week.
-I will get my hands on photoshop and learn how to use it to increase the quality of my photography.
-Volunteer for Greenpeace more than I was before.
-I will go hiking or camping once a month.
-I will go to brunch with a friend every sunday.
-Acting is my career, I will treat it more like a career. I will enroll in an acting class, voice lessons, and audition regularly (once I get my bank account back on track).
-I will buy a guitar and learn how to accompany myself so I can start performing regularly at open-mic nights.
-I will go out with friends more frequently. My NYC experience suffered while I was being frugal. I am a single beautiful woman in Manhattan, I need to be taking advantage of that.
-I will go to the gym 4 times a week. Obviously.

Valparaiso. I wandered, I conversed, I brewed in cafes. One day I visited a vineyard, a small fishing village, and Pablo Neruda's third home, Isla Negra. Well, the man can stick to a theme, I'll give him that. His third home is overwhelmingly dedicated to the theme of the sea. Seriously. I like a figurehead probably a little more than the next person, but he probably had 20 of them in his house. It was fantastic. I especially loved a couple of rooms that was filled with knick-knacks from around the world. Fascinating.

He has a stunning view of the rugged Chilean coastline and Pacific from his grave. Some of his words are definitely going up on my wall.

The other great thing about Valparaiso was that I met some great people. People that I hope stay in my life. They will. I didn't get to spend as much time with them as I would have liked, so I will remedy that in the future. I could go more into this. But I won't.

There have been two places in my travels down here that I absolutely didn't want to leave. That I was a little miserable leaving. Salento was one, Valparaiso was the other. If I had been there earlier in my travels, I certainly would have stayed. But at this point, down to the wire, I felt that I had to move on. I bought my bus ticket the first day I was there, but after my few days in the city I certainly regretted it. I should have stayed.

Valparaiso did, however, give me a lovely parting gift. While pausing at a stoplight, a singer with an accompanying guitarist and drummer were performing in a square at the bottom of my Cerro. It was a lovely example of how alive, musical, and creative this breathing city is.

Following in the footsteps of Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, and Salvador Dali

2010-02-25T16:33:00.000-08:00

alternate title: Chile is for Lovers.

This blog situation is out of control.

It's partly a good sign that I haven't been posting as regularly-- I've been with great people and having a great time. But I am gutted that I have lost reflections and thoughts that have certainly slipped through the cracks by now. Especially since the last couple of weeks have been completely golden. I have had thoughts and feelings I've never had before, my mind raced, almost like some natural high. I don't know if it was just the atmosphere of Valparaiso, or if I've just hit a new plane in my solo travels, but it has been exhilerating.

More on that later. I am going to gloss over the activities I didn't write about.

Uyuni, in southern Bolivia? Another shithole town. Only good for getting into a 4-wheel-drive to hit the road on a 3 day road trip through the salt flats, desert, and lagunas. Nikki and I ended up in a car full of Aussies. I love Aussies, but when you're the only one not an Aussie? There were plenty of conversations I completely missed out on. Oh well, the views were pretty stellar. When you are in the salt flats, you can't see an end to them. It's just this endless expanse of flat white. I wished I could have seen them in the sunset, because then the water and white would have been reflecting a colorful sky. I witness this once at the Spiral Jetty in Utah-- unbelievable.

I am not a desert person. I like green, growing things. Period. But this was the most expansive desert I've been through, and I certainly have a lot of respect for it, and the huge variety of landscape it presented me in its very desert-ness. The landscape in general was pretty surreal, so it makes sense that Salvador Dali was inspired by them and used them in his surrealist paintings. It also very much felt like Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid territory. So funny how you go to other lands to see foreign things, and end up thinking, "Hey, this looks like Utah." Except for the flamingoes.

The original plan was to end up back in Uyuni, as this road trip was a circuit. But we had (the responsible, foreseeing travelers we are) looked into possible tickets down to Argentina after the trip. We knew we didn't want to be staying in Uyuni for a second longer than necessary. To our great dismay, it appeared we wouldn't be able to get out of there for 3 days after we got back! Unacceptable. But there was nothing else we could do, so we started out for the Salt Flats hoping a 'maybe' bus would turn into a 'definitely' bus.

Well, it turned out the driver was going to drop the other Aussies off at the Chilean border, where they were going to San Pedro de Atacama, and then across the Argentinian border to Salta. MUCH better option. So, surprisingly, Chile it is! I had already sacrificed Chile in the name of No Money, but a quick in and out never hurt anyone right? Wrong, because once I was there I just couldn't leave! San Pedro was so charming. It is a desert town, but is a bit of an oasis, and during the sunset it is just gorgeous. Great main street, plaza, so sociable. Great empanadas.

Northern Chile is one of the best places in the world to go stargazing, because out in the desert there is less light polution, and there are clear skies 360 days of the year. So I went out to this professors house in the middle of the desert, and he taught me about constellations and how to stargaze on my own and I looked througth a bunch of telescopes at stars, planets, nebulas, etc. It was pretty damn beautiful. Saturn and some nebula were my favorite. Really gorgeous. I think Nikki and I were the only non-couple. I think you can infer what I thought about that.

At this point I was hooked on Chile and couldn't resist getting a bus to Valparaiso, and then on to the island of Chiloe. I had a feeling. I get pretty good gut feelings. I tend to follow them, and I tend to be glad I did. So I split up with Nikki and followed my own road down south.

The drive was long, but beautiful I was sad I wasn't stopping more places in Chile. Luckily, I know I have to come back anyway. It's breaking my heart not going through Patagonia, and on down to the bottom of the world. But I want to do that trip camping. And I therefore want to do it with someone else. So I know I'll be back, and hopefully I can stop by some towns I didn't get to on this round.

This 24 hour bus ride would have been just fine. You know, I should write a whole seperate post dedicated to the bus. I am a champion bus-rider at this point. I CANNOT BELIEVE I only have one more bus ride on my trip, the 20-hour one to B.A. It is inconceivable. I cannot begin to estimate how many hours, how many days, I have spent on a bus. I have it down to a well-oiled routine, down to the pre-departure grocery store visit, packing, safety precautions, etc. I have a playlist that eases me into sleep every time. There was a point when I was completely sick of buses, didn't want to see a bus for the rest of my life. But I've come back around. The wonderful thing about buses is how the landscapes slide past the windows, this lovely panoramic window into a country. I sit there with my iPod on shuffle, and let the thoughts slide through my brain as the mountains, lakes, towns slide past my window. I am also lucky enough to be able to read on a bus without getting carsick. Since I've gotten into Chile, where the roads are a dream, the bus situation hasn't been a drag at all. The bus from Oruro to Uyuni, however, rivaled that bustrip from hell back in Colombia to San Agustin.

Some words dedicated to good bus etiquette:
-Don't leave your cell phone ringer on LOUD.
-Try to talk on your cell as little as possible. I have no interest in overhearing every loudtalking word you say to your mom. Especially when I am trying to sleep.
-Don't lean your chair back unless it is necessary (when you are sleeping).
-I think a good general rule would be that you don't lean your chair back unless the person in front of you has leaned their chair back. Except, of course, when it's sleep time. Even then, I am nice, and I never lean my seat all the way back.
-When leaning your seat back, take a glance behind you and make sure that person isn't leaning forward for some reason.
-Lean your seat back slowly.
-If your baby is crying, try to stop them. A good method for stopping your baby crying is not slapping it on the forehead. That didn't work the last 15 times you did it, what makes you think it will work if you try one more time?
-No PDA on the bus. Period. You would not believe what I have unwillingly witnessed. Really, whatever you're thinking right now, advance it by a base or two. I don't care if it is a night bus. Not acceptable.
-Don't offer your bus driver a beer. It wouldn't hurt to offer him a Red Bull.
-Smell good. And not like headache-inducing bad floral perfume.
-When retrieving your luggage from under the bus, don't cut in line. Latin America does not feel the same way I do about how well-functioning a line can be.
-Don't rush the poor bus attendant when retrieving your luggage. It's not going anywhere.
-Clean up after yourself. I get really pissed off when I see someone drop their trash on the floor, or worse, OUT THE WINDOW!!! I have wanted to take more than one Latin American child by the ear and give them a lecture on being a litterbug.

Word of advice: the front row of the bus is the best row of the bus. More leg room, no one leaning back into your space, first off the bus when you arrive or at a break stop, and far from the bathroom and possible unpleasant stenches emanating therefrom.

Yes, this 24 hour bus ride would have been just fine. If the bus hadn't smelled like poo. Literally. They did, at least, give me snacks. That was an unexpected pleasure. I felt so pampered.

Look what I finally found in great Valparaiso used bookstore!

2010-02-22T10:19:00.001-08:00

2010-02-21T20:45:00.001-08:00

Carnaval-Birthday

2010-02-18T11:53:00.001-08:00

The next La Paz day was spent with Emma, reunited after her trip through southern Bolivia. She, Nikki, and I caught up over breakfast, sorted out business and plans, and then shopped. La Paz has fantastic markets, and if you pass through them without buying something, I don't think you're human. Beautiful crafts, and so cheap I almost felt guilty. There were also several guitar shops, and you better believe it was difficult for me to resist that. I kept visualizing another month of carrying a guitar along with my turtle shell of backpacks.

When I get back to NYC, I have several goals in mind for immediate action. Traveling gives you so much time to think and reflect, I've had these goals in mind for a couple of months already. One of them is to learn how to play the guitar so I can accompany myself for open-mic nights. I have a great voice, but no current friends available to play for me. I love singing so much, it should definitely be a greater part of my life. Not only would this add another element of fun and beauty in my day-to-day life, but the performance skills I would learn doing open-mic, the comfort and ease with which I would learn to sing in front of people, would be superb preparation for grad school auditions. And the rest of my life.

But I will just have to find a second-hand one in NYC when I get back!

In addition to the regular artisinal markets, La Paz also hosts a legendary Witchdoctor market, featuring women of the Aymara people. I've been looking forward to this since before I left the States. Markets are never quite as I imagine them, but the dried llama fetuses didn't disappoint. And an Aymara love charm for 15 cents? Done and done.

That night Emma and I piled into yet another night bus, this one bound for Sucre.

Sucre is a lovely town. There's not necessarily that much to do there, but good company is perfectly suited to a lovely town. We ate some good (cheap) food, strolled the streets (before Carnaval-madness struck), bought and ate so much fruit, so many vegetables, from the amazing produce market across the street from our hostel, and met a fantastic Argentinian boy. Quinoa is now my official replacement for rice, I LOVE it.

Nikki joined us early the next day, and the girls went off to see some dinosaur footprints. Having visited a certain town named Vernal in the American west, which prides itself on it's dinosaur heritage, I didn't feel the need. So I spent a morning in a Bolivian cafe, writing postcards and catching up on emails. It was a really fantastic morning. I have been overwhelmed, in the last month or two especially, with how lucky I am. I know that is it more than luck, my own hard work and guts and got me here, but I am so lucky nevertheless. Mornings spent strolling around golden South American towns slay me, always endowing me with a euphoric glow that clings to me through the rest of the day. I have plenty of challenging or difficult situations, which inevitably dissolve into funny memories or good stories. I am completely in love with this life of mine.

By midday on Friday, Carnaval madness had a good hold on this quiet town. Carnaval is another one of those holidays that has its roots in pagan festivities, twisted and pinned down to some sort of Christian occasion. This one happens 40 days before Easter, and is supposed to be a grand farewell to 'bad things' in a season of religious discipline. Somehow it's turned into the opposite, a celebration of debauchery. Which can be great fun. I loved the section of my university Critical Theory class when we discussed Carnaval themes in literature-- how people feel that they can become completely different characters, or let out aspects of their true selves that they usually hide from decent society, just by putting on a simple mask. It's fascinating what the the carnaval atmosphere can bring out in a society, and also what it can accomplish when rigid rules or personalities are relaxed.

Sucre's Carnaval began with a general town-wide water fight. Anyone and everyone could lob a water balloon at you, or lambast you with a water pistol, for the sole reason that you walked past. The juvenile and adolesecent boys of Bolivia have a complete hey-day during Carnaval and become absolute little devils. The main plaza of Sucre became a war zone, we would try to strategize how to get through it, back to our hostel, unscathed. And inevitably failed. In this land of caramel skin I undeniably stand out as a tourist, and though it may be my imagination, I am pretty sure I was especially targeted due to this circumstance. Spraying foam was another favorite past time, and I had to constantly hold back my dirty looks for the women selling cans of foam on every corner, arming the boys of the town with their irritating artillery.

There were crowds of people, trooping around the square and the town, often including a band blasting away some tune, wreaking general water and foam havoc. It was a little surreal.

This trio of mine boarded a night bus to Oruro, the epicenter of Bolivian Carnaval. Oruro is a shithole of a town. There is absolutely no reason to go there except for once a year, for Carnaval. And even then, I was not a fan.

Our ultimate plan of action for Operation Carnaval was to roll in at 5 AM, walked around the FREEZING dark town in the sketchy morning hours looking for a hotel or hostel willing to hold on to our luggage and valuables for the day (took way longer than expected, why don't the hotels of Oruro want to make an extra buck for keeping our stuff for a day?), book tickets for another night bus leaving town that night, and nab seats in the grand stands for the parade. Accomplished, not without some irritability after our restless night on a bus. But we were finally seated, watching elaborate and gaudy costumes pass us by.

SO MUCH BLACKFACE IN CARNAVAL! WHYYYYY?! After a few hours of the parade I realized you see almost everything in one hour, and then it's repeated over and over and over for the rest of the day. There are specific characters who recur, with slightly different colors or baubles, but obviously the same. The first pack that passed was particularly puzzling: a bunch of large men, with huge ruffly sleeves, huge hats, heavy boots, Dionysus-like grapes draping his shoulders, a pipe, and blackface. He held a whip and everyone portraying him (all the way down to a mini two-year-old, particularly cheered for), used the same heavy, staggering, drunken step as he lurched down the street. Once in a while he was accompanied with a couple of skinny, stooped men, completely covered in blackface from head to toe, wearing chains and with red whip-marks on the back. WHAT IS THE STORY BEHIND THIS ONE?

The blackface theme continued throughout the day. It was also a little surreal.

Another character was the saucy mistress of course. Scanty clothing, loads of makeup, loads of fake hair. Some pretty beautiful costumes.

Another wore slightly more matronly apparel, and wore a mask which I found rather frightening, though I wonder if it's supposed to look beautiful? It features a small nose, pursed lips, and HUGE eyes fringed with dark lashes. To me it looked to be portraying a commedia-like character of the snooping, busy-body woman. But I really have no idea.

Plenty of manly young men dancing

My ABSOLUTE FAVORITE CHARACTER IN THE WHOLE PARADE (of whom I did not see enough of), was a bear-beast creature. Huge fat hairy suit. I left my camera at the hostel, figuring Carnaval crowds are the prime time for stealing, but HOW I WISH I had a picture of these furry creatures. There were a few mini ones played by children as well, and they were beyond adorable.

Water and foam fighting were even more increased, if possible. Though I've got to say, in Oruro, it was pretty exclusively enjoyed by the small and medium-sized boys. During Carnaval, they have an excuse to be complete terrors, and they play that up to full effect.

The stands filled up and after a few hours I was unbelievably uncomfortable on my little board perched high in the air. The parade seemed to be on repeat, so Emma and I left for a small intermission (well, I never actually had the intention of going back). I've never been so squished into a crowd in my entire life. To be honest, all I wanted was to get away from the crowds and noise for a half hour. Emma and I inevitably got seperated, so I wandered away for a break on my own.

I found myself in a street full of vendors of food, makeup, bits and pieces for repairing costumes. I was in the 'green room' of Carnaval. I felt far more comfortable among the show-folk, and I really enjoyed walking around people-watching as Bolivians polished their shoes one last time, refueled after the exhausting parade through town. Women were constantly retouching their makeup throughout the entire day, from sunrise to sunset. I think my favorite moment of Carnaval was when I passed one of those bear-creatures, sitting on a bench, head removed and sitting to the side, eating a bowl of soup.

This was my birthday, and though it's pretty fantastic that all of South America was celebrating with me, I missed my family and friends. So when I passed an internet cafe I checked into my email account for a few minutes and refueled with the well wishes of friends and family. I love those times.

I headed back to the grandstands to see if I could meet back up with Nikki and Emma. To no avail, they had vacated our positions. The rest of the day I spent wandering that one long street of fair and show-folk, people-watching to the max. I babysat a beautiful Bolivian baby girl for a while, ate some street food. The second half of the day, as I was wandering, unprotected, in Oruro streets, I adorned my awesome green poncho. And by awesome I mean that it is, literally, a tarp and poncho in one. So I look particularly stylish when I wear it. Luckily, everyone in their right mind was wearing a poncho due to the cahoots of the town boys. Unfortunately, they have become pretty skilled at aiming the foam directly in your face and eyes, the only area of your body unprotected.

I stationed myself by a street vendor selling bits and bobs to repair or improve costumes. I had been wondering, are these costumes owned by the city? But it seems that everyone creates or owns their own costume, and they care for it and improve it year by year. Since American adolescents are pretty anti-everything, I found it particularly amusing to be seeing so many (especially the boys), carefully selecting the exact right fringe or bell for their sleeve. Boys paraded about, happily dressed in pink and purple, jingling and twinkling.

I wonder about the alternative lives of all these people. Am I seeing the town dentist cavorting by, boots full of bells, dancing a jig? Is that the quiet laundress prancing by with her butt cheeks hanging out?

As the sun set I meandered back to the hostel, reunited with Nikki and Emma, and we all headed to board out respective buses. Emma to Potosi, Nikki and myself to Uyuni to book a tour of the Bolivian salt flats, desert, and lagunas.

As we rolled away from that crazy shithole of a town, I'm glad I did Carnaval my way. Not by getting completely wasted, but by observing the details of a town on holiday.

You see those beautiful butterflies? Don't look at them, they want you to die.

2010-02-18T11:02:00.000-08:00

Sorata days kind of merged into each other. There was plenty of relaxation, book reading, and getting to know a couple of fantastic boys. I made the vertical hike up to town a couple of times, and did an 18km hike to Las Grutas de San Pedro. Great hike, can't wait to post pictures.

As is always the case, it came time to leave. I can't stay anyplace longer than 4 or 5 days. La Paz called. I arrived and immediately booked a bike for 'The World's Most Dangerous Road'.

El Camino de la Muerte, or Road of Death, is so called because 200-300 travellers used to die on this road yearly. Bolivia has since put a lot of money into opening a new road to Coroico, so these days far less cars travel on the Road of Death, and there are therefore far fewer deaths. But the road earned its infamous title because of extreme dropoffs of at least 2000 ft, single lane width, lack of guard rails, frequent rain, fog, and dust making visibility extremely poor, and since the road is unpaved mud, loose rocks, landslides, etc. are too frequent. The road begins at 4,650 meters and descends to 1,200 meters at the town of Coroico. As you ride down it, you ride through the end of the Andes into the Amazon Basin.

The landscapes you see as you go down? One of the most beautiful roads I've ever been on.

These aren't my photos. I was riding a bike on the Road of Death, so I left my camera at the hostel. But I sure wish I could go back and walk down this road because it was stunning.

I am so impressed that I can still use words like stunning, gorgeous, jaw-dropping, absolutely genuinely after all that I have seen. I am so glad that one country's beauty doesn't seem to diminish another's.

I was a little apprehensive about El Camino. Not only because of its moniker, but because I haven't ridden a bike in years. And I have never ridden a bike on anything but pavement. And I can't say that there was any practice time really. We got on our bikes, adjusted our seats, and then our guide said 'Let's Ride!'. And we did. We began on pavement, which is something. We road for possibly 20 minutes, whipping around corners, along with traffic, our tires singing on the pavement. I loved the views during this part. It was bleak, foggy, freezing. We were so high, it was a little difficult to breathe. Llamas dotted the fields unfolding around us. All I could hear were the tires, the occasional llama or bird, traffic veering by, my breath, and the wind.

Our equipment was superb. Great bikes, great protective gear. I may have looked a fool, but wearing all that padding made me feel pretty badass.

Soon we came to the actual Road of Death. The pavement ended, and all I could see was a rocky, dirt road disappearing into fog as it curved out of sight. It felt eerie and dangerous. There is constantly fog shrouding the highest half of El Camino because the Andes' cool air is clashing with the very humid air of the Amazon Basin.

Again, no practice time, just straight into riding. And you know what? I did great. I was always near the head, I never wiped out, and I only skidded twice. We rode for about 4 hours through the mountains. We passed countless white crosses dotting the right hand side of the road, and iridescent butterflies luring us to our death over the dropoffs on our left. Our guide was great. The Andes gave way to the Yungas, which is extremely fertile ground perfectly suited to the growing of coca.

We finally rolled into Coroico, where a beautiful hotel complete with lunch, hot shower, and a pool waited for us. That second picture? That was our view.

When we piled into a couple of vans (there were 10 of us), the drivers asked if we wanted to drive back to La Paz on the new (safe) road, or go back up El Camino de la Muerte. Back up the road of death, of course! So I got to drool over the view once again, giving it more of my attention this time.

A few times we passed other cars or BUSES coming down. I'm not going to lie, there may have been some white knuckles in our van.

Isla del Sol

2010-02-13T13:02:00.000-08:00

I liked Copacabana as soon as I arrived. Very small town, safe, with LOADS of vegetarian food. I think I have the very large hippie population to thank for that. Lots of crafts, and everything cheap. This was my first exposure to Bolivian prices and I was beyond thrilled.

It turns out that when you take the money stress off of traveling, it is 10 times more fun.

I immediately saw approximately 21 things I would like to purchase, but after our exhausting bus journeys of the past few days, Emma and I got down to business. Figured out how to do what we wanted the next day, the day after that, ate a great vegetarian dinner, hit our email accounts up, and got to bed.

The alarm clock went off far too early the next day. It was raining. But Isla del Sol (SUN!) was calling. The ferry takes a couple of hours to get to the top of the island, and the rain didn't let up the entire way. Nevertheless, there's a different beauty about a rainy day, so I wasn't too upset. We loaded up on food (the local flatbread, local cheese, tomato, mango, and banana. GREAT lunch). There was also a large hippie population on the island. Some serious campers in the cold.

Isla del Sol is in a stunning location right smack in the middle of Lake Titicaca, the highest, largest body of water in the world. It's so high up that the clouds feel really close to you. The northern end of the island harbors most of the ruins. Trying to avoid the large tour group, Emma and I explored the Incan ruins. I was especially excited to arrive at the rock where the sun and moon were created according to Incan lore. They let you touch it. Not only that, they let you sit on it. Stand on it. Do whatever you want on it. I love Bolivia. Touching ancient ruins would never fly in certain other countries. There was also a labrynthine Incan structure over a crest, which I was very taken with. Especially when the sun came out. One of those spots I could have just spent some time with, you know?

But we had the whole island to explore before the sun went down, and the walk from the north to the south end was supposed to take around 4 hours, so off we went.

SUCH a beautiful island in such a beautiful location. I was thrillingly content this entire day. The trail leads you along the crests of the hills that make up the island, so you get gorgeous panoramic views to both the Peruvian and the Bolivian sides of the lake. After the sun came out, the water was SO BLUE. There were wildflowers everywhere.

Note to self: traveling in the rainy season is not a bad idea, after all. Yes, your Inca Trail trip may be cancelled due to flooding and landslides, but most of the time it is not, in fact, raining. It just means that the earth is all well-watered and fertile, so everything is green, and everything is blooming. I am a big fan of the rainy season.

There were a bunch of true-to-life shepherds on Isla del Sol. I was pretty enchanted. After trying to sneak in a picture of a sheep a bunch of shepherding kids instantly ganged around me demanding money. I gave them a sip of my diet coke instead.

At the southern end of the island we came by a hostel with a stunning view of the impending sunset. Done and done. Tried matte for the first time with a bunch of Argentinians also staying there. As soon as the sun went down, it was instantly freezing. Emma and I shot straight under the covers of our bed and stayed there.

In the morning we walked down steps remaining from Incan times (I am such a nerd, I loved it), and caught the morning ferry back to Copa. Within an hour we were back on a bus, and my journey to Sorata began, which you already know all about.

P.S. I hate this catchup game. You get the main action, but who knows the profound (?) thoughts going through my head during these days? They just can't be recaptured at this point. Which is sad, since traveling gives you so much time to ponder, that's a big part of the charm and self-discovery inherent in travel. Guuuh, I'm trying, I'm trying.

Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe

2010-02-10T07:29:00.000-08:00

Back to Peru.

I wasn't too torn up about leaving Cusco because I know I'll be back. It's such a lovely town and I will be happy to return at some future date to successfully complete the Inca Trail up to Machu Picchu. So Emma, Nikki and I began our arduous journey to Arequippe and the Colca Canyon. Emma and I took 3 different buses, maybe 20 hours of travel to a very small town by the name of Cabanaconde. It's perched on the edge of the canyon and is a tiny, dusty, dry mountain town. No internet, no ATMs. That bus trek was... not the most pleasant. I had a couple of people threaten me with calling the tourist police because I wouldn't buy a tourist ticket that I didn't need. Seriously, 25 minutes of intense discussion-argument over this ticket. I've never felt so berated in my life. A Peruvian woman sitting next to me eventually stuck up for me, and I was ever so grateful.

We stayed at a nice hostel that had a very...interesting... receptionist. The guy could certainly 'waffle on' as Emma aptly put it. The pizza was GREAT. I was exhausted after our buses, and it was pretty cold after the sun went down, so I headed straight to bed after some chamomile tea.

The next day Emma was up and raring to go. I was not quite so perky. But we walked 20 minutes from the town to get to this canyon. It's bigger than the Grand Canyon, and I've got to say, quite impressive. The Andes here are desert Andes, they remindeded me of Utah, though bigger. Desert mountain isn't my favorite kind of mountain, but it's mountain nonetheless, right? There is tons of ancient terracing around the area from the Incas as well. It's pretty impressive how fertile the ground can be in such an arid climate. And how LONG those terraces have lasted! They are everywhere in Peru and Bolivia. Emma is a champion trekker. I am not so much. I headed into the 3 hour hike to the bottom of the mountain, the 'Oasis', with little trepidation. I should have been much more wary. It was 3 hours of constant downhill, concentrating on where you put your feet so you don't cause a small avalanche and land on your bum. It was a beautiful view, but a never-ending trail! By the time I FINALLY got to the bottom I was completely pooped, and could barely imagine the ascent up this mountain I was supposed to undertake within 2 hours. I was hot, hungry, exhausted, and was being bitten by flies. I was not a happy camper. Emma, however, was quite happily perched on a log underneath some trees enjoying her lunch. (Local flatbread, avocado, tomato, peppina- a melon-like local fruit, delicious). I jumped staright into one of the spring-fed pools in the Oasis, hoping to ease the exhaustion in my legs as quickly as possible.

Too soon we started the hike back up the mountain. It was going to take me approximately 5 hours to get to the top. 5 hours of unrelenting incline. And let's not forget the altitude here, it's very high, meaning it's more difficult to breathe. Emma marched straight up. I made it halfway up in 2 and a half hours, and gave up and jumped on a mule for the rest of the way. The views from atop that mule were delicious. I definitely wouldn't have appreciated them as much if I were struggling on foot. And no, of course I didn't take any pictures. I was too busy being miserable, or holding onto the mule, egging it on. Awesome.

What really was awesome were the people I met coming up that mountain. Tons of locals going down who paused to chat for a moment. Always asking me why in the world I wasn't going the other direction to attend a fiesta that was happening that night... one old man, who was completely unintelligible around his mouthful of coca leaves, (OH, maybe that's what I needed to get up the mountain!) even forcefully pulled me a few feet down the mountain. I was pretty surprised by how strong he was, and how seriously he tried to get me to go to that fiesta. All the old women could talk about was the dancing! What a friendly mountain and crew of locals.

Will I miss it when I go back to NYC and stop greeting everyone I pass? Maybe.

FINALLY made it to the top. Gorgeous sunset. Collapsed on couch in hostel for a few hours, ate more pizza, and back on yet another overnight bus, this time headed for Puno and the border with Bolivia!

Puno is like how the name sounds. Kind of poo. We hung out at Lake Titicaca for a couple of hours while waiting for our next bus. Pretty, but it was about to get so much better!

Had a little bit of an experience at the border. I was the only American on board the bus, and as it so happened I got the special seat at the very front of the bus because they'd overbooked the vehicle. So I was sitting in that little seat made for the busdriver's assistant. Interesting to be right at the front. I could see every single pothole (I think Peru wins for worst roads), before we hit it, and got such a view all around me. So anyway, I made special friends with the driver. Now, Americans have to pay an exorbitant fee to get into Bolivia (because the US charges the same of Bolivians), and we require some special paperwork, photos, copies, etc. So, as this driver was concerned with getting to La Paz ASAP, he hurried me off the bus and to the right offices immediately. Where I had everything I needed, I was very well prepared, of course. BUT when I handed over my $135, my $100 bill, which I had extracted from an HSBC ATM in Lima, was deemed unacceptable by this Bolivian official. It had a serial number on it, a series that Bolivia does not accept. I look at this man kind of blankly, saying I'm sorry, that's all I have. 'Bolivia doesn't accept this.' Blank look, 'Well, how was I to know that before I got here? This is all I have.' He sent me to the Peruvian side to exchange the bill for Bolivianos. Back to Peru I go! Past the dogs and kids and vendors. Peru doesn't accept that bill either. Back to Bolivia I go! The driver pops up, very concerned that I have not finished yet, it is time to be moving on! He tells the driver I will just have to go to Copacabana, take out more money, and return with another 100 in the morning. The Bolivian official doesn't exactly answer this proposal with an affirmative or a negative, which the busdriver takes as a yes. 'Excellent! Let's go!' and he rushes out to the bus.

Now, I have been an illegal alien in South America before, and it didn't go over so well, so I am not thrilled with this option. Though it is better than driving 3 hours back to Puno and staying in Poo-no for a night. I also feel more than a little nervous about leaving my passport with this Bolivian official. So I ask him if he is sure. He studies me silently for about 30 seconds, then says 'Give me your 100'. 'This one? With the serial number?' 'Yes, give me your 100. It could create problems for me.' So I happily hand over my bill, get shorted by $5 on the change, but don't complain, and get the rest of my stamps taken care of while the driver unrelentlessly honks for me.

SUCCESSFULLY IN BOLIVIA!

On to Copacabana, beautiful, breathless lake town at the top of the world.

An insuffiient taste of Sorata

2010-02-08T18:12:00.000-08:00

Religion is in your face down here. This is the giant Jesus looming above Cusco. Good hike.

2010-02-08T18:09:00.001-08:00

Colca Canyon (love you Andes!)

2010-02-08T18:08:00.000-08:00

What I've had with breakfast every morning since entering Peru: coca tea.

2010-02-08T18:07:00.000-08:00

Poll Time

2010-02-06T12:40:00.000-08:00

There is a popular tourist destination in Bolivia, a once-silver-now-tin mine in Potosi. The main tourist activity in this formerly rich, colonial town is a tour of the mines. The mine's working conditions are deplorable, they haven't changed for decades. The people working there are extremely poor. The visiting tourists bring gifts of tobacco, coca, chicha, rum, etc.

When I first heard of this activity, I felt pretty uncomfortable. It strikes me as not a little morally ambiguous to make a tourist attraction out of people's degrading and back-breaking reality. For tourists to spectate, heading into the mines, removing their ray-bans and watching out for their bright shiny converse sneakers and turn these people into something on the other side. Like a zoo. And then to leave and spend the equivalent of a week's wages on their alcohol consumption that night.

I also can see why it became a tourist attraction-- Che Guevara did the same thing 50 years ago, just on his own. He wanted to see how these people lived, what their lives were like. It is, in a way, educational, if you do something with this knowledge. And it's certainly not something you could experience at home.

But can you imagine trooping in, part of a line of tourists with their cameras at the ready?

I really want to know, would you do it?

Some great reading for the valley...

2010-02-03T09:23:00.001-08:00

I have finally stumbled upon the quintessential book for traveling South America.

The quintessential book for traveling Bolivia.

We interrupt this program for the following message...

2010-02-03T08:34:00.000-08:00

Picture me on a dusty road, a road going straight through a very small town in western Bolivia. My bus has just driven away. I have my big backpack on my back, my daypack on my front, turtle-style. Before me, across the road, I can see Lake Titicaca in the near distance, so blue, with hills and mountains surrounding it. Behind me is a small, dark, tienda, or store, with a plot of productive land beside it. Behind the road sign on my left is a large pig, rooting through the grass. Scattered over the rolling land surrounding me are more plots of land, planted with some produce that is all in bloom now, so there are blue, purple, and golden flowers bobbing their heads in the breeze as far as I can see. Mountains rear up behind me into the achingly deep blue sky. I feel like I am in a Maxfield Parrish painting. When the sun is shining, it's quite warm, and my slightly-sun burned cheeks flare up, but as soon as the sun goes behind one of the many cumulus clouds, I'm glad I have on my fleece, and look forward to when the sun re-emerges. It smells like the country.

I feel pretty alone, despite the kid turning tight circles on his bike down the road to my right.

I am waiting for a mini-bus (van) to speed by, with the letters 'SORATA' up in the windshield. I have no idea when it might be coming. After a few minutes, I head towards the store. A very old man emerges from the dark doorway, with so many wrinkles and sun-darkened skin. I ask about buses to Sorata, but he has so many coca leaves in his mouth that he is mumbling around that his reply is fairly unintelligible. He is nodding, though, and gestures toward the road I was waiting on, so I feel fairly confident that I am in the right place, at least, if not the right time. I look hopefully at every vehicle that speeds by. I can see them coming from far away. But reading their destinations in their front window in time to flag them down before they pass me by is a little bit more of a challenge. 20 minutes slowly pass as I wonder if I am going to have to resort to hitchhiking. Finally a van heads my way with the right destination, and I successfully flag it down. My pack is thrown on top, as I am wedged into the full vehicle. I am lucky, I've got the last possible seat, without which the driver would not have stopped for me. I don't know if there would be any more vans that day.

There are 3 small children chattering in Spanish behind me, beside their mother and someone else. My bench is a fellow traveler to the left, a native of South America, though I don't know where. And a bent old woman in traditional dress to my right. She has a bunch of bananas in her colorfully-striped bolsa. 3 men in front of me. 3 men in front of them. And 2 men in addition to the driver in front.

We drive over relatively-flat land. By relatively-flat I mean rolling. Breathtaking mountains plunge upwards into the sky, peaks covered in snow. They may be the tallest mountains I've ever seen. Some of them tower so high, they re-emerge from above the clouds that are shrouding their sisters. Soon we are driving through clouds. That's how high our altitude is-- we are not driving up steep inclines here, we are driving at relatively one altitude, and we are driving through CLOUDS.

We stop in a town, our van surrounded by vendors shouting 'Empanadas!' 'Platanos Platanos Platanos!' Someone has a bucket full of bags of amber-colored liquid with straws poking out. There's something large floating at the bottom. This is the most popular purchase in my van. Somehow 2 more men and one more bent old woman are packed into the van. I think I am witnessing a spacial miracle as these people are standing where the door slides shut, bent over the heads of other passengers. They only ride with us for 20 minutes or so.

The van starts to climb and we round a mountain into the most beautiful place I think I've ever been. I know I am risking hyperbole here, but I genuinely think I've reached a new height of beauty. This valley is what my imagination has most wildly visualized when looking forward to the Andes. It is a part of the Cordillera Real in Bolivia. Words cannot do this valley justice. There are clouds, mist, plummeting depths rivaled by soaring, snowcapped peaks. Vibrant greens, patchworked slopes of farms, that same produce, in bloom here as well. I have never seen such mountains with my own eyes. I can't believe what's before me. The van is careening around the corners of a zigzag road, inches away from sheer, deadly drops into the valley below. For the first time on my journey I imagine the van tipping over the edge, sailing through the air for endless seconds before crashing into pieces at the bottom. The kids behind me are a chorus of 'whoooooas' as everyone in the van is heaved against one side and then, quickly, the other. The children are vocalizing what everyone else in the van is thinking, though without the doubt of fear that would be included in my voice.

I don't want this trip to end.

But, eventually, we roll into the small mountain town of Sorata. Now, as you may have noticed, I am a sucker for a small mountain town. This is no exception. I pay my $2 for a 3 hour journey, and enquire about Altai Oasis, the hostel my Rough Guide overwhelmingly recommends. I am assured I should take a taxi, so I hop in. After 10 minutes of steep, muddy roads, I am glad I opted for a vehicle to get to my hostel.

This may be my favorite hostel so far. I have experienced quite a few, but this hostel is gorgeous. It has several different buildings or cabins sprinkled throughout a valley, beside a rushing, noisy river. It's also a farm, and includes many animals (cows, llamas, rabbits, cats, dogs, macaws, etc.) Simon greets me, an American-tinged-with-Spanish-accent. When asked for the cheapest bed available, instead of a dorm bed he gives me a private room for the same price. I am in the 'penthouse', overlooking the rest of the valley. The bed is the most comfortable I've felt for months. There is a pool, hammocks, camp ground, friendly dogs and kittens, delicious restaurant, bar, acres of land to be explored, forest, river, a hot shower. Breakfast is included for my $6-a-night, and when enjoying my bread, homemade preserves, coffee, and freshly-squeezed orange juice this morning, I looked up to see the truly impressive peak of the 2nd tallest mountain in South America above me.

The Spanish explorers claimed they'd found Eden in this valley. I would have to agree.

Regular programming will now resume.

Playing Catch Up

2010-01-31T17:49:00.000-08:00

Well dear blog, I have been remiss with my postings. So here's to playing a game of Catch Up...

Lima-- I really didn't see much of Lima. Flying in was delightful. It was interesting to have the world's worst bus trip one day-- cramped, hot, bumpy-- and then be escorted unexpectedly into first class on a flight the next. I relished the dichotemy and used it to greatest advantage, scurrying away snacks, sodas, and even the fleece airplane blanket. Waste not whatnot, after all. I did feel fairly out of place, wearing the same shorts and shirt the third day in a row, smelling, etc. But I spritzed some Salvatore Ferragamo on in duty-free (I have never appreciated perfume so much before), and stopped caring.

I scored a spot on a couch at a full hostel (love that because it is half price, and essentially the same as sleeping in a dorm except I got the whole living room to myself), and promptly came down with a flu. So I took it easy in Lima, or tried to as the hostel was having a big free party, after all. I spent many hours at Starbucks with a hot tea in one hand, and Girl with a Dragon Tattoo in the other. I could tell Peru would be a challenge for my bank account as the crafts here are gorgeous. I spent a day with a friend from Belize and Guatemala, remember crazy Eddie? Yup, we reunited and watched a couple of movies. Up in the Air may not have been the best choice for a solo traveler...

I was a little bit stressed in Lima as there was a land transportation strike in the works, and it was fairly unpredictable when it would end. I had two days to wait until I would have to find an alternative route to Cusco for my Inca Trail Trek-- a plane. Well I'm glad I waited it out because I got on a 24-hour bus to Cusco on the 23rd, just in time to acclimatize before heading into the mountains.

24-hour bus ride. Need I say more? Was delayed because in several areas, half the road had fallen into a raging river. And at one point, the entire road had fallen into the river. Oy vey, Peru has some repair work to do.

Cusco-- Beautiful. Seriously. Most beautiful city I've been in on my entire trip. Winding alleyways whose sides are still made of ancient Inca walls (the stonework really is impressive). Tons of gorgeous crafts everywhere you turn. Cathedrals that caused my jaw to drop. Great landscaping. Mountains (THE ANDES!!!) Hills. Whitewashed walls. Alpacas (so cute, why aren't there more in the world?) Colored, ancient doorways. Cobblestone streets. Just exceedingly charming. Really cold though. And my hostel was on a hill, so I got a fair amount of exercise every day climbing it 3 or 4 times.

I was totally ready to stay in Cusco for a month, working at a hostel. I was slightly worried about getting antsy, as I was so so ready to leave Antigua after only two weeks. And I was also worried about time slipping away without my doing enough with it, you know? It would be easy to work in the hostel and stay there too much of the time. But the city has so many alleyways to explore, and its access to the surrounding mountains is excellent, so I was determined to settle myself into a steady, healthy routine of walking, exploring, reading, practicing Spanish, etc.

So. Day before my departure on the ultimate adventure, the Inca Trail. I meet my guide, the other two couples I will be hiking with (of course, 5th wheel), and pay up. I am all set to wake up at 5 the next morning and head into the Andes. I have gotten over the flu just in the knick of time, I have bought a hat to hopefully combat the unexpected cold, and I am so ready to sink into bed early in preparation. When I hear the news trickling through the hostel. There's been floods, maybe landslides, treks are cancelled, Machu Picchu is closed. Well, everything was hearsay, so I call up my trekking agency who gives me the runaround. Saying things about alternative treks. But I am not paying all that money for not-the-Inca-Trail. So I show up the next morning and tell them that, and you know the rest of that story.

What actually happened up in those mountains? Lots of rain led to lots of flooding and landslides. A few people died in said landslides (can you imagine sleeping in your tent, and having it just be swept off the mountain?!) Most tourists were stuck in Aguas Callientes, the town right by Machu Picchu where the train usually would take them back to Cusco. But the tracks had been badly derailed due to said flooding and landslides, so 2000 or so were stuck up there. I would have LOVED to be one of those people! What a story! There was free food and water, and then they got evacuated by helicoptor. What a great bonding experience, and what an unexpected and dramatic ending to your trek! Don't get me wrong, I feel for those who were injured, and especially for those who met their ends on that trek. That is certainly horrifying. I am not making light of this situation. But it would be a great story to be one of the last people to see the ruins before they were shut down. It is my expectation that they will be shut down for quite some time, there hasn't been serious damage done to the ruins themselves, but the transportation there is in a bad way. As I said before, Peru has a lot of repairing to work on in the near future.

Now this was not all clear-cut in Cusco. The communication therein could have been vastly improved. Nobody knew exactly what was going on, it was exceedingly frustrating. You know my story there. I eventually got my money back except for the deposit. Ah well. And after a brief bout of frustration with my circumstances, I did pick myself up and say What next? Because I am in South America, after all, and there are plenty of other things to see and do.

I spent a day wandering the town, met up with a friend. San Pedro market-- GREAT produce market! Juiced it up, of course. Climbed the mountain just outside of Cusco to the giant Jesus on top. Great view. Unbelievable sunset. So sad I didn't bring my camera. At this point I was thinking i could climb up any number of following days with said camera. Cusco. Sooooo beautiful.

That night I got to thinking, with a couple of new Australian friends. Redid some math, investigated some plane tickets online, and I came to the conclusion that the best use of my time and money would be to continue on through Bolivia and Argentina before returning home in mid-March. New game plan, and GO!

The next day Emma (Australian) and I headed out into the Sacred Valley. We saw firsthand some of the flooding (it really is surprising how little international attention this whole situation has been given-- I understand that it pales in comparison with Haiti, but there is a national crisis going on here). The Sacred Valley was gorgeous. A patchwork of different vibrant shades of green on the rolling valley floor, with snow-capped Andean mountains in the background. Lots of sheep, wildflowers, traditionally-dressed women. Blue skies with cumulus clouds. You'd never know it was the rainy season. We also saw a super-charming town, Ollentaytambo (or something...). The town is walled throughout, with so many growing things crawling all over them. We climbed up to some ruins on the mountain and overlooked the valley and the towering Andes. I had some of those moments. You know, the ones when I can't believe I'm really here? And I realize how lucky I am? And so grateful I kept going? I can't imagine a time of turning back, it would be ludicrous to give this all up. We sat high up on the mountain, legs dangling over the edge of an ancient Incan wall, and watched the evacuation helicoptors pass back and forth through the valley, still transporting tourists out of Aguas Callientes 4 days after the big collapses happened.

And that night we got on a bus heading, eventually, for Cabanaconde. In Colca Canyon. A huge canyon, more impressive than the Grand one. A town lacking internet, which partly excuses my lack of updates the past few days. And I will tell you all about those adventures in a couple of days. Tomorrow I am off to find where the sun was created, in the middle of Lake Titicaca. I'll be back the following day. So until then...

Fighting a foul disposition

2010-01-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

Here I am in Cusco, Peru, dreams of the Inca Trail dashed to smithereens.

It's the rainy season here in the Andes, and there has been a lot of flooding, a lot of landslides, even a couple of deaths up on the trail. Due to all this, the Inca Trail has been shut down by the government early (it is usually shut down for trail maintenance in February). So instead of striking out into the Andes at 5 this morning, I get to spend all day trying to convince my trekking company to give me my money back. They of course have been giving me a massive run around.

Hostel friends said ¨What's wrong with you, whip out your self-righteous American within! Start pointing your American finger!¨

You guys, if you couldn't tell, that is so not my style. Getting people to give me my money back is NOT my strong suit.

I still can't believe I am not doing this trek. I planned this trip for many months before I departed, and do you know the image that floated above my head when I dreamed of this journey? None other than the Inca Trail leading to Machu Picchu. From all of the other countries, all of the other experiences, all of the other possibilities, the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu emerged as the ultimate dream, the ultimate experience. The thing I was looking forward to most. Guuuuuuuuh.

Let me get my money back, and let me wake up tomorrow looking forward to my new game plan.

If you don't hear from me til Saturday...

2010-01-25T15:17:00.001-08:00

It's because I am dying slowly in the Andes on the Inca Trail. If
sheer exhaustion doesn't do me in, the cold will. Machu Picchu here I
come!!!

Sent from my iPhone

Cusco, Peru. Beautiful.

2010-01-25T15:14:00.001-08:00

Book trade score: David Sedaris

2010-01-23T07:57:00.001-08:00

Happy Anniversary!

2010-01-22T08:06:00.001-08:00

It has been 3 months since I've been out, and this one's certainly got month 2 beat.

-first time sailing
-first time being sea sick
-swimming with jellyfish
-snorkelling
-fresh fish
-pirate country
-Kuna
-waking up and diving into the Caribbean
-diving into the Caribbean any old time I felt like it
-skinny dipping
-dance parties with Colombianos
-New Year!
-many attempts at salsa
-coffee with cinnamon
-being an illegal alien
-conquering DAS (with too much money)
-overwhelmingly kind Colombianos helping me out for no reason at all
-robbed: once
-robbing foiled: once
-mugged: once
-mugging foiled: once
-cable cars: 2
-boys: 3 (this does not mean what you may be thinking)
-books read: 4 1/2
-new friends: countless
-stranded due to bus strike
-business class for the first time! wearing the same shorts and shirt for the 3rd day in a row, awesome.
-so much local street food
-frutas!!! everywhere!!!
-lots of country trekking
-mountains
-early mornings
-paranoia
-GREAT pizza
-JUGO!
-bumpiest road EVER
-surviving Colombia mostly intact
-cautionary tales
-Colombiano art
-F.A. Cano
-little old Colombiana woman totally freaking me out in the dark on a mountain and then blessing me
-hitting my stride as a solo traveler
-modes of transportation: bus, foot, horse, plane, taxi, swimming, sailboat, launch, dinghy, motorcycle, metro, cable car
-being called a diamond. Really genuinely.
-Yellow Spectral Warrior
-Colombian coffee
-Starbucks
-SO SICK OF MY CLOTHING
-smelly
-movies in a theater: 2! (Sherlock Holmes and Up in the Air)
-constantly dirty feet
-sick from food or water: I've avoided it thus far, knock on wood!
-flu: once (currently)
-overnight buses

It's been a fantastic month. So much of what my journey is has been completely unexpected. I imagined a lot. I never imagined this. Everything changed once Sarah left, and it is exhilirating to head into each new day, not knowing where I may be when the night arrives, literally or figuratively. I try to roll with the punches and accept the good that comes my way. I stay true to myself, and only myself. Sometimes I feel like I have a lot of strings pulling me, nudging me; Mormon strings, family strings, backpacker strings, career strings, well-meaning strings, etc. And I may follow one or two or five. But I ultimately follow my own path, and it's been a really exciting, empowering one. I try almost anything once and say yes more often than no. It's strange to live day to day without bouncing everything that happens to me off of a close friend, or at least someone I've known more than a week. Locals, taxi drivers, bartenders, travelers, receptionists, strangers, frequently tell me how strange it is that I am traveling alone, or saying how adventurous or brave I am. I smile and accept the compliments. I am someone right now that I never saw myself being. It has been a complete surprise. I think that's pretty amazing, how quickly it happened, and hell, when does this happen? I feel like such identity changes are usually slow evolutions, fairly predictable. But this solo world traveler, this empowered, independent woman, suddenly appeared. Was forced upon me, really.

In Antigua one morning, I was listening to Ragtime. There's a lyric, sung by Mother, that talks about women who are ''unafraid to be strong''. And it struck me as false; aren't we always afraid to be strong (or should be), because being strong implies that we are experiencing something exceedingly unpleasant or challenging. Something which necessitates a bold counter-action to maintain some balance, to maintain forward motion. Before we get to an experience which necessitates ''being strong'' we are all talk; once it gets to that painful challenge, the one which requires the bold counter-action, all we can feel is pain. It's the rule of opposites, you can't feel strong without feeling weak. You can't feel brave without feeling afraid. And once we are experiencing a challenge, how can we not be afraid?

I am not completely on the other side yet, but I do feel that in this last month I have emerged from something. I've moved ahead, I've achieved forward motion, I am finally starting to hit my stride as a solo traveler. This is shot to hell sometimes; when I thought for 5 minutes the other day that I had made some horrible mistake and missed my flight to Lima, tears were brimming and panic had started rolling by the time I got to the desk of the check-in attendant. And I still feel ridiculously exposed when I walk in a city by myself with a bag. But as a whole, I feel the exhileration of someone new, someone different. Someone I came to Latin America to find, even though I didn't know who or what I was looking for when I came.

Alright, no worries, I still have a healthy sense of my flaws and areas of improvement. Musn't forget those.

And now that the land transportation strike has ended, I'm off to get a 22-hour bus ride ticket to Cusco. Inca Trail, here I come to get my ass kicked!

I saw a LOT of these. Can't believe the colors are still on this one from thousands of years ago.

2010-01-20T10:11:00.000-08:00

Weirdest fruit I've ever enjoyed. It seriously looks like it came from outer space.

2010-01-20T10:09:00.002-08:00

This was also there. Yum.

2010-01-20T10:09:00.001-08:00

Best produce market so far: San Agustin. Heaven.

2010-01-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

Yellow Spectral Warrior

2010-01-19T06:55:00.000-08:00

Imagine Bobblehead Laura. Imagine a two year old shaking Bobblehead Laura. For 6 hours. The bus ride from Popayan to San Agustin is notoriously rough, and that´s what it was like, no exaggeration. It is the bumpiest ride I have ever experienced. And I get to do it again in about 3 hours. I may not be sane when we finally roll into Cali.

After that lovely ride, I found myself at one of my favorite hostels I´ve experienced so far, La Casa de Francois. San Agustin is known for the hundreds of ancient statues sprinkled across its hills. They date back to anywhere from 3000 BC to 1000 AD, and are a good excuse to go horseback riding or trekking across more idyllic countryside. And then once you´ve seen enough statues, the peaceful nature of the hostel will keep you planted in San Agustin for a couple more days.

The night of my arrival, a great group of people were already gathered in the hostel on the hill, and I joined them for some really delicious pizza in town, followed by a fueled night of playing 'Shithead'. The pizzaria in town, owned by an ex-pat German, was so tasty, and included some of the best local music I´ve heard on my trip. I was so happy. The group consisted of myself, 4 Londoners, and a Swiss. I´m just going to leave it at This was a great group of people and I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them. I really wish all of them could have stayed longer, but they´d been in San Agustin for 5 days already.

This traveling alone thing has been great for practicing my social skills. I mean, I meet so many new people everyday, and if I don´t become friends with them quickly, either they or I will have left for the next destination. It´s also been really interesting to see who I connect with, or who becomes an unexpected friend. Even though I´m from NYC, a city teeming, overflowing with people, I meet far more people on the road than I do in my 'normal' life. And I find myself in situations, in the company of people, that I never would at home. I feel like I could travel Europe next year and have places to stay all along the way.

The hostel here is set in a farm on a hill high above the town. I spent plenty of time in a hammock overlooking the valley, reading my book. I also went horseback riding for 5 hours, stopping along the way to learn about some statues. I was even the official interpreter! I went with a Swedish friend I had met in Salento, who had also ended up in San Agustin, by name of Martin. I knew more Spanish than him, so our guide was exceedingly patient, speaking quite slowly, so I could grasp the pertinent information and relay it on. It was good practice, and I´ve got to say I was pretty proud of myself.

Another day Martin and I set off for the Parque Archealogico, 3 km from town. We must have walked at least 12 km that day. Martin made an excellent travel companion, I am so glad he´s been around both in Salento and San Agustin-- very smart, great conversation, similar interests. I´ve been really lucky lately in the people I´ve met and spent time with. I´m not going to elaborate here, but I´ve had some really fantastic moments with people in the last week. Moments I will cherish and remember. Again, I really think it´s the mountain thing. Hopefully I´ll meet up with several of them again down the road.

On our horseback riding day, Martin and I ended up in a small cafe where a woman offered to tell us our Mayan calendar horoscope, basically. I don´t really believe in such things, but it was cheap, and when else would I discover my Mayan horoscope? And she did end up telling me some things that I think are important to remember during the rest of my trip, and the rest of my life.

She deciphered my Mayan identity through my day of birth, February 13, 1984. I am a Yellow Spectral Warrior. There are countless things that I don´t remember, I have an awful memory for such things, but what she said really was quite beautiful. The most significant or important thing for me in life is intelligence. And I am a risk-taker, adventurous. I have the ability to be a great warrior, but I am a pacifist. I am proactive and strong. And journeys like this, being active out in nature, is and will be integral in my ability to fulfill my potential. I am like a phoenix, I regenerate throughout life, being able to take challenges and turn them into strengths. It was very flattering, and it was apparent to me that this girl really did believe in the Mayan calendar, and many Mayan traditions. As I was leaving, she looked me right in the eye and said ''It is good to be a warrior, yes?'' Yes. Yes it is.

The next few days will be spent in travel as I head back to Cali, catch a plane down to Lima, and eventually a 22 hour bus to Cusco. I am grateful I have a couple of good books to keep me company, and a bag full of fresh fruit from the mercado here. It was the best mercado I´ve been to yet! Fresh fruit and vegetables as far as the eye can see!

The last week or two in the mountains have been so wonderful. I´ve been so at peace, had such wonderful conversations, been surrounded by such beauty. I would happily return here.

But this warrior journies on.

so much Swedish in my life right now

2010-01-18T17:04:00.000-08:00

I was so lucky to stumble across someone who had just finished this book so I could swap for it! After enjoying the Wallender series so much when BBC produced them, I was excited for some more Swedish mystery literature. And a page turner is such a blessing when you´re trying to forge through a book that hasn´t quite grabbed you... Unfortunately this book apparently has a cliffhanger ending, and what are the chances I find it´s sequel along the road? Oh well, it´s too good to stop now.

Salento

2010-01-18T13:46:00.000-08:00

Alright, it´s been far too long since I posted. The problem is that I've been being too sociable, I can only write a big fat post when I am being solitary, you know?

Salento.

After my unsavory experience in Bogota I was so ready for the peace and quiet of the mountains. Salento delivered, though I did unknowingly arrive at exactly the right time to join in with one of the biggest fiestas this tiny town has all year. It was their anniversary party and it was just about to kick off to a riotous beginning when I arrived Friday morning. It lasted through Monday night, and transformed the entire town. Salento is usually a sleepy, charming little town in the mountains of coffee country, the Zona Cafetera. It has one big main plaza, and a main street lined with restaurants and shops leading north from the plaza to a large hill, at the top of which is the ever-present mirador. That´s where the town parades to for their Santa Semana in April.

There´s one main hostel where most backpackers gather, if only momentarily, as in my experience it was almost always full, pretty disorganized, and difficult to get a bed at. Plantation House. I was lucky and curled up into a double bed almost immediately as my night bus had been less than restful. Despite the disorganization, it is such a lovely place. It´s surrounded by farms, has a stunning view of the valley, is far enough from the plaza that we weren´t bothered by the blasting music (three different genres simultaneously), but could walk to the plaza in a matter of minutes to join in with the huge Colombiano party. The whole place actually reminded me of my beloved Santa Elena in Costa Rica's coffee country. And so of course, I stayed longer than originally intended.

I think certain genres of destinations tend to attract a particular type of traveler. I always find exceptional company in the mountains, and they have been the easiest places for me to make friends. Needless to say, I found some really delightful company in Salento.

There really isn´t much to do in Salento. At all. Almost all the tourists eventually funnel into the Cocora Valley to do some trekking in the gorgeous countryside. And other than trekking, there is nothing to do. It was blissful.

My trip into the valley was both wonderful and disturbing. There is a trail through the valley for perhaps an hour, and then you enter a jungle. I loved the valley, it was the textbook description of lush with rumpled hills and mountains on both sides. The cutest, woolliest cows you can imagine were scattered throughout. Wax palms also sprinkle the hills, which seem somewhat out of place in this idyllic valley-- they shoot perfectly straight up into the air, they are so tall, and then bust into palm leaves at the top. They looked like Dr. Seuss trees. And clouds and mist were shrouding the tops of the mountains around me. The path across the valley floor has been carved out by the feet of cows, horses, and people for generations, and in places the sides of it came up to my eyes. A perfect place to find a quiet spot and settle into my book for an hour or so. So I slipped under the barbed wire and climbed a steep hill so that, over the crest, no one would be able to spot me. I was hidden away, in a pocket of this green, green mountain for a few hours.

After my mugging, I can´t deny that I haven´t had some residual irritating paranoia. The following is an excerpt of what I wrote to my therapist about this day--

''...and poor Colombia, I certainly don´t want to contribute to the negative opinion most Americans seem to have of it. Also, in the moment I acted and reacted well. It was only after that it really sank in how terrifying it was. I´ve never personally experienced something so violent. I couldn´t stop shaking for hours. And I find that I can´t stop thinking about it, even when I logically step back and see that no permanent damage was done, I reacted well even if not correctly, and hey, it makes a great story.

Not only can I not stop thinking about it, but I find myself flinching if someone touches me unexpectedly from behind. My heart immediately leaps unpleasantly. Yesterday I was walking down the street with a friend, and there was a guy leaning up against the wall of the street. As we passed, he raised his hand to scratch his nose or something, and I flinched. Supid things like this keep happening. It irritates me-- not only because I used to be so confident walking around Central America, but because I´m not sure if this experience really qualifies as a 'traumatic' experience, you know? FAR worse things happen to other people all the time. If the guy had knifed me, yes, that would qualify. But the fact is that I beat the bastard, and he did not hurt me permanently. Sure, soreness and bruising, it was kind of a lengthy struggle, but it could easily have been so much worse.

Today I went for a hike in the Cocora Valley, in the mountains of coffee country. It was beautiful. This valley could be the textbook description of lush. The rumpled hills radiate peace and contentment. It´s a holiday weekend so there were more people on the trail than I would have liked. I slipped under the barbed wire of the path to climb a steep hill where, just behind the crest I could sit, unseen by the other hikers below. And I couldn´t stop imagining how easily a man could slip up behind me and take advantage of me. I whipped my head around maybe 5 times just to make sure no one else was back there but cows. I know it´s my imagination getting the better of me, and I sat up there for at least a couple of hours, reading and thinking, just fine. But it bothers me that these are the thoughts that occur now.

I continued on the path eventually, into a cloud forest-jungle. I knew there was a cafe deep inside, my destination. A lot of other hikers turned back, and soon I was alone in the jungle. This is exactly what I used to relish. But after 15 minutes or so of hiking, I couldn´t stop thinking how vulnerable I was, how there could so easily be guerilla men in this jungle (and I know this is a possibility in Colombia, though, being practical, I don´t think I really needed to worry about that at this particular location), who could easily prey upon a lone female. Climbing over Indiana Jones- style bridges, I repeatedly tried to banish these thoughts, but my heart started racing for no reason. I could no longer tell the difference between irrational fear and legitimately good gut instinct. So I turned back, I erred on the side of caution, though I usually prefer the side of slight risk and adventure. I was approaching panic, and I was near tears. I hate that I am affected like this. I hate that I keep seeing a Colombian man loom up in my fears, someone who slips behind me with a knife, rough hands, arms stronger than mine, ready to jerk me backwards. I hate how powerless I felt, even though I beat him! I hate that instead of openly smiling at everyone, including men, that I come across, I can tell there´s a touch of fear in my eyes as I look ascance at the men behind my smile.

It wasn´t long ago that I was hiking alone in Costa Rica, feeling absolutely confident in my safety, and completely content in being by myself deep in jungle. Today was the perfect recipe for the peace I was seeking in the mountains after two days of being robbed in the city. The dark thoughts that I couldn´t stop in the jungle really disturb me. Now, sitting in an internet cafe in town, I feel almost silly writing this. But this darkness was all too real out there, when I felt the urge to write to you seeking any advice you may have for this kind of experience. And I do flinch. Often.

I´m sure these feelings will fade as time goes by. I´m sure the flinching will stop. The attack was only a couple of days ago.

I refuse for this experience to alter my behavior or plans too drastically. I have been traveling by myself for 2 months, confident and without incident. I completely, logically, expect this to continue to be possible and likely. How do I move past these dark thoughts and fears? How do I stop this ridiculous starting and flinching at every unexpected sound or touch?''

Since this experience I´ve spent almost all of my time in the company of other travelers, and it has helped quite a bit. These effects have faded a little, and I am sure they will continue to do so. I just wanted to record, here, what this entire experience has been like for me.

Colombianos are so eager to have more tourists in their country, I am asked how my experience has been every single day, multiple times. The safety here will continue to improve, I have no doubt. And though travelers swap cautionary tales frequently, I also come across plenty of travelers who have journeyed through this country with no unsavory incidents at all (well, when it comes to safety anyway). I would unquestionably still choose to travel through Colombia if I had the chance to do it all over again.

The rest of my time in Salento was whiled away with hammocks, books, meandering, coffee, Lucy's cheap and filling meals, lots of street food, and of course the fiesta. So many Colombianos came into town for this anniversary fiesta, and it was interesting to see Colombiano tourists alongside the gringos. Mountain Colombianos are different than city or coast Colombianos. They are no less kind, but they are more reserved. This is the area of the country where the farmers and cowboys wear the poncho and cowboy hat that you´ve seen on the Colombian coffee cans, and apparently it´s as much of a novelty to Colombiano tourists as it is to gringo tourists, because they bought plenty.

Every night of the fiesta the plaza and Calle Real were packed. There was one spot you could stand in the plaza where your ears would be decimated by 3 different songs colliding. It was a real treat to be able to see this town transform from party central to sleepy little mountain town again.

And the street food! Arepas, arepas with cheese and honey, some wafers sandwiching arequippe, coconut, cheese, and jam, strawberries with cream, pizza, roast corn, platanos, patacones, coffee, tons of fresh fruit, juice, and a lot of meat. There were even some roasted whole pigs. GROSS. But all the vegetarian options were delicious, if overwhelmingly fried.

The 360 degree view of the valleys and mountains surrounding Salento is breathtaking. Unreal. I cannot believe I got to be there. Definitely my favorite spot in Colombia.

In the end I absolutely did not want to leave Salento. Seriously. After 5 days. The morning I got on the super long bus ride to Popayan I was pretty unhappy, and didn´t cheer up really until I got to San Agustin and the great crowd of people I met here, perched above some beautiful country.

But that is a story for a different post.

Lunch.

2010-01-14T06:34:00.001-08:00

Wax palms

2010-01-14T06:33:00.001-08:00

My view 360 degrees.

2010-01-14T06:32:00.001-08:00

Cocora

2010-01-14T06:31:00.001-08:00

Jugo de mora!

2010-01-08T19:47:00.001-08:00

A life lived in fear is a life half lived

2010-01-08T17:14:00.000-08:00

I have really debated writing this post, because I don´t want anyone to freak out. But I think it´s important to be honest about my travels, and the realities therein.

Today I was sort of attacked and robbed. I am totally ok! I was really lucky, these guys apparently were not willing to hurt anyone.

Here´s the story. I met this lovely girl at the hostel, Marianne. This morning we went by the bus terminal to buy some tickets to our respective next destinations. We went to Museo de Arte Moderno, which was the most disappointing museum I´ve ever been to. We wandered around for a bit looking for a good place for lunch, which we found. A really delightful pizza place called MonaPizza, in a lovely neighborhood. I had jugo de Mora which was, as always, delicious. Next on our itinerary was Monserrate, a church on the top of a mountain which is supposed to give you a great view of Bogota. Well, the cable cars at the foot of the mountain don´t look far on the map, so we figure we´ll just walk there rather than pay a taxi. We were walking through a neighborhood which I honestly did not feel the least sketchy about. There were kids playing in the street, a family washing their car. There were people around, you know? I hear footsteps running up behind me and still, I think nothing of it. My hackles are not raised. But suddenly there´s 3 guys, maybe 19 or 20 years old, yanking off our backpacks. Marianne did the smart and correct thing, and just gave them her backpack. Well, my backpack has one of those buckles that you buckle across your chest. I always assumed they were to help relieve the strain from your shoulders, but it turns out they´re pretty good anti-theft devices as well.

I was completely stupid. Even though there was that buckle thing going on, I was completely stubborn and could feel myself refusing to give in to this situation. I mean, incidents like this happen quickly. There isn´t so much a thought process happening as a series of instincts firing. Retrospectively, I can identify that my instincts didn´t see these guys waving weapons, so if they weren´t even using them to scare me into giving in I didn´t think they would use them on me. Also, there were so many people around, surely if I start screaming someone will come to my rescue. So I screamed and screamed and screamed. I let this guy yank me off balance so I was on the ground, dead weight being the most difficult to move. It was also a passive way to fight back, as obviously aggressively fighting back is the absolute stupidest thing I could do. My buckle finally broke. I kept screaming and screaming. It felt like a long time to struggle. Nobody came to my rescue. But he did finally give up and run off.

I am relieved I still have my camera, my glasses and contacts, and my iPhone. I am concerned I behaved so stupidly and didn´t just give the guy my bag. I may not be so lucky next time, you know?

I am more hurt by the fact that everyone on the street just watched that robbery happen, and didn´t even approach us afterward to see if we were ok, than by these guys actually robbing us. Colombianos are the nicest collective group of people I´ve ever met. Their reputation preceded them, and I´ve traveled through a bunch of countries now which also had wonderfully nice people, but the Colombianos exceeded expectation. They not only give you a direction, they ask about where you are going, why you are going, what you should do when you get there. When they see you struggling with the language they step right up and translate for you. If they´ve just met you, they hug and kiss you when you leave like you´ve been friends for three years. When they greet you in a cafe, they really seem to mean it. The warmth radiates from their eyes and smiles. They are SO HAPPY to have tourists coming through the country. I don´t know how or why this society has evolved such a lovely people, but the rest of the world could learn from them. They go above and beyond regularly, and with apparent pleasure. My instincts had a lot of faith in those Colombianos on that street.

I guess the idea is to just give in. I don´t know. I guess they had their reasons.

I flagged down the next taxi that passed and got the hell out of there. I`ll be taking more taxis from now on, I guess. And leaving my camera in a locker at my hostel. So long resolution to take more pictures.

Whatever prayers you all are saying for me are working, I guess. I am none the worse for wear. Just shaken up.

Monserrate was a little overshadowed by the experience.

When we got back to the hostel, I headed down the street to that cafe I enjoyed so much yesterday. Cafes are some of my favorite places in the world. They have a very soothing, comforting, calming effect on me, so I sat down with some hot chocolate and a book. 20 minutes in, I felt a warm hand on my arm. The woman who had just sat down next to me wanted to know if she should order downstairs, at the counter, or upstairs where we were. When she realizes I don´t speak much Spanish she seems delighted to talk in English. She seems delighted to be talking with me period. I give her what information I know, and then her companion goes down to order. She is astonished that I am traveling alone, and continues to ask about my travels, where I´ve been, what I think of Bogota, what had I expected of it and how did it live up to those expectations? Her companion presently returns with the bad news that this cafe does not, in fact, serve coffee. Well, clearly she must go elsewhere because coffee is the only thing to have, but she immediately turns to me while opening up her purse, exclaiming that I must have her phone number so I can call her if I need anything. I had been speaking with this woman for only a few minutes, and here she is offering herself and anything she can do for me. And it is overwhelming how genuine the offer is. Her warmth and kindness almost brought me to tears.

That robbery was obviously a very frightening, unpleasant experience for me. But it´s important not to judge an entire country, an entire society, on the actions of the minority. The reality has certainly set in at this point the risk I take as I travel, if I hadn´t quite realized it before. But it´s also plain to me how much this traveling has to offer as well. When do the cons outweigh the pros? When does the risk become too great? The fact is, yes, something worse could have happened today. Something worse could have happened a month ago. It could happen a month from now. But I don´t know. Nobody knows. All I can do is learn from my experience, and be ever yet more wary.

I am sorry, I know it must be worse to be reading this from afar, imagining awful things lurking around every corner from me. All I can say is I am vigilant. I am careful. I am confident that even if I am robbed of every possession, I will be safe. I would not be here if I weren´t confident in that. I´m not that stupid.

one of life's lessons

2010-01-07T17:47:00.000-08:00

I am painfully aware of how outrageously this blog could benefit from pictures.

I am also ashamed by how few pictures I am taking.

I am also cringing at how all those pictures don't have people in them.

I am a number one advocate of people in pictures. People in pictures make them VASTLY more interesting and enjoyable to look at years later. Who wants to look at landscapes 5 years down the road? Unfortunately, a lot of my time on this trip has been exploring and viewing landscapes. And a lot of my time has been traveling alone, when I would have to do that awkward arms-length picture of myself thing. And alright, I'll be honest, I don't really like how I look right now.

And I love my SLR (I LOVE my SLR!) but it is a huge pain to pull out of my backpack and it makes me paranoid having that nice-looking camera out.

But today I had my camera out. And today my wonderful camera, with a newly-filled memory card, was STOLEN!

The day started with my arrival via bus into Bogota, Colombia's capital city, at 5 in the morning. I finally got to a hostel and slept on the couch for a few hours before arising and heading out to the streets which were surprisingly charming. As always, I had no idea what to expect from this new place. But La Candelaria is the tourist center of the city, and apparently an artistic center? As almost every building is decorated or brightly painted. There are some beautiful churches here, and the background of mountains is stunning.

After wandering around downtown for awhile I headed into another art museum, Donacion Botero. Filled with, you guessed it, more of Botero's fat people. I'm pretty tired of Botero, I like his statues more than his paintings, and I kind of feel like once I've seen 5 of them I've seen them all. But there were other works as well. The museum didn't have as good of a collection as Museo de Antioquia, but the building and space itself was really lovely. And it was free.

It had a couple of courtyards, and I was feeling very comfortable there. I usually do in art museums. I sat down on a bench in a sunny courtyard to read for a little bit with my camera on the left side of me, bag on the other. A man approached from the right and started asking me things in Spanish, something about coffee or lunch. As always I didn't get it the first or second time, so I was excusing myself in Spanish for my lack of Spanish skills when I out of nowhere got a funny feeling, looked to my left to discover my camera had disappeared, looked up to see a retreating back of a man a few yards away en route to the street exit. I yelled "Oy!", at which the man turned around with my camera in his hands. He tried to make some excuse, which I didn't understand, I merely gave him a death glare as I took my camera back. He quickly turned and exited while I turned to the first man with the same death glare. He tried to act like he wasn't connected with the stealing man, but of course he was and I said a really nasty "Ciao." I was really frustrated that I couldn't come up with the Spanish to alert the guards to these men's behavior before they had booked it to the street. But at least I got my camera back!

I don't know where my lightening-quick instinct came from, but I am so thankful for it. Even though I got my camera back I sat there, slack-jawed, for a good 5 minutes afterward. I know it was nothing personal, but it's hard not to take it that way when I know they were looking at me, planning how to rob me, before any of this happened. I think I look like a very nice person. A nice, considerate, intelligent person. It disgusts me that I can be someone's target. I know, maybe I can't imagine the hardship these two men go through every day. But to be honest, their clothing was nice enough. It didn't look like they were malnourished in any way.

I still can't believe I was robbed today. I knew it would happen. I came on this trip absolutely knowing I would be robbed at some point. But I've gotten a little too comfortable. I never would have left my camera sitting out like that when I arrived in Central America. Well, I've learned my lesson now, no worse for wear.

They would not have robbed me today if I wasn't alone.

After the museum I did one of my favorite things ever. I went to a cafe. Cafe Puerto Falsa to be exact, recommended by a friend. I had something new and local, agua de panela con queso. Agua de panela is a sweet hot drink, and it was definitely tasty. I don't know why it's served with queso on the side, but it was good queso, and good bread. Good lunch over all.

I then headed up to Museo del Oro, or Museum of Gold. I have no real interest in gold, but this museum comes HIGHLY recommended by my guide book and a couple of friends. And it was only $1.50. So in I go and I'm glad I did. It was essentially a museum of artifacts from the indigenous people of Latin America. A lot of it, obviously, was made with precious metal. But there was also pottery and carvings, etc. Super interesting, though too many people.

Tomorrow: Museo de Arte Moderno, Montserrate, and then maybe on to Salento already? I'm not feeling much like a city mouse lately, I think I'm ready to be in some mountains...

From DAS to art to juice in one post

2010-01-07T16:43:00.000-08:00

As it turned out, I was in big passport trouble. I was an illegal alien, and DAS did not care that everyone told me it would be fine to go on to Medellin. Boy have I learned my lesson.

On Monday Ana and I went to DAS first thing, only to discover I had to return the next day with a filled out form, 5 pictures of myself, and photocopies of everything. So we ran our errands and continued on to Museo de Antioquia, an art museum. The square outside of it is filled with Botero statues. You know Botero? He's the artist that depicts everyone and everything as fat. Roundingly plump if you will. It's a lovely plaza, and a great place to people watch. We also picked up some local pastry. The art museum was fantastic. There was a wonderful exhibit of F.A. Cano, Colombia's most important artist. He worked at the turn of the century through the 20's I believe. He covered quite a few subjects. I tried looking for my favorite pictures (I had many) online, but no luck. There were a few other Colombian artists I really enjoyed as well, whom I'd never heard of before of course. Great museum experience. It was also great to be there with Ana who was an art major at university, so she could fill me in on a bit of Colombian art history. Luis Caballero, Debora Arango (first Colombian female to paint female nudes, got excommunicated for it).

We took the extremely clean and smooth metro back to the El Poblado neighborhood and met up with David to grab dinner. Then we met some Argentinian friends of his for drinks. I didn't know what they were saying most of the night, but I had a great time anyway.

The next morning was the day of DAS. Ana and I got there at 7. Ana is a complete saint. I don't know what I would have done without her help. She waited with me at DAS the entire day, went back and forth to the bank and to get yet more fotocopias, translated everything for me, and basically plead my case for me. Seriously. SAINT MATERIAL. It was an extremely frustrating day of hours of waiting, only to be told it would be a 3 day process and that there was no getting out of hundreds of dollars of fees. I was LIVID with Dennis. I recall the exact conversation when he said "We should really head over to Caperganau to get this passport business taken care of... oh naw, let's go to land and have a drink instead." I pulled out the tears, and maybe they helped because we miraculously got taken care of by the end of the day. Though I still had to pay $150 in fees. Freaking expensive sailing trip.

I was exhausted, but spent that evening running a couple errands and catching up with the internet.

I hope that when I think of Medellin, I don't recall DAS, I recall how the city looked this day from the metro at sunset. The metro runs above ground here, which is gorgeous. So much better than underground. You speed smoothly through the tops of buildings, spires of cathedrals periodically rising above the rest. Sunset never fails to amaze me, how it can transform any almost any scene into something beautifully different.

The next day I went to the Museo de Arte Moderno, but it was closed. Ah, let me pause and point out how much art is happening in my life right now! Remember Central America? Remember how in that entire land mass I didn't visit one art museum, go to one play, or do anything related to the arts at all? That's because there isn't really anything related to the arts. Art is really a luxury, one that Central America has, so far, not been able to afford. There was occasionally some traditional dancing, but nothing that displayed a real creative spark. It's been strange because so much of my previous travel experience has centered around art. Museums, theatre, street performances, architecture, what have you. Central America was all about natural beauty rather than human achievement. And I didn't realize quite how much I missed art until I stepped into that Plaza filled with Botero. In fact, this entire city really has its act together, and statuary/monuments are everywhere. Walking through that museum was like walking through a church. It was so refreshing to shuffle around the hushed halls, focusing on depictions of the past, evocative slashes of paint, beautiful testaments to the human body. Connection achieved without words or sound or a similar language.

Despite how much I love, and will always love, art museums, I do think they are somewhat bizarre. They will always be a comfort zone for me, BUT, doesn't it seem odd to contain these vivid, evocative, vessels of human communication in rectangles and hang them, evenly spaced, on a giant, sterile, white wall? Where people shuffle from one completely different work to the next in the space of seconds? Shouldn't these be out amongst the people rather than housed in a big warehouse of a building? I know, I know, when we set them apart like this they cause us to regard them more significantly, consider them a bit more. There is plenty of art out amongst the people, and our eyes commonly skip right over them on their way to the next street sign.

I am well aware I am contradicting myself, comparing an art museum to a church, a sacred space for me, dedicated to important things, and then tearing the use of them down. It's just interesting for me to think about.

I decided to take the metro line to the end and hop on a cable car. All within the price of one metro ticket. :) As I mentioned earlier, Medellin is in a valley, surrounded by steep hills, or shall we say mountains, on all sides. Little adobe houses climb all sides of the valley, and the metro system turns into a cable car system at the end to climb the slopes. So into a cable car I go, and I feel like I am in Willy Wonka's glass elevator. Except I obviously can't go any direction I would like, I can only go forwards and back. And instead of floating over what... London? I am floating over the slums of Medellin. But I've got to say, I've seen worse slums. These slums looked pretty clean and cheerful, comparatively.

Colombia's street food is fantastic. Unhealthy for the most part, with plenty of fried foods and pastries, but tasty tasty tasty. I try something new every day. Favorite thing so far: THE JUICE. JUGO! There are fruit stands everywhere ready to blend you up fresh juice at a moment's notice. And there are so many fruits here I have never heard of or seen before, it's kind of exciting to order a juice of something I have no idea if I'll like or not. The BEST when you're hot and thirsty. I will have juice every day while I am here and I will quickly grow used to it. After the barren lands of Central America where all the produce was shipped out, it is a delight to see a fruit stand with freshly sliced mango around every corner.

Speaking of food, why do I always feel absurdly happy and comfortable in a supermarket? Without fail, I'll run in to grab some aguacate for dinner or some bananas and bread for lunch, and I'll spend an hour wandering around, comparing all the different local arepas or candy or produce. And I'll end up happy no matter in what mood I came in. I find supermercados especially helpful when I'm feeling lonely and sad. This has got to be connected to my emotional eating challenges. The other day I was writing to a friend who just moved to NYC, and who is also a little lonely and sad. And my advice (other than to GET OUT and go see a free play or something), was first to go to the grocery store. What kind of advice is this? But seriously, to go and fill her pantry with good, delicious, wholesome food. Whole Foods is one of my happy places in NYC. I don't know why. But I love all the good choices housed there. I know that as a company they are not perfect, but they sure are trying a lot harder than a lot of other companies to do right by the environment and the human body. I love food. That's all there is to it. I admit it. But I love good food, not crap. Maybe it has something to do with homemaking/nesting. Creating a place for myself with my food. Claiming to the world, "this place is mine, makings for my dinner are here." Even if that place is just my backpack.

Good times at Donacion Botero art museum and Museo del Oro

2010-01-07T16:23:00.001-08:00

And this guy

2010-01-07T16:22:00.001-08:00

And this... (look at his hands all curled up around his chin, mad creepy!)

2010-01-07T16:21:00.001-08:00

Spent the day looking at things like this...

2010-01-07T16:20:00.001-08:00

All at sea VI

2010-01-06T14:20:00.000-08:00

The 1st of January was frustrating.

I personal fault of mine is my lack of patience and sympathy with people who are hung over. I just think it´s pretty easily avoidable, and I resent when it impedes on my life.

The Plan was to sail to Turbo the evening of the 1st. With my desire to get through Colombia within 2 weeks, cutting out the sail to Cartagena, and then the loooong drive to Medellin, would be prudent for me. I was also eager to avoid another long sail. Turbo is south of Sapzurro, a 10 hour sail, and a 9 hour bus ride from Medellin, my first planned stop in Colombia. This was also good for Joe as he is motorcycling to Tierro del Fuego before it gets too cold to visit. And poor Lani gets outvoted but is so easy-going she seems ok with things.

I am ready to be off this boat. I have been for a couple days, to be honest. I am getting antsy about moving on, not wanting to waste my precious few Colombia days in a place I am ready to be gone from. I awake on the 1st, get Dennis moving, and promise to have the boat cleaned up and ready to sail if he gets supplies so we can sail at 5 for Turbo.

Something about living on a boat is that it´s easy to get stranded. If you don´t have the dinghy because somebody else has it, you´re stuck. Whether it be on the boat or on the land. Yes, I could swim from one to the other, and I did. But then you´re just you, in a bathing suit, and nothing else. So that´s just not very useful. This particular morning I was stranded on land with Lani. We did eventually hop on a launch that was kind enough to drop us off at The Fantasy though.

So I take it upon myself to get the crew going, and the ship cleaned and ready for sail. I´ll be damned if our sail is delayed because of something I had the power to change. Joe goes to land with the dinghy on captain´s request. So the girls get the ship ready, and then we wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. No word. For hours. I am getting increasingly more irritated with Dennis, and increasingly more worried that we won´t set sail that night.

Joe returns with empanadas! And the news that the captain has been drinking all day, but is still intending to sail! But he irrationally needs the money for the trip to give to Jack before we sail, so Joe heads back to land that evening, and returns with the news that Dennis is completely passed out. OF COURSE. I am livid. And so I go to bed.

There just isn´t any way that you can hurry Dennis along if he doesn´t want to be hurried, you know? So the next day we just continue to wait around. For hours and hours and hours. The other three went to land in the morning to get provisions for breakfast, but I was in no mood to be in Sapzurro, so I just stayed on the boat. They returned with the news that Dennis was still knocked out. He eventually showed up, and we eventually did set sail that night. FINALLY.

I slept for the sail again.

The next morning we got to Turbo, and I got the hell off that blasted boat! A couple of Colombianos, David and Ana, were headed to Medellin, so I tagged along. Dennis, one of his duties as captain, is to get passports stamped in and out. But he assures us that since it´s Sunday and the tiny Turbo office is bound to be closed, I can go along to Medellin and get stamped in there. I ask him, and other Colombianos several times, if they are POSITIVE this is alright. And they insist yes, since Medellin is the first place I could possibly get stamped in, it is no problem.

Turbo is a shithole and we get in and out as quickly as possible.

David and Ana are SO NICE. Like, unbelievably, exceedingly, mind-blowingly nice. We all share lunch and snacks and they take care of me completely. The ride to Medellin is through mountains and it is BEEEEEAAUTIFUL. I am SO HAPPY to see mountains again! I love the beach and the ocean, but I can certainly get enough of it. And I really quickly grow tired of the beach bums that gravitate to it. It is not my preferred way of life.

There is a marked military presence along the road through the mountains. I ask why, and David says that it used to be an extremely dangerous road. 8 years ago Sapzurro was taken over by guerrillas, and you could not traverse this particular road safely. So now the military is there for our security. And times have sure changed in 8 years. Colombia is as safe as any other Latin American country, and Colombianos are so eager and excited to see tourists coming through. They are so eager for more. And there assuredly will be more, because it is beautiful here, the people are indescribably kind, generous, and open-hearted, and honestly, it has the least potential for culture shock from the states.

Medellin is not at all what I expected. It is huge, and the closest thing to the States I´ve encountered in my journeys thus far. Of course it has it's slums, it's dangerous parts, but it is also exceptionally clean and modern, with the smoothest metro system I've been on in years. It's cradled in the mountains, its adobe and brick houses literally overflowing, ascending the hills surrounding.

And so I am finally here. I have finally moved on. But Dennis's shifty ways continue to hover over me as I discover problems with my passport. I have turned into an illegal alien.

All at sea V

2010-01-06T13:55:00.000-08:00

Sapzurro is tiny. It was also talked up as GORGEOUS and 'the best place in Colombia'. Well, it is beautiful. It´s nestled in a bay, cradled in the arms of jungle-covered mountains.

I AM DESPERATE FOR A SHOWER. It is the 30th of December and I haven´t showered since the 23rd. I´ve plunged into salty waters repeatedly, sweat a lot, and been through a rough sail. I have not changed my clothes once. I am gross.

This is first in mind as we head to the shore of Sapzurro and Dennis's new hostel. That shower was fantastic. It was, however, the only shower I had until I got to Medellin the night of the 3rd. And it was quickly obsolete as I would begin every day by diving into the ocean off the boat, and swim 2 or 3 times after that as the day heated up.

Sapzurro is a weird town. Tiny. Apparently everyone who lives there has money, but that doesn´t mean the amenities are greatly improved. It keeps being touted as the next great thing, how in 10 years it will have been taken over by the tourism industry. I think it was just over-hyped for me. Yes, it is beautiful, it is out there, away from it all. But it´s not the first place I´ve been that meet those criteria. For some reason dirty old men gravitate there on their sailboats. There was a flock of them, all friends with each other. I am SO SICK OF OLD MEN HITTING ON ME.

New Year´s Eve was crazy and FANTASTIC. Relaxed morning of swimming and mimosas with freshly squeezed orange juice. Evening of partying with Colombianos! We all danced like crazy. Then Kathryn, Lani, Joe and I ran off into the night to run naked into the Caribbean for the stroke of midnight. We bobbed in the waves talking about our previous year and our hopes for the next under the full moon. I love New Year´s, it is absolutely one of my favorite holidays. No guilt or negativity attached, which is common with several other beloved holidays of the year. It´s just one big party for everyone, when I reflect on the great things I´ve accomplished in the past year, how lucky I am, and look forward to the next. A fresh, new year. And I am so proud of this past year. One year previous, I had no clue I would be where I am. It was not a speck on my horizon. But I hatched the plan, executed it successfully, and despite everything, HERE I AM. Worlds away from my comfort zone and having eaten up so much experience on the way. I am doing something nobody else in my world has done. I am here, against all expectations, of others and myself. I am so pleased with the leaps and bounds I have made, that have been made for me, and resolved to continue this progression in my life as I continue my journey, and return home.

Something about being away always throws your life into perspective. This is nothing new. But a challenge I am having is that I have identified the changes I wish to make in my life (what I´m living right now isn´t exactly my life, this is something outside of my life), and I am eager to return to my life to make them. In fact, I can´t wait. But I know I still have more to learn here.

And then we continued dancing for hours afterward.

All at sea IV

2010-01-06T13:27:00.000-08:00

I was the first one to awake on Boxing day. I was always the first one to wake up on the boat for some reason. I would step over bodies, making my way up to the deck and my favorite spot on the boat-- the hammock-- to watch the sun rise over the Caribbean. I loved that quiet moment. There were so many bodies on board, and several of them quite loud, that this time before they all woke up became my favorite time of day. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would just drift through my thoughts. Kathryn was frequently the second one up and we dove into the sea, swam to the island, and walked around it to take in any and every aspect of it.

By the time we swam back to the boat everyone else was up and coffee was being served. Dennis immediately poured the last of a bottle of rum into his. This is when I realized that my captain would be in some state of perpetual intoxication at all times in our days to come. I do think he lays off a bit when he actually sails though.

Mode of operation on Dennis´s boat is pleasure. There´s swimming, snorkeling, eating, drinking, partying in any and every way. At around noon we set sail for a new island, one Dennis had never been to before.

This was my day of raging heartburn. My malaria medication is extremely acidic, so you´re not to take it before laying down. I´ve obeyed this so far, but on this morning I tried to swallow it without water to wash it down. Just too lazy to go get a glass of water. I will never do that again. I was uncomfortable for the entire day and the day following. Add this to 50+ raging sand fly bites and there´s a high level of physical discomfort. So I took it easy and stayed on board while the crew took the pathetic dinghy, which is practically like swimming, to shore. I watched this group of youths circled around Dennis and thought what a life he has! Always moving in the center of a different group of vibrant young people on their way from and to great adventures. Always making new young friends and setting himself up as the ringleader. He does his best to make this sailing trip a Great Adventure, and I´ve got to say that it is a very different experience than I believe a lot of people get when they pay for this particular trip. I´m very lucky in that respect. He´s always up for anything fun and is reckless enough to try anything.

The sunset this day was particularly beautiful. I witnessed it from the hammock, the water and sky was infused with vibrant orange. Schools of flying fish sped past the boat-- I can´t believe how far they go above the water!

The next day was finally the day for the previous crew of the boat to set off for Panama City. Dennis set out in the morning to take care of everyone´s passports at Porvenir, and the crew lazed about waiting for his return... for hours. This is typical with Dennis. He gets distracted. And you never know where he is or what he is doing. All you can do is wait for him to get back. I was actively refusing to feel anxious about all the time steadily marching by as we sat in the water. I think everyone had given up on his getting back in time for them to get to Panama that day when he finally arrived at 3ish. The crew was really reticent to depart, some of them had grown very attached to the boat. Kathryn, Lani, and Joe were definitely sad to see them go. But I really enjoy small groups of people as opposed to a giant party, so I was kind of glad.

Our plan was to sail to Sapzurro, just across the border into Colombia, where Dennis and his partner, Captain Jack, had set up a new hostel. This is where Kathryn was heading, as she will be working at the hostel for a couple of months at least. We would spend New Year's there, followed by our sail to Cartagena, Colombia.

Dennis decreed there was a storm and we should not set out til morning. I never saw the storm, but as there was no rush to get to Sapzurro because of the imminent holiday I didn´t mind too much. Some friends arrived, and I´ve got to say that Dennis's friends are always an... interesting... group.

The next morning we set sail. And, dear readers, I loved being on a sailboat. But I do not love sailing. I don´t get motion sickness. Ever. But sailing is a completely different story. On a scale of calm sailing to rollicking sailing, 1-10, we were at 6 or 7 the first day. It was a 28 hour trip to Sapzurro, and I slept for the entire journey! I still can´t believe it. Granted, at the beginning I took one anti-seasickness pill, and those just knock you out. But it couldn´t have lasted for that long. I´ve never slept so much in my life. I just kept waking up, looking at the clock, and rolling over to doze and then sleep again. You see, the secret to avoiding or treating seasickness is to lie down. For some reason it helps a LOT. And the rocking of the boat eventually rocks you to sleep.

I don´t believe Dennis slept at all during the journey.

At this point, completing the journey to Cartagena, another 30 hour sail, does not sound in the least appealing.

All at sea III

2010-01-06T12:36:00.000-08:00

Walking through this Kuna-filled island is surreal. It is the most legitimately indigenous place I have been. San Blas won´t be this way for long. In 5-10 years I think it will be completely different, completely touristy. So I feel so lucky to have been able to experience it before this explosion of gringos alters everything. Glen is particular friends with a Kuna, Hector, who lives on this island. Most backpackers don´t come here, so wandering through the sugarcane huts I don´t see any other gringos. The Kuna women are often gathered together, sewing Molas which they will either wear or sell, or beading bracelets to wear or sell. I love the beads, wrapped into patterns on their calves and forearms. They use very old Singer sewing machines, the kind you crank as you sew, or simply sew by hand. I walk through, greeting everyone with the typical 'Buenas', being answered in a chorus of 'Buenas' in return. Children are especially eager to be acknowledged.

I am thrilled to stumble upon a museum, run by a Kuna man. The sugar cane hut contains many carvings and paintings depicting the myths and legends of the Kuna people, in addition to countless branches, shells, animal skulls, knick-knacks. Lani and I listen, Lani translating his spanish for me because there is much that I still don´t pick up.

The Kuna are a matriarchal society. Their god is a Mother Nature or Mother Earth, essentially. She gave birth in the beginning of time to two sons and two daughters, who in turn spawned humanity. There are a few legends vaguely similar to Noah´s Ark and the Tower of Babel, there was a dark time when humanity was destroyed and then created again. Albinos are considered sacred. There is a legend of an eclipse, when sickness surged in the Kuna people. An Albino saved the day by shooting an arrow at the moon, fighting off the dragon that was eating it, and as the moon came back the sickness retreated. Whenever there is an eclipse now, only albinos are allowed out, and they continue to defend the people and the moon by shooting at it. The Kuna are a fiercely close group, in the 20's they went through their population, killing anyone of mixed race so that they would be a pure people. Everyone stays on the island where they are born, though men move in with their wives when they marry, so there may be a change of location at that time. In the 20's, I believe, the Panamanian government tried to destroy the culture, attacking and suppressing the Kuna. Apparently the US backed the Kuna up and saved the day. Now the San Blas islands are the realm of the Kuna, and only Kuna can live there.

We were there as the Kuna were preparing for their annual naming ceremony, when they name girls, 7 years of age, their special Kuna name. Kuna men don´t get this ceremony.

Joe finally found us, his motorcycle transported in a launch to Porvenir, apparently the first time a motorocyle had been on the island. We made dinner on Glen´s boat and fell asleep on the deck underneath the stars.

At this point the knot of stress and anxiety in my stomach about money had dissipated somewhat. I really didn´t like how expensive the sailing trip was. And the fact that all this uncertainty surrounded it. We had no clue where Dennis was, when or where he would pick us up, when exactly we would get to Cartagena. I was also worried about time as I need to be in Cusco on the 24th for the Inca Trail. But I needed to get to Colombia, so I was roped into this sailing trip no matter what, and all I could do was release my negative feelings to enjoy the moment. San Blas made that easier. It is many people´s picture of paradise, it is tranquil, it is fascinating. Being on a sailboat, bobbing out in the sea, disconnected from land and the rest of humanity, is pretty relaxing. I was really happy.

The 4 of us spent Christmas morning and afternoon on the beach of Porvenir. Beer o'clock arrived quite early for many, and the general atmosphere was easy and content. Our radio and phone calls to Dennis continued to no avail, though none of us were worried. We sent word with someone heading to Chichime that if they should see Dennis, to tell him we were waiting for him at Porvenir. And finally our boat sailed in.

Captain Dennis. Maybe 50 years old. Blonde, unkempt hair, scruffy chin, potbelly. The reference 'Captain Ron' seems to work for a lot of people. He is, essentially, an overgrown child. Though at times his intelligence definitely emerges, he could be a very smart man if he wasn´t drunk so much of the time and giving in to self-righteous or childish indulgences. He is unpredictable. He is loco. He says one thing today which very well may change by tomorrow morning. You can´t pin him down, and it´s difficult to get a straight answer out of him. I felt completely confident in his technical abilities as a captain. He is very perceptive of what other people feel towards him. For most of the trip I just accepted who he was and how he functioned. It makes life easier and more fun. But I did, in the end, become thoroughly frustrated with him. For most of the trip I recognized that ultimately he´s a good one, he´s got a good heart and really does try to do right by people. But sometimes his own indulgent tendencies overshadow this. He is a complete character. He´s had a girlfriend for a number of years, Negrita, who is half his age and pregnant with twins. He talks about her all the time. He loves to lecture.

I was happy to be on the boat, to be, seemingly, on my way. I am always happy to be on the move, to be forging ahead into new territory. This is one of my faults as a traveler, I have a difficult time enjoying where I am, thinking too much about where I need to go. This has only increased as my Inca Trail date draws ever closer. Things would definitely be different if I wasn´t roped into Cusco at a specific date.

As we sail through this world of blue, I can´t believe I could have missed this. It was another moment when I knew that any of those hardships were worth this moment, this experience. I can´t believe Sarah left and missed it. I can´t believe she´s missed a lot of things. I know she doesn´t know what she´s missing, but I do. And I can´t help but feel a little smug about it. My Christmas surpassed my wildest dreams, I was so, so happy with my life.

Chichime is paradisical. Perfect waters for swimming, perfect beaches, a couple of Kuna families who sell a few necessities. The crew Dennis had brought up from Colombia were waiting for us there. 3 Swedish boys, 2 Quebecoise girls, a Mexican guy, and an American guy. It was a very full boat for the few days before we dropped them off at Porvenir to continue on our way back to Colombia.

We made dinner of Wahu fish and pesto pasta, and everyone drank a lot. Lani´s bottle of rum was put on the table and disappeared within 20 minutes I believe. Everyone was merry, vibrant, happy. I sat with Kathryn, Joe, and Lani, and couldn´t believe how smashingly my Christmas had turned out.

And it finished with some skinny dipping into the clear, warm, night waters of the Caribbean.

Beautifully written companion to my Colombian coffee

2010-01-06T11:11:00.001-08:00

All at sea II

2010-01-05T19:28:00.001-08:00

At my 3rd hostel in Panama City, I met

Lani. Australian. Glasses and curly hair. So easy going it´s ridiculous. Such a warm, open, friendly heart. Teaches English as a foreign language to immigrants coming to Australia. Loved her life, and cut right out at the pinnacle to travel for an indefinite time in Central and South America. Hoping to teach English here. Makes friends easier than almost anyone I know. No one can fail to respond to the openness and goodness that radiate from her. Apparently rolls the best joints ever.

We girls hit up the grocery store to stock up on necessities for the trip.

Headed out at 5 AM. The trip was gorgeous as the sun rose, but I couldn´t for the life of me keep my eyes open. I did however notice when the road turned into a river. Awesome. You have to take a 4x4 Jeep out there for a reason.

Carti is not, as I had expected, a town. It is merely a port (I think there is another Carti, on an island close by, which actually is a town). Our plans for reuniting with Joe were foiled as there wasn´t much of a way to contact him, nor a comfortable place to wait for him. The sand flies in Carti were outrageous.

Allow me to introduce you to the sand fly. Think of a mosquito. Then imagine something even worse. Something tiny, that travels and attacks in swarms. Something that actually draws blood and on which insect repellant doesn´t work. If you´ve magically predicted the presence of sand flies and kept your baby oil at hand, congratulations. (Baby oil makes your skin too slippery so they can´t get enough of a grip to bite). If not, be prepared for what, 50 bites? Probably more. And that insane itchiness lasts twice as long as a mosquito bite´s itchiness. And one sets off a horrible chain reaction to insanity. And they leave tiny scars.

I caught my first glimpse of the Kuna in Panama City. They immediately grabbed my eye as they look different. In Central America, the indigenous people tend to naturally evolve into each other in dress and general appearance. So everyone kind of blends together (this is not in any way meant as a racist statement, stop that thought right now). You can see how they´ve influenced each other over the years, you know? But the Kuna, abruptly, were different than anyone else I´d seen. In dress, bone structure and shape, behavior, certainly, as I learned, in customs and history. More of that later.

I, torturously, didn´t take any real pictures of them besides that one I nabbed on my iPhone. They charge by the dollar generally, or just don´t like it. But I wanted to take 100. So beautiful.

Carti is the gateway into the San Blas Islands, which have been given to the Kuna people. (I find it amazing that such a beautiful area, so ripe for tourism dollars, was given to an indigenous people previously disliked by the Panamanian government. My experience is that native people are generally given land that not many other people want...) There are over 400 islands, though not all of them are inhabited. Many are inhabited by one or two families in one or two huts. One of the perks in being on a private sailboat as that we got to go to islands many others don´t generally go. Imagine the perfect deserted island. That´s what every island looks like. White sands, achingly blue waters in a hundred shades, brilliant blue skies from horizon to horizon, palm trees.

After a couple hours of waiting around (I do, at this point, feel like this is one of the least touristically developed experiences or places I´ve been. I was right, and in for more of this feeling,) we finally hopped onto a launch (a motor boat driven by a Kuna man, Federico). And we sped off, Kathryn, Lani, and myself, into this world of water. This world of countless shades of blue, the distant land misting into a hazy green. The water was as placid as a lake. Yet again, I´ve never been anywhere like it. An inverted place where the ground is water, and instead of pockets of water you have pockets of land.

Our instructions, by the way, are extremely vague. We are supposed to get to Chichime, which, according to the Kuna, will take $90. No way. We opted for $5 to Porvenir where we would wait for Joe and then figure out how to get Dennis to come to us. So, things seem a little tenuous. But that doesn´t matter when you´re in such a place.

Porvenir is where the immigration office is, and where there is a small hotel and restaurant. Dennis has to come to the immigration office eventually (calls to him of course go unanswered), and the restaurant will keep us fed for as long as we wait. And the hotel has a lovely little beach, and delightful Kuna owners. Not a bad place to spend Christmas Eve. Though I can´t deny I was pretty frustrated with Dennis at this point. I figured I was paying so much for this cruise, he should be catering to me a lot more than he was. I was extremely stressed about money. That feeling tends to come and go in waves during my travels.

Kathryn recognizes a boat from when she was here before-- Glen´s sailboat. He is sailing his friend`s boat all the way up to Portland, Oregon (and looking for crew to join him!) He invites us for dinner on the boat, but beforehand we all go to Wichiwalla, the island where there is a town and little mercado shop, to look for ingredients. The Kuna live in sugarcane huts, so that´s what this little island is covered with, from shore to shore. The Kuna women are dressed traditionally in Molas (shirt), printed wrap skirt, and patterned beads covering shins and forearms. Frequently pierced noses and perhaps painted lines on forehead and nose. The men wear modern clothing. We asked why this was, the answer-- the men have to work all day and fish and bring in food, so they don´t have time to make nice traditional clothing like the women do.

We take a walk through town...

All at sea

2010-01-05T19:02:00.000-08:00

First impression of Captain Dennis-- stepping off the boat with a plastic bag full of viagra, passing them out as stocking stuffers to the local indigenous people on the tiny island of Porvenir in the islands of San Blas, Panama. I knew I was in for something... different. I wasn´t sure how I felt about it.

Back to the beginning, Portobelo. The original point of embarcation. The 23rd of December. Portobelo is a tiny, sort of creepy town which makes you feel like you are creeping around the ruins of a real-live Caribbean pirate town. Which you are. Sir Francis Drake´s body is at the bottom of the bay, in the port of Portobelo, for REALS. Portobelo has certainly seen better days. But I was so damn happy to be out of Panama City, and it really does have this decayed, eerie charm to it. It also has a black Jesus. Apparently it inspires many pilgrimages.

Joe arrived soon after I did on the 22nd, and we split a hotel room for the night. Sunset was gorgeous. He taught me how to play cribbage and we had a long conversation. Just the two of us. You can tell Portobelo is an exceedingly quiet town when you´re witnessing the town´s hot spot across the road from the one and only restaurant you´re eating at. And that hot spot is the supermercado.

Joe, as a recurring character in this story, now gets a brief description. Very tall. 6'4'' I think. Earrings in both ears. He´s kind of beautiful. He sort of looks like an overgrown, more muscular elf. There´s something dancer-like about his body, though he is definitely not a dancer. He is from Seattle, is a computer programmer I believe, and is driving his motorcycle from Seattle to Tierro del Fuego at the bottom of Argentina. Pretty much tearing that dream apart. He comes off completely confident in everything about himself. He´s smart. And can be very soulful. Unless he´s just charmed the wool over my eyes. He loves to get naked.

The next day we tried to get in touch with the captain or Kathryn, semi-organizer of this trip.

Kathryn. I met her my first day in Panama City and spent a couple of days with her in Isla Taboga. She works with Captain Dennis, for the moment anyway, and was organizing the crew for the Fantasy. Smart. Beautiful. Charms the hell out of every boy she comes across because she doesn´t seem to give a shit about anything anybody else thinks about her. Is a bit of a lush. Ascerbic wit. Sarcastic. Has been through a lot and is enjoying the hell out of life now. I would say that is currently her M.O. Originally from Texas, until recently lived in Brooklyn. Worked with NGOs. Photographer. She´s the kind of person that will pick you up something from the store when you didn´t ask for it. Staying in Sapzurro, Colombia, working at Dennis´s new hostel. Will almost certainly get up to trouble there. Gets a thrill from speedos and being called `The Help`.

Joe and I meandered around town as we waited for someone to return our emails. Our only instructions had been to show up in Portobelo, and we´d take off in the evening. Rather vague, but that´s Central America for you. We had mystery breakfast for $1. I was assured there was no meat, but mystery breakfast turned out to be two hotdogs and two pieces of fried dough. Dog food it is. I poked into the old cemetery where literally everything was falling apart. Bones opened up to the elements.

Received the frustrating news that we had gone to Portobelo for nothing. We had to go back to Panama City to go up to Carti on a $25 jeep ride. More money, more time, more effort. This better be worth it.

Sneaking a picture of some Kuna women

2010-01-03T20:49:00.001-08:00

Still safe

2010-01-02T06:26:00.000-08:00

I've been out of reach of the Internet, in fact I think it may be a
small miracle if this goes through, but I am still safe and sound.
Just still on this blasted boat! I've been worrying that you may be
worrying-- some difficulties with irresponsible captain. Hopefully on
my way soon... But safe anyway!

Sent from my iPhone

Portobelo-- kicking myself I wasn't carrying my camera for this beauitful sunset on ruined ramparts last night

2009-12-23T14:00:00.001-08:00

Just finished in time for Colombia

2009-12-23T13:59:00.001-08:00

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

2009-12-23T06:31:00.000-08:00

Hopefully I will be on a sailboat tonight on the Caribbean to the San Blaas islands, and then on to Cartagena, Colombia! So you may not hear from me for 5 or so days.

On the other hand, this trip seems rather disorganized and I just heard the possibility that we won´t be embarking until the 26th, so maybe you will hear from me...

BUT keep all fingers crossed that I will, indeed, be embarking tonight. Because if I have to wait any longer to get to Colombia I may just implode.

I am so so so so so so so happy to be out of Panama City. I am in Portobelo now, a very very small town, with ruins of forts that make you feel like you just stepped into Pirates of the Caribbean. Indeed, this town had quite a hard time with pirates back in the day.

Merry Christmas!

Happy Anniversary Sar-- I mean, myself!

2009-12-21T14:41:00.000-08:00

So here I am, month 2 anniversary. Casco Viejo in Panama City. Well, I think month 1 beat month 2, but I have very high hopes for month 3 as I head into South America.

-sped through El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua
-fell in love with Costa Rica
-hitched 2 long, free rides, and 1 short one
-lots of relaxation time (not my forte)
-within 6 feet of poisonous snake, 20 monkeys various times, raccoons, large exotic butterflies, sloths
-saw the elusive quetzal. I don't care a fig about this but everybody else in Monteverde seemed to
-read 4 books and so many pages of my Rough Guide
-hiked through Monteverde cloud forest
-hiked up Cerro Amigos in Santa Elena (I don't think I ever blogged about this, but it was an hour and a half hike that was all the steepest incline you can imagine without it being steps. I was pretty proud of myself. From the top I could see all the way to the Pacific! I also discovered that my favorite form of entertainment while hiking is to sing along to anything that comes up on the shuffle mode in my iPod. That includes pop, instrumental soundtracks, musicals, alternative, jazz. As loud as I generally would in a car. I am really glad I didn't meet anyone else on my way up there, because yes, I would have been exceedingly embarrassed. But it was great fun. I am so cool.)
-hiked to San Luis Falls
-hiked to those awesome falls in Montezuma and jumped off
-Fell in love with my name. If I had a drop of Latin blood in me, I would insist that my name be pronounced in the states like it is pronounced here. I. Love. It.
-Pacific Ocean! Again and again and again...
-two of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen
-one of the most dramatic days I've ever lived (top 10)
-met a Tico boy I really liked
-surprised myself
-broke up with my best friend
-was buoyed up by surge of love from family and friends
-spent WAY TOO LONG in Panama City
-snuck into a national park
-developed an absurd tan

Tomorrow I am off to Portobelo from where my boat for the San Blaas islands and Cartagena, Colombia embarks the next day! This waiting is KILLING me. I've heard that San Blaas is paradise and that I will never want to leave Colombia. Let the good times roll!

Open up your plans and, damn, you´re free

2009-12-18T17:56:00.000-08:00

Kathryn and I took off for Isla Taboga for the last two days. We are basically just treading water until the 23rd when we´re off on our cruise, though of course trying to fill these days up rather than wasting precious time.

Isla Taboga is an island south of Panama City. It´s where a lot of locals go for the weekends. It´s a very small island, tiny town, and one beach that gets swallowed up in the tides as the day goes by. Very calm, pretty, nice getaway. I swam, sunbathed, snorkelled, read, got stung by jellyfish. We meandered around looking for a cheap place to spend the night and ended up in this guy´s house basically. He has a few rooms I think only Panamanians generally use. I´m not going to say it´s the sketchiest place I´ve ever stayed, because I didn´t feel at all in danger. I guess I´ll say the poorest. Really nice people. As always.

Staying in this town overnight was great. The island is off the backpacker´s trail, and definitely way off at night when all the day-trippers have returned on the afternoon ferry. It felt like a more ´legitimate´experience.

We took a walk through town during the sunset and happened upon the island´s graveyard. The graveyards down here all look like little towns because tombs are built above ground. There are many, many flowers, especially now when it´s not too long after the Day of the Dead. There was a door cut out of the back wall, and leaning out we saw maybe 5 old coffins thrown out back there amidst piles of old and rotting artificial flowers. We think there may have been bodies in those coffins. And there were definitely bones in one of the tombs that was falling apart.

We sat by the waves, eating dinner and looked at the stars, water, and long line of ships waiting to get into the Panama Canal. I loved looking at that line of ships, perfectly qued up along the horizon, all lit up throughout the night. The line was always long.

Meandering home after dinner, we heard singing, and all of a sudden every single person who lived in that town turned the corner. They were parading through the town singing Christmas songs. So we tagged along the end. Everyone ended up parading through one house where they were given a drink, a muffin, and a bag of snacks. We of course tried to politely decline, and they of course pressed them upon us. That was a lovely, unexpected experience.

We spent today on the beach again, though talked a bit with a German doctor who invited us back to his place on the island for coffee, and then he gave us a ride almost back to our hostel back in the city. We have two places on that island we could stay at for free now if we wanted.

So. I am feeling pretty content. Being here right now beats being back in NYC right now any day. On the launch back to the city, Kathryn turned to me and said Aren´t you so glad you´re alive right now? Yes. Overwhelmingly yes. I am not saying it´s not hard, but I am saying I am back to having the time of my life. I am so excited to get on my way, and to get to Colombia. I can´t believe I have to wait til Thursday! The journey there sounds genuinely wonderful. I am so glad I am spending Christmas out on the open sea. That is perfect. And South America is just waiting for me.

P.S. Kathryn knows this guy who is taking a boat up the coast all the way to Oregon. Planning on making it there by August. She thought she could hook me up as crew. It was hard to say no to that.