Small Victories: Lost & Found

                                      

Kathryn and I walk past stalls selling scarves and candles, superfluous hats (the Bedazzler has made it to Hungary in a big way.  Rhinestones and sequins sparkle on everything.  Thanks, Globalization!).  Christmas lights twinkle and clouds move quick-quick in the hazy evening light.  Beyond stalls of Palinka and sausages, I spot a familiar rainbow of color.  I don't even say hello.  "Eres de Peru?"

Yes.  Yes!  A Peruvian in Szeged at the Christmas market.  Whaaaat?  Victor and I speak easily in Spanish, reminiscing about Peru.  A little bit of my heart is there; just a chunk.  I feel the piece of it missing when I see chullos and speak Spanish.  It aches like a hole anxious to be filled.  It is a gentle gnawing turned ravenous.

                                     

I tell Victor that my Peruvian friend John is living in Vienna and might be visiting me, and I will bring him here to the market, so they can connect the way only paisanos can.  John and Victor are both so far from home, from a place that feels a little bit like my home, my Peru.

I miss Peru in a way that says, Don't worry, I know it aches, but you will go back.  I miss Peru because in Peru you say "Buenas dias" when you pass people on the street in the morning.  Here, the custom is to avoid the other person's gaze, or at the very least, return their gaze sternly.

I walk down the street and smile slightly at a tight-lipped old fat man with ruddy cheeks, who looks like he is thinking "Remain your composure!  Remain your composure!" and I burst into laughter after he passes.

Living in a foreign country feels like never getting the joke, but we all know that even when we don't get the joke, we still laugh.

So here I am, laughing.

Or, crying.

It depends, really.

                                                                                                                     

                                             
                                       

Week one of teaching is over.  I have taught 13 different classes in three different schools.  I have played more Pictionary this week than I have ever played in my life.  When I tell the students I am from California, the girls squeal.  They seem most interested in my least favorite aspects of America: Justin Beiber, fast food, Twilight.  The girls ask if I have seen Twilight, and I can tell they are about to judge the hell out of me.  I say I have not, and for now, I am safe.  

I teach a lesson about giving advice, and Twilight comes up again.

Me: I have a problem.  My boyfriend is angry with me.  What should I do?
Lacus (pronounced Lohtzi): Maybe he does not want to watch the Twilight.
Lacus, I tell him, I have never even seen Twilight.  Can we just get that straight?
Smiling he puts two hands up, Ok, ok, sorry.
We're good, but I suspect the girls are pissed.

They also give me advice about things to do and see in Szeged.  "Do you like China food?"  ... "Go to Karazs square, there is McDonalds."  ... "I think you like go cinema."

                               


I am determined not be the loud awkward Amerikai, but my life here is a series of fumbles.

I get lost nearly everywhere I go.  When I am being kind to myself, I call it wandering, but after a few hours of "wandering" with frozen carrot fingers and shaking legs, tears from the cold and utter exhaustion and desperation of not knowing how to get home, I can no longer sugarcoat it.  With numb and naked fingers or clumsy gloved hands, I fumble for the keys.  It is a victory when I make it into the apartment.

It is a victory when I make it to the school on time, when I catch a bus (and when it's the right bus!) (and when I get off at the right stop!), when no one in class puts their heads on their desk to feign sleeping.  Do you mind if we consider it a victory that they are pretend-sleeping and not actually taking naps?

                            

Lots of small victories.  It seems fitting, in this small country which has had so much suffering, whose suffering you can see in the blocks of housing and on the faces.

May we all celebrate our victories today, big or small, and may we please, please, please, let go of anything we consider to be a failure.  Including, but not limited to, a particular English lesson.

It is what it is.  It was what it was.  And it will be what it will be.

Blessings come in all forms.  Like this morning, when I was running late to a new school for my first day of classes, I wasn't sure how to get to the school from the bus stop.  I spotted a young boy wearing a backpack at the vegetable stand.  "Luthos? Eskola?"  He gave me directions in Hungarian.  I questioned with gestures.  He ran closer to the cart said something to the guys at the stand, then gestured for me to come with him.  We talked to each other, even though we couldn't understand, and he led the way to school.

He found me later, while I was clearing out of a classroom.  "Jessi!" he said, his smile coy and knowing.  "Tomas!"  I grinned.

And then I found him at the bus stop.

Rubbing my tummy, I asked him how to say "I am hungry" in Hungarian, and he shoved his baguette toward me, his eyes at once growing and pointed with concern.

He gets off the bus, and I wave as he turns around to look at me, on my way to Szeged, to my home.  I am on the right bus.  I am in the right place.

Slowly and suddenly, I look around and know -- I am not so lost.

Thanksgiving and things to come

Part one: Chicago.

Exploring the city, I am a tourist-in-training. I stop to take countless pictures, wander aimlessly, happy to be lost amidst all the architecture.

The library.

Statues that caught my eye.

The city as seen through "the bean."

Color-changing brick and city-scape.

And then, Part two: Thanksgiving with my brothers, Steven and Tommy, and Matt.

the menu:

Apple-tofurkey stuffing with homemade rosemary bread

Garlic mashed potatoes with broccoli coulis

Buffalo Brussel Sprouts (deep fried deliciousness)

Pumpkin Soup

Deep Greens warm salad with cranberries and cumin

Homemade cranberry sauce

Kale chips

And for desert, pumpkin and apple pies and a warm mulled wine.

Pumpkin soup and kale chips in the making.

Homemade cranberry sauce.

Lady Guadalupe watches over our table.

Buffalo Brussel Sprouts and spicy dipping sauce.

Tommy's plate (photo: Tommy Jackson)

And after the extravagance of Thanksgiving, a simpler meal: gluten-free pasta with balsamic-glazed brussell sprouts and basil with a side of braised turnips.

Part three: Hungary.

My plane takes off in a matter of hours.

I have a lot, as always, to be thankful for.

The next time I write I will be 8 hours ahead of myself, in a new apartment, city, and country.

Am I prepared?

I like to think so.

Although, the only Hungarian words I know by heart are apple, berry, and no.

So on the plus side, I can say this: "No apple-berry!"

I bet you can imagine the downside.

But my plane ride is 15 hours long, so baby, I've got time.

Cheers, guys. See you on the other side.

Guadalupe Bits and Pieces

Marjorie and me. I look pretty pink in the first one, but check out her peace sign. It's her favorite pose. Isn't she cute as a button?



FUERZA-G
Watching Force-G, the guinea pig movie, with Christopher (9), who is watching intently, and Marjorie (4), who is also watching, but not very quietly. She exclaims to me, "Mira, un cuy! Miiiiira, dos cuys! Estan saltando!!!!!"

Chris growls intermittently, tells her "callate!", shhhs her. She shhh-es him back, just as seriously, a small finger to her lips.

After about five minutes of this, Chris puts a hand against his forehead and asks, "Jessica, do you have any aspirin?"

"Why do you need aspirin?" I ask him.

"Because Marjorie keeps talking and it's giving me a headache."

"No, I don't have an aspirin," I tell him.

"Well do you know where one is?" he asks.

"At the pharmacy!" Marjorie chimes in helpfully.

He growls, and sighs, before yelling at her: "Maaarjoriee, caaaallate!"

-----

"I have to go downstairs," says Marjorie.

"Why?" I ask.

"The cuy have long nails. I am scared."

Chris and I both tell her they have tiny nails, it's okay.

A cuy is on the screen. She points to it, eyes wide and mouth open, "Ya ves? (you see?)"

We are shaking our heads and I am trying not to laugh at her four year old fears because it's not nice or respectful, but it's difficult.

Her head burrows into my chest, before it peeks out to inform us, "And their teeth! They have big teeth, verdad?" She tells me to open my mouth, adds her fingers to my teeth, demonstrating the length.

"Cuy are tiny! And cute!" Chris tells her.

But Marjorie is not convinced. She scampers out of the room.

THE CEMETERY
We walk to the cemetery on Tuesday, three different generations. The kids run around the cemetery, which is different from any other I have seen. Nothing is buried in the ground, there is no green grass or ordered lines of crosses. Instead, it is crumbly and reminds me of bird houses. Some of the graves are in gated rooms, big enough for families to gather inside in rememberance. There are elaborate tombstones and statues, standing proud on platforms. The kids climb on them and no one admonishes them. The women share the flowers they have purchased from the stand outside (roses, rosemary, babies breath) and touch two fingers to each graveplace, then crossing themselves. Tears gather in tired eyes and the kids ask to see "Tia" or "Abuelita." They are sober, but there is still a lightness that exists.




ENGLISH LESSONS
I teach Marjorie how to say "thank you" (or, shank you, as she says it) and "you're welcome" but she uses them at all the wrong times. The kids' favorite phrase is "Oh my god!" which they pronounce the way religious kids spell it, "Ohmygaw!" Stefania's cousin taught her "mouse poopies" when what he really meant to teach her was "boca de caca" or in English something like poop-mouth. I go so far as to let her know mouse means ratoncito and mouth means boca, but after that she's on her own.


THE 3 SOL HAIRCUT
After 5 months, I finally got my hair cut. In Guadalupe. For the equivelant of 1 US dollar. It looks great. Probably one of the best hair cuts I've gotten and my first experience with side-bangs. I was nervous to get a haircut in Peru because many friends have recounted their haircut disasters: uneven sides or having way too much cut off. Alice took me to her friend's mom's house, where you sit in her living room/hair salon on a rolly office chair and she does her work. I was scared, but I just kept breathing and smiling and envisioning a flattering, beautiful haircut while I sat in the office chair, and guess what, it happened! It's longer than it looks in this picture.




AND THE HOUSE ALWAYS SMELLS LIKE IT'S RISING
Cholo, Mama Juani's son, has a bakery underneath the house. Even three floors up you can smell the bread and yeast, activating, rising, baking. The smell is comforting, nourishing and soft like the dough the bread is made of. We eat the bread, crisp on the outside and chewy in the middle, with eggs, olives, avocado, butter, and tea. At each meal we have canela and clavo (cinnamon and clove) tea. I have a fondness for canela y clavo. We eat plates of rice and delicious salads, duck and chicken and carne. Fried bananas (which I love), fresh-squeezed and blended fruit juice, soups and cancho (a type of corn that is baked until it is crunchy and seasoned), ceviche. Alice (Raul's daughter, who lives in Olympia but is here for the summer) and I talk about foods we miss; mashed potatoes, we both agree. The next day, for lunch, Sonia (Alice's mom) made them for us. What a sweetheart. I am lucky.


SEWING CIRCLES
The women sit in the living room, embroidering pillow cases with butterflies and roses while telanovelas (their stories) play. I try an follow the plot, but it's difficult. Sonia offers to teach me how to embroider. I might take her up on it tomorrow, but what I really want to learn is how to cook. These women have such huge souls, mama, caring and open. There are always family members or friends in the house, at the table. The saying mi casa es tu casa is alive here. They share their table, extra beds and rooms, smiles, joy, and laughter. Peru has a very "invitame" culture, from "invitame una cerveza" to "you are invited into my house." The doors at the Ramirez house are, literally, always a bit open. Maybe this is because of the Guadalupe heat, but I like to think they have other reasons.

THIS IS WHAT THE INSIDE OF MY HEAD SOUNDS LIKE

I am having this really rough night where I am hungry and feeling alone in my host family house, where they are talking at the dinner table or watching the news in Spanish, and I wish I was in my own house where everything and everyone belonged to me so it would be easier to talk and connect and where I could eat anything I wanted anytime I wanted but I am not, I am in this family's house and they are not mine and the food is not mine and it's probably as simple as asking for a piece of bread and it's probably as simple as, not blaming myself, not freaking out, chewing more gum (I don't have more gum), breathing. It's probably as simple as trusting and anchoring and opening, and none of those things are really that simple at all. Hmph. I need to wash my clothes and wash my hair and stop spending so much time on facebook and stop getting in the way of myself and everything. I am researching volunteer opportunities, and scholarships, and massage schools. I am conjugating verbs in my head at the dinner table and I am making small talk, sometimes successfully, but most of the time I don't say anything, I just listen to the Spanish and smile at the right moments. Did I ever tell you that whenever I am in a group setting with Spanish speakers and they are drunken or speak quickly, or both, I just smile and laugh along with everyone else? And did I ever tell you my trick, which is a pretty good one I think, where I pick the person that seems most like me or has the most similar sense of humor, and I cackle when they cackle and I smile softly when they do and I give myself a break from acting when their faces are still? I do that. This is what my life has become. Because I either feel like the biggest cheese or like an anti-social jerk. And I called John tonight, because he is one of my best Cusco friends, and he asked how I was and if everything was okay, and I said yes, me crees? (do you believe me?) and he did. It sucked. He is not supposed to believe me. He just wants everything to be okay. So do I, but here we are. I bet I'll feel better when I sleep, and tomorrow I am going to buy snacks for this exact type of emergency situation. I am reminded of my tiny cups moment in Wanchaq and I am reminding myself that I am just feeling a little bit lost and that it's okay to feel lost. It just doesn't feel good. But Pema Chodron, who is one smart lady, says, there's a common misunderstanding among all the human beings who have ever been born on the earth that the best way to live is to try to avoid pain and just try to get comfortable. Yep. I can definitely identify with that right now. Still not sure what I'm doing, exactly, but I don't think I'm going to stay in Guadalupe much longer. Internet-researching, listening, intention-setting, rinse and repeat.

PS PS PS PS PS

I keep forgetting to tell you, but Huaraz had a yogurt course at their local institution!! Why didn't I stay and do that? Do you think Evergreen would have awarded me credit? Hahahahahahahaha.

Also, I am thinking about: massage school, aromatherapy, breitenbush, earth ovens and earth houses, social justice, activism, energy work, reiki training, panama, volunteer opportunities, kids, jobs, teaching english, gum, water, the water crisis, carlos, cusco, streets, kids on the streets, sustainable change, intentions, goals, connection, abby, meditation, centering, stretching, sleep.

It is one of those nights. I am all over the place. I am also centered, envisioning my energy rooting itself into the earth. It is funny how plants can grow abundantly and wildly, and their roots stay grounded. I feel like that right now. Grounded and sprawling and growing. It's neat.

That's all!

Cajamarca

On Sunday I went to Cajamarca with Rosita, Emily, and Pierre. Cajamarca is a gorgeous town in the sierras, and we stayed with Berta, Telmo, and family. We went to two birthday parties, a get-together for a zany family friend, two movies (the Knowing and Loca Por las Compras), Baños del las Incas (hot springs piped into separate bathing rooms), and a Grupo 5 concert. I didn't see any ruins. I was far too busy passing cusqueños around at family events and feeling awkward.

The bread in Cajamarca is really delicious. I can't quite explain why; you'll just have to trust me. I put cream cheese and strawberry jam on it in the mornings. Do you know how long it has been since I have had cream cheese? Months! And it was glorious.

I am learning how to dance the cumbia! Pierre is a super dancer, like, I mean, a really super dancer, so at the Grupo 5 concert I stole him away from Emily when I could and we got our cumbia on. It's on my list, learning salsa and cumbia, so it's nice to work (on) it when I can.

Sometimes I feel like I am really bad at "plugging in" with families, or being a host kid, or smiling and being polite, appropriate, interested but not too interested, not too cheesy, and myself.

There are over 25 people (including kids) at the Guadalupe house, and I feel kind of guilty for not connecting with them right now, but my batteries need a recharge. It's 12:24 and I don't think anyone is sleeping. Maybe I'm having trouble connecting because I don't think I will be here for very long. Maybe I am over-thinking things. Probably. I don't need to worry because I am this genuine whole person who is kind of funny and nice and people can like me, or not, and we can connect, or not, and the world will go on spinning.

I have noticed I have a bit of an oral fixation lately. I am always chewing gum, which feels nice when I am anxious. Last night I had a sucker, which was a great experience. It's a good thing to keep the body busy when the monkey mind is overactive. Maybe I should stretch. Yoga > suckers.

Still setting intentions. Writing them, saying them, praying them. I believe in intentions, although it's sometimes hard to release them, and only when you release the attachment will they manifest. I also believe in releasing, which is also sometimes difficult, if you would like to know.

Guadalupe

I'm in Guadalupe, staying with Raul's (my professor) family. The town is somewhere between 8 and 20 thousand, or so they tell me. No one knows exactly. His family is fun, welcoming, and warm. Rosita and Juanita do most of the cooking, which is amazing. I am spoiled. There is another Evergreen student here, Emily. She is also doing travel writing and volunteering, and this is her second time in Guadalupe. We're going to Cajamarca tomorrow for a big festival. In Peru, there is always a big festival. Emily, Pierre (her boyfriend and also part of the Raul family), Rosita, and myself are going. I'm not sure if I can afford to stay here in Guadalupe, but I am looking into it because so far the town and the people seem really lovely. It's small, and calm, and meets my standard for markets (fruit and otherwise).

What else? Stressing about money, not having enough of it, not being able to afford the homestay, or lots of traveling, not finding a job. Feeling poorly because I am not supporting myself right now, because I can't support myself right now. When will I be able to? I am blessed because I have a super-supportive family, financially and otherwise, and I know hoping for a money tree is pushing it, but maybe a small shrub?

I have a little bit over a year left until I have enough credits for my BA. For some reason I thought I had less time. Guess not.

I keep getting calls from boys I know in Cusco, asking when I'm coming back, asking me to come back, saying, "Jessiquita, quiero que tu vuelvas!" I want you to come back. Jessiquita. Over the top? Not for Peruvian men.

My new favorite song is "Pasame la Botella" by Macha & Daddy.

And it's time for a hair-cut.

Trujillo

Trujillo is balmy palm trees and white-gray skies. I sip 7-up from a glass bottle with a straw and take a sweaty nap in my hostel with my hiking boots on.

Too many men are cat-calling, telling me hallo in heavily accented English, buenas dias chica linda. The tour guide who tells me all about my options kisses me too close to my mouth.

If I have to see another Plaza de Armas (main square) I might puke. If I have to eat in another menu I might puke. And the next dude to whistle at me is getting punched in the nose.

The End.

P.S. The cutest seven year old in the world (dark lashes, black plastic wrist watch, cowlick, sober expression) is playing Grand Theft Auto in the internet cabin next to mine and it is slowly, but surely, breaking my heart.

Soil

Today as I was walking in Huaraz, a lady was working in her garden and as I passed I got a big whiff of soil. Upon smelling it, I missed Yachats, which always smells of ocean, pine trees, dirt, and earth. Dirt smells like sustenance, nourishment, vitamin and mineral, potential, and growth. Sometimes I wonder how much longer I'll really keep traveling, if I'll make it to December, or if I'll feel pulled to come home sooner. For now, there are only small tugs, and I feel that I still have work to do here, in the present, where I am. Which is South America.

Taking off for Trujillo tonight. I've been looking into free volunteer opportunities, so we'll see what comes of it. I would love to work with kids, even though lately even the sight of a cute kid is enough to make me weepy. What's this all about?

Filling out a Peace Corp application.

That's all.

Huaraz

Here I am in a mountain town in the Andes. Snow-capped peaks skirt the dusty town center, which is humble, and grew on me pretty fast. The effects of the altitude, though not as high as Cusco, are definitely noticeable. I am staying in a 15 sole a night hostel, which doesn´t include breakfast, but does include a private room. It´s been great to recharge. Tonight I´m going out to a bar called 13 buhos (13 owls) which should be a good time. It´s been awhile since I´ve gone out dancing, and the last time I went out I went alone, and ended up finding amazing people. People keep telling me how freeing it is to travel by yourself, and sometimes I can´t help but feel more lonely than free, but I am reminding myself of how blessed I am. People also tell me about wearing my money belt, and being careful as not to get harrassed, robbed, ripped off, taken in or taken out. I am definitely practicing, living, and learning discernment and good judgment, but I am also practicing some other things. Like trust, and having faith in humanity. It´s worked out for me so far, to be a safe, smart, trusting traveler. I listen to my body, which is pretty smart, although incidentally in high-altitude towns if you tell me to ¨trust my gut¨ I will burst out in laughter and then I might burst out in something else entirely. :)

I get more comments and whistles on the streets here than I did in Cusco. Maybe this is because in Cusco there were more grings to choose from, and my ratio was better, or maybe this is a sign of what´s to come further north. I´m not sure, but we´ll see. So far the dudes have been using a combination of blanca, flaca, and chica. The first couple of times I just breathe and walk on by, but by the fifth old creepy dude, I am silent and scowling. Overall the people here in Huaraz have been super nice and helpful. It´s so funny to me that now I am always classifying people and their behavior, attitude, etc. with where they are from, much more-so than I would do in the states. From an anthropological standpoint, how much does where we are from shape us? What about the culture of where we are from? The lifestyles and the customs.

Stayed in a lovely hostel in Miraflores, Lima. It was super-comfortable, the owners and staff were fun and friendly, and they had a clean equipped kitchen, two computers with internet, two tvs with cable, hot-ish water, couches, and breakfast that included a fruit of your choice! I keep toying with the idea of opening a hostel. It would be fun, and challenging, and you would get to meet people from all over and be a part of their journey. I keep thinking my mother hen self would thrive in this situation, where I could give people advice and answer their questions about their travels. I am also becoming a hostel expert. I would have lots of hooks in the bathrooms (so your clothes don´t get soaked) and a bountiful book exchange. I would have a patio and a guitar and a breakfast with a little somethin´more than bread and jam. It could, one day, be sweet.

We´ll see. I´m off to take pictures of the mountain sunset and find dinner. I hope this finds you enjoying your summer, wherever you are!

jESS

ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE!

The other night I made a list of things I want to do in my life/in Peru/in my travels. It included things like, go to a soccer game, pick fruit off a tree, and cook a traditional meal. Last night John came over and we made a delicious vegetable quinoa soup and the best mashed potatoes I have eaten in my life (okay, in Peru.) Apparently we´re making rocoto relleno on Saturday. Talk about a send-off.

I´m learning new words and local slang all of the time. Lechuga, for instance, means both lettuce and frigid. Amargo, which means bitter, is used for both flavor and people. I´m entertaining the idea of learning another language, but my hands are pretty full. Some hip French people were at the hostel for awhile, and listening to their French was entrancing. Or maybe it was my flu medication. On another note, more annoying travelers have arrived at my hostel. One American talked about Africa as being, ¨As real as it gets.¨ I don´t know what that means; do you? Do you think he does? The real-as-it-gets dude has scruffy facial hair and one eye that droops closed. Over breakfast, he harrasses the Frenches about their travel plans (¨journeys¨), and gives sage advice that only a wise, experienced, and enlightened traveler could. The French seem amused, but I suspect otherwise and would love to make some kind of snide remark, like, wasn´t that dude from this morning pretentious? but I keep my mouth shut. You never can tell who is on your side...

Another Frenchie arrived last night. I offered him soup, which he drank from a coffee mug. He is an incredibly cocky bastard, with big ears, scruffy hair, and eyebrows that don´t stop dancing. He back-seat operates the remote control, and chats non-stop. John whispers to me that his slang, mannerisms, and attitude are all very ¨Argentina.¨ Maybe I´ll take it off my destination list after all.

I am really, truly, leaving on Monday for the North (ocean!!!!!). The plan is to travel, and if I find somewhere I love with opportunities, I´ll stay for awhile. It´s in my intentions to gain some teaching experience, volunteer with kids, and meet amazing people. I need to improve my meeting-people skills. I find it difficult at hostels, as I am not sure what language people speak and the shyness sets in, but by clamming up I am missing lots of opportunities, so I´m working on it. I´ll most likely hop up to Ecuador for visa reasons. I´m sure the whole deal will be grand. I´ve been getting excited thinking about Mexico... tequila, reggaeton, burritos, the beach... visiting Carol, Al, and Alejandro... I´m ready!

I could spend all day listening to people speak English as a second language. The words people know, as opposed to the ones they don´t, never cease to amaze me. I am fashion, so fashion, is my newest favorite.

Out. Peace.
Jess

Umm...

So I went to a chicken fight? With my new friend John. Who does not seem like the chicken-fighting type, but let me assure you, he is all about it. He met me at San Pedro market decked out in pointy shoes, a jean jacket with sheepy inner lining, and a cowboy hat. It was a little much, but it was his birthday so I forgave him. He kept checking in with me during the fights, making sure I wasn´t going to cry, I think. I didn´t cry. I did bet, but I lost. It was quite the experience. I have precious pictures of us in cowboy hats, which I can´t wait to upload. I also have some not-quite-so-precious pictures of the chicken fights. Testosterone and feathers filled the air as men chugged their Cristal (beer) and yelled for their fave fighter (¨Derecha!¨or ¨Izquierda!¨) We bet on Papa Micki, which was a mistake as he was not the winning rooster, but it was all part of the experience. And a name like Papa Micki inspires confidence, don´t you think?

Also, I am sick. I have been soooo horrifically shivery-sweaty sick with a sore throat and a cough, headachey and snotty, muscle and bone soreness, holed up in my hostal. I left once yesterday to buy lime and soup. I have left today only to hop on the computer at a nearby internet cafe. I asked John to bring me a shaman, but I think it was a little short notice. Being sick in a foreign country sucks, but what can you do? I am chugging tea with limon and honey, chupa-ing my throat lozenges, and taking my medicine. I am also sleeping loads and reading a mediocre John Grisham novel. I cracked open ´Pedagogy of the Opressed´this morning, which was a huge joke. It turned into table decor.

John (and every other Peruvian I know) tells me I am sick because I don´t abrigate-- dress warmly. It also might be because I caught a virus, but this is a bit hard for the Peruvians to swallow. Jenna, my English-teaching friend, has her students work in pairs to complete an assignment where they give advice to people who are sick. They are supposed to write things like, don´t eat junk food, and, get enough sleep, but instead it goes like this:

A: I have a cold.
B: I have a jacket!

or..

A: I have a cold.
B: Did you drink a hot drink and a cold drink at the same time?

Okay, in all honesty, I don´t know if the last example is true, but the first one is (I swear. It´s cute, huh?) Sometimes I hate my Peruvian friends when I am sick. They tell me to cover my ears from the cold, and not to drink a cold drink and a hot drink at the same time, and not to shower after I eat because it will disturb my digestion. When they tell me not to take a nap because I will get a fever, I want to punch them. At this point, I am sure they are trying to piss me off. I am sure they want me to be sick and miserable forever. What about the good old American cures of attention, bad cable, and chicken soup?

Also, it seems noteworthy to mention that my friend´s boyfriend honestly believes that if you eat ice cream while you are pregnant the baby will freeze.

I still can´t believe I went to a cockfight.

Sharks and Thievery

Francisco, the owner of La Estrellia (the hostal where I am staying), talked to me about men last night. The ¨too many fish in the sea¨ saying came up, and he told me to beware of sharks (tiburones.) First, they will bite your cuello (neck), he tells me, and then your pecho (chest.) And then . . . yo no se. Yo tampoco, I tell him, laughing and walking away. But we both knew and know what comes after the chest-bite. No duermes con los tiburones, por favor, he advises me, as I walk into the hostal kitchen.

Alejandro (do you remember the one? he has dreads and we dated for a couple of days and he took me on the longest walk of my life in which I felt like a hot sweaty baby? and then I saw him the other night and his friend kept my three soles?) . . . anyway. The night of the 3-sole-sham, Alejandro walked me back to my hostal. He was in my room for a minute, he left, I slept. In the morning, I woke up and my favorite (and only) hoodie was gone. I called him and he didn´t answer, and then I saw him on the street and cornered him. ¨Donde esta mi polo?¨ I asked. ¨I told you it´s chevre*. I told you, Jessica, be careful.¨ He is giggling. ¨I can give you this one,¨ he offers, unpeeling his windbreaker to reveal another sweatshirt, ¨I like tu polo!¨ I punch him in the chest softly. I like it too. That´s why I own it. I call him a ladron (thief) and he says, no, I am not a thief, I told you I had it. Okay, so maybe you´re honest, I tell him, but you still stole my hoodie (which makes you a thief.) He has had enough of my truth-telling, and telling-off, so he staggers down the street, probably to get drunker. He promises me he will call. I doubt he will call, but it is my mission to retrieve what is rightfully mine before/if I take off for the north in two days. I´ll keep you posted.

Also. Remember the guy I ran into at the Huancaro fair? John? I gave him my information at the fair, hoping he would get in touch, but not thinking he actually would. Yesterday, I got an e-mail, which will soon be followed by a phone call. We´re getting together before/if I go (look how tentative I am, covering all of my bases.) I don´t know what we´ll do, but I am sure it will be a fun evening. It´s great to make connections. Keeps the world going ´round.

I am reading ¨The places that scare you¨ by Pema Chodron and it´s full of simple truths. I take it with me to restaurants and underline my favorite passages. She is talking about wishing happiness for ourselves and for others.. people we love, feel neutral about, envy, and can´t stand. This is one of her suggested intentions:¨May this really annoying person experience happiness and the root of happiness.¨ I read it and nearly spit out my soup because giggles are tumbling out of my mouth. Sometimes I am a really annoying person, and, nevertheless, I wish to experience happiness as well.

Pema also says,
For an aspiring bodhisattva, the essential practice is to cultivate maitri. In the Shambala teachings this is called ¨placing our fearful mind in the cradle of loving-kindness.¨ Another image of maitri or loving-kindness is that of a mother bird who protects and cares for her young until they are strong enough to fly away. People sometimes ask, ¨Who am I in this image the mother or the chicks?¨ The answer is we´re both: both the loving mother and those ugly little chicks. It´s easy to identify with the babies- blind, raw, and desperate for attention. We are a poignant mixture of something that isn´t all that beautiful and yet is dearly loved.

On that note, blessings to all the mamas, papas, and baby chicks. You are dearly loved.

-Jessica

*Chevre = cool

Characters

Yesterday/Last night/This morning I (in order):


Went to a fair! A real fair! With livestock and ferris wheels and soy chiccharones.

This old slightly shady dude, Alberto, was there with his brother and cousin, and he paid for my ticket, bought me a jungle seed necklace, had a polaroid taken as a souveneir for me, and told me all about the dangers of cholesterol. His helpful hints included, when you eat pollo a broaster, you need to take the skin off, and, oooof pizza? Terrible for you. Cheese, meat, flour, TRIGLYCERIDES!!!!


Met a Quillabambino at the fair named John who spoke in unbelievably high tones when he switched to English. He told me my eyes looked sad, and that I was looking for something. He was right. He told me one time he looked at his parents at the dinner table and they didn´t look like his parents. He told me a lot of things, with eyes that wouldn´t stop digging into me. He was a truth-teller, if a little bit preachy. We talked about all of the usual ¨Wow you´re not going to flip out if I talk to you about energy?´ stuff, like feeling scared to be alone in nature even though you are a child of everything that exists in nature, and listening for the calls, and trusting. He exclaimed, ¨Wow!¨and ¨Fuck!¨a lot. ¨Fuck¨sounded tame in his mouth. He lent me his jacket, and told his acquaintences I had diharrea so they wouldn´t hassle me about drinking. Disculpame, he told me, laughing, all teeth. His friend touched the bottle over to my hand, and I said, no, like he said, I have diharrea. We were all teeth.


Before Percy arrived at the fair, I received a text message from him that was as follows:


A las 8 estoy alla? Full dance gringuita.


Whoever taught him ¨full dance¨ definitely wins points.


Met biologists. Entimologists specifically. The line-up included a 50 year old pirate with a curly, hairy chest and a big beer belly, a quiet guy in a green preppy vest, and Williams. Williams was short with rectangle black framed glasses and spoke cliched and proper English. He told me that most jungle spiders are cute and surprisingly harmless. He told me that he needed time to ¨explore himself and find out about who he is and really grow inside¨ before he gets into another relationship. He asked me, ¨Shall we dance?¨ and shared his theory about why ´jungle girls´ have a bigger sexual appetite. It had to do with the jungle diet, but I feel like I added significantly to his theory, as I am thinking it is due to a) heating, and b) boredom. Must be cold and boring at night in the jungle. There are no discos.

Ate a delicious street sandwich with Percy from my favorite mamita, Rosa.

Danced salsa, cumbia, and white-girl grind with said biologists and other friends at a disco thick with heat and smoke. Sweat gathered in all kinds of places but I persevered.

Karaoked with Fiona, Travis, Percy, and Percy´s cousin.

Went to bed with the morning sun.

This morning Percy, Travis and I ate mamita soup at the Wanchaq market. Why hadn´t I done this before? So delicious, and a hangover cure, I´m sure of it.

Tomorrow I might take little Alejandro to the fair. It seems like the thing to do. He is travieso, but he brings me joy. And the fair will bring him joy. If you could see the squinchy grin he has, you would understand.

Also, throughout the evening I learned some new words in Quechua. Mostly body parts, but my vocabulary is improving. Although I can´t spell them, I know eyes, nose, mouth, feet, hands, and breasts. My recent favorite and most-used words in Spanish are: claro, echate, oyé, cholito/ita, and huevon.

That´s all for now.

The Great Divide, or Dollars versus Soles

Maybe this isn´t PC, but . . . Sometimes I get so tired of hearing how I am a millionaire because I am from the states, because I am a gringo, because of the difference between soles and dollars. I know I have more than many of the local people here, I know that the sole is worth three times what the dollar is worth. I know my money goes farther, and I am priveleged and advantaged in comparison to many, but I am tired of hearing about it. Last night I ran into an old friend (more or less) at a street sandwich shop, who asked to borrow a sole so he could pay for his sandwich (which begs the question of, why would you order a sandwich you couldn´t afford?) and then proceeded to lecture me about soles versus dollars (as if I don´t know, I live here...) and told me I was a millionaire, blah blah blah. Then, we were walking his stumbling, bumbling drunk friend home, and I said I would pay for a taxi. I gave his friend the soles for the taxi, but we all ended up getting in together. When we got to his house and got out of the taxi, Drunk Friend proceeded to stumble off without paying. Where are the three soles I gave you? I asked him. No importa. Don´t worry about it, he says. Um, hello. That wasn´t a gift. That was taxi money. And he pocketed it. And I know this is petty in comparison with the poverty here, but it´s the principle. I didn´t have to give him the soles for the taxi. He could have walked his own drunk ass home. At this point, Old Friend paid for the taxi. Which begs the question of, why did you need my sole at the sandwich shop? Was he just seeing if he could get it? Drunk Friend stumbles into his house, and Old Friend touches me, says, I´m sorry, he is my friend, my best friend, I can´t cambio el, he tells me. Do you intiendes? Yes, I intiendo, I´m just over it. I am also thinking maybe you should find a new best friend. Don´t worry baby, he says in exaggerated English, five distinct syllables, a smooth tv-show line. I try not to laugh at him. I´m not very successful. His English, incidentally, has improved since the last time I saw him. We are walking now, on cold and quiet Cusco streets, and I tell him, me aburre (I am bored) with being called a millionaire, with all of the assumptions and judgements about my wallet and my lifestyle. I am heated, because apparently most situations involving drunken Peruvian men make me heated, and he apologizes again for his friend. Asks me if I understand. I do, I get it, his friend is stumble-drunk and poor and envious of gringo priveleges and finances. Poverty is overwhelming here, I know this, but I don´t always feel overwhelmed by it. Is this bad? What does this make me? Does this mean I am closing my eyes, choosing ignorance and bliss? I feel accustomed to the poverty here, but does this make me cold or apathetic? Poverty and quality of life are not always related. Cusco has shown me that. Of course, getting your basic needs met is important to survival and comfort, and of course we all want more money than we have. I am not trying to downplay the poverty that exists here. I feel like this cold priveleged gring (as Jenna calls us,) but I am tired of people only seeing my wallet or whatever pre-conceived notions they have about what they think is in there. I am from the states, the dollar is worth more than the sole, I have more priveleges than you do. If you are my friend, and you are Peruvian and eat at 3 sole menus, there is no way I am going to ask you out to eat at Jack´s (relatively swanky tourist place) without offering to pay. I am not going to intentionally flaunt what I have and, therefore, what you don´t. All I am asking is, until I am insensitive about money issues, don´t treat me like some rich bitch from the states who isn´t sensitive to the financial divide.

Some pictures from the trip (formatting is messy)

To the left: Pelicans in Iquique, Chile

Below: Psyched for breakfast in Uyuni, Bolivia after the longest, coldest, bumpiest overnight bus-ride of my life.

Jessica just remember that you are where you need to be. It's your dream to be there and there's a reason for that. Even if you don't know what it is now or even in three years, there's something there for you to learn or understand. Just listen for it and you're going to find it.
-TIM (thanks, Tim!)

Left: Train Cemetery in Uyuni, Bolivia

Above: I met this little guy in Uyuni, Bolivia, and he

commanded me to pick him up. I so adore and

admire the way this kid is eating this orange.

He is so voracious and zesty!

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

Free Pass

When you decide to live in a foreign country, you get a free pass. People upon people assume that because you are living in Brazil, in Peru, in Africa, that you are up to all kinds of good, living an inspired and inspirint life, helping people and experiencing leaps and bounds of self-growth, when maybe you are really getting wasted and grinding at clubs, or getting accustomed to a daily grind not so different than the one you tried to escape from in the first place. Myabe you are eating too many oreos and reading shitty beach books, even though you are nowhere near the beach. These are just examples. Can´t say I´ve experienced any one of these things. But what I can say is that just because I am living in Cusco doesn´t mean I am automatically living a richer, deeper, or more exciting life. Sorry to all of you who thought you were set, living vicariously through my so-called adventures. But this is the very reason I am moving on. I know Cusco; it has become friendly and familiar, if a bit boring. I am still wowed by the mountains and the clouds, both magestic, and the people, so kind it could break your heart, or at least put a stop to a bad day. But I am ready for a new place, and new experiences. I need, I need I need I need, to start doing what I came here to do, which is to live beyond myself, and at the same time, get deeper inside of myself. Soothe the insides of my head, which are anxious and screaming and foggy, like wires upon wires surrounded by clouds. I need to live simply and experience new culture, I need to meet new people, I need a change. Because Cusco has become comfortable, and I am not ready to commit to it. I am not ready to buy blankets and a blender and rent an apartment. I am not ready, or willing, to take the free pass. I am ready, however, to re-commit to a new place, to existing presently in whatever place I´m in, and to getting involved more deeply in others´ lives. Hopefully this will help me jump outside of my own muffled head, which sometimes sounds like my brain is screaming into a blanket. I don´t know where this will take me, but I am sure it will be beautiful; beautiful and perfect. You can take the free pass if you want to, but I´m over it.

Connect-4

1. I just want to curl up and read books all day. I just read ¨Kindred¨and now I am reading ¨The Memory Keeper´s Daughter.¨ I love book exchanges.

2. I am still looking for a place to live. I mean, I found one but I am not sure how I feel about signing a long contract (actually, I am sure how I feel about it, which is unsure,) because . . .

3. I feel lost and lack direction, lately. I am sure there is a seed inside of me that knows, I just haven´t found it yet. I am not sure how long I will feel called to stay in Cusco, or even in Peru. I am definitely eager to finish school, and love that I can do that here in Cusco (through an independent contract through Evergreen learning languages and travel writing), and I can definitely find work in Cusco, but there is still the volunteer teaching possibility in Trujillo, or something else entirely. I can see myself teaching English to small children in an Asian country in the future, but the language barrier scares me. I have been consumed with realities, and hiding from them simultaneously, reading books and thinking between chapters (or paragraphs, depending on the day) about how I can ¨make it¨ in my life, economically, and about how I could be happy, stimulated, fulfilled with and within my life. I think about what I am doing and what is missing, about curriculum design and teaching jobs overseas, relationships and settling down, adventures and brave choices. I make lists in the vain hope of ¨figuring it out,¨whatever the it of the moment happens to be. Then I remind myself to breathe. To sit and listen. I tell myself that is okay to feel lost. Do you get tired of me talking about the same things? About apartments and financial woes and taxi drivers? About feeling lost and not hearing the guidance? I get tired of it too, this cassete tape that plays inside of my head. Some days I have trouble moving, even one baby inch, and I tell myself when I get a place and a job and a schedule it will be better, but we will see.

4. The hardest lesson in life might be listening, and then I think trusting is the runner-up.

5. That doesn´t mean all of the other lessons are easy.

6. This is part of my favorite song right now (I like Giants by Kimya Dawson), because it is full of so many truths:

When I go for a drive I look to pull of to the side
of the road, turn out the lights, go out and look up at the sky
and I do this to remind me that I´m really really tiny,
In the grand scheme of things and sometimes this terrifies me

It´s only really scary cause it makes me feel serene
In a way I´d never thought I´d be because I´d never been
So grounded, and so humbled, and so one with everything
I am grounded, I am humbled, I am one with everything.

We all become important when we realize our goal
Should be to figure out our role within the context of the whole
And yeah, rock and roll is fun, but if you ever hear someone
Say you are huge, look at the moon, look at the stars, look at the sun
look at the oceans and the dessert and the mountains and the sky
say I am just a speck of dust inside a giant´s eye
I am just a speck of dust inside a giant´s eye.

little things

Taxi drivers overcharge me and then ask me out on dates.  The older ones, 50 or so, ask me to ceviche or cuy, con respecto con respecto.  Sure, claro, si.  I don't say yes, I don't say no.  I smile, ask about the best place to get cuy, then move on to a question about how long the cold will last.  Inside, my stomach is gritting its teeth.

I am staying with my friend Melanie, who has a lovely house and a lovely boyfriend (Coco) and a lovely dog (Killa, moon in Quechua) while I look for my own place.  We watch bad movies in Spanish and cook together and go for walks.  Melanie and Coco and going to Qolloriti tonight, a festival that includes walking up mountains in the snow and dancing.  I am caring for the house and their dog when they are gone.

Two of my friends and I watch half-naked boys (two of which belong to my friends) with tattoos and board shorts play a pick-up game of soccer while reggae pumps from speakers.  Some of them dance in the middle of the field, strutting and bouncing to Marley.  They splash fountain water on their faces and tip red powerade into their smiling mouths.

We eat ceviche and jalea, and Nilton cracks crab shells with his teeth.  We drink jarras of chicha morada and lemonade and share fried yuca root, then go for ice cream in the Tupac Amaru plaza.  We come home to Melanie's house to watch soccer and take naps.

I wake up grumpy from my afternoon nap and head over to a birthday party for an artisan I know vaguely.  They are passing around a bottle of rum while Grupo 5 plays and drunken singing ensues.  I try to resist the rum, I can't drink because I didn't have cena, I say, they insist and insist, pouring more amber into the plastic dentist cup, tomalo tomalo, tomalo!  I am left alone with Alex, who is into me and talks with me about los ochentas, New Order and Ocean Blue, bands from the 70s and the 80s slurring thick out of his mouth like fudge.  I wait for them to come back, I sit close but not too close I talk about 70s and 80s bands.  At this point, I have toma-d more than I wanted to on a post-nap pre-dinner stomach which is never a good idea.  They come back and I am angry and I am upset and I have to go but the couch has been placed in front of the door.  I am commanded to sit, to stay, to drink, and then when I don't want to drink, I can either take the shot or kiss some dude (Alex).  At this point I am rude, I am a bitch, I say no outright, I must look disgusted, I am disgusted, I hate my choices.  Puta madre!  I don't want to be here, I need to go, I feel disrespected and forced and not listened to.  I make my escape to walk back to Melanie's house and Alex follows me.  He asks me ridiculous drunken questions and touches my hip (no tocame!).  Mid-way through the walk to Melanie's house he informs me he "doesn't want to walk anymore."  And he thought I would kiss him?  Que caballero, oh my god!  Thanks for walking me almost to my house, Alex, how chivalrous.  I cry in Melanie and Coco's kitchen.  Coco holds me and tells me it will pass, it is passing, it has passed.  I am upset and nothing horrible happened I just feel disrespected.  Melanie had chifa (a blend of Peruvian and Chinese food) waiting for me and my kitchen scene scored me a snickers bar, which she donated from trek snack stash.  So they leave and I hang out with Killa and eat my chifa and watch bad TV and skype my family and rant about taxi drivers and assholes.  

It is the small things that get to me, like taxi drivers trying to rip me off and take me out, or women whining at me to llevalo, it's hecho a mano, mi trabajo, puro alpaca lady.  Small things get to me in other ways, too.  Pictures of Sawyer growing up and smiling through every stage, picking up a guitar and playing it at the hostal, hearing a Spanish cover of a Damien Rice song during a breakfast out in Chile, the way Coco's tongue pokes through his smiling teeth, toilet paper in a bathroom, water.   

Sometimes its hard to get past the cultural differences and see and be seen as a whole person, not as gringo or Peruvian or poor or rich or cultured or not.  I am frustrated, as well, by gender differences here.  I am a woman so I will never be taught any swear words in Spanish and the boys will laugh at my expense and the boys will continue to make homophobic comments because this is the culture, the culture is asi.  Not that nothing can change, not that people aren't progressing, and of course I am generalizing.  What I do best.  I am the privileged gringo so I must love bricheros and be rolling in it and blow 9 soles on milkshakes, and I am a woman so I can't swear or do things for myself and without your consent, not to mention poop.  Girls don't poop, or at least not very much, and when they do it's dried violets and pearls that come out.  For your fucking pleasure.

Here I go again, wanting to break boundaries and borders and pre-conceived notions.  Wish me well.  Wish me luck. 

WTF, Universe?!

I am feeling extremely flip-floppy. There was a couple of days when I was considering moving to Chile and teaching English there, but none of the cities called out my name, and it´s spendy in comparison to Peru, so I got over it. Decided to move back to Cusco. Decided I needed to get a teaching job (or at least do private English tutoring and translating) in order to support myself. Decided the best way to make this possible was to leave my plant medicine and feminism Independent Learning Contract (ILC) for another time, and instead pursue writing, and write about my travels and experiences living in this new culture. This way I would have more time to work. I was pursuing the apartment next door to Jenna. I was stressing out about money and making frenzied calculations of predicted spendings and budgets on long bus rides. After much procrastination and guilt (because throughout this whole process, I have been very back and forth-y, or at least it feels this way), I e-mailed my professor willing to sponsor me for the plant medicine ILC to tell her I couldn´t do the ILC this summer. Then, this morning I get this email from Jenna´s sister that goes like this: I am not sure what is going on with the apt but I saw this add in South American Explorer's Club Newletter and thought of you... "Room and board in beautiful house in return for looking after the house. Would especially suit someone interested in learning about shamanism and holistic healing. Contact xxx.¨



Maybe the universe wants me to study plant medicine after all? Free housing? Learning opportunities about shaminism and holistic healing? I sent an email, of course. We will see what comes of it. At this point, I give up on trying to control my life. It makes me feel nutty. Unpredictable, flighty, waffly, indecisive. I am just trying, I really am trying, to go with the flow. I just wish the flow would stop changing. Or maybe I need to stop fighting. I would like to take this opportunity to say, Universe, if you want me to live in this beautiful house and study plant medicine and maybe tutor some English this summer, do your thing. I am trying to be cooperative and not hold onto the reins too tightly, but instead trust that the horse knows where he wants to go. So even if this makes me feel nutty, I will do it, because I am kind of nutty. I pray in the shower. I set intentions over bowls of pasta. I trust. It seems like the bravest and stupidest thing you can do these days is trust. I think I need to sit down and have a cup of something with Nick, an old housemate from Americo´s who one day assured me that we (the world) hadn´t fucked too many things up, really, when you thought about it, and that there was hope for the future. Also, one time we were talking about water, and he said (the British accent is important here, as well as the water hand motions for the italicized word, so imagine it,) ¨To have water, hot water, coming down upon you is just brilliant!¨ I need to remember things like this. Things like, wait a minute even if I am freaking out about money and missing and craving home and feeling psychotic and flip-floppy, things are brilliant. The universe is brilliant. The universe is also probably smarter than me, so I really should just shut up and feel grateful to have this guidance



I also have many stories about Chile, and I miss home. I miss home. I have Drift Inn dreams and miss Yachats and the Roby/ins and my family and the ocean. It didn´t happen until I moved out of Americo´s, but it´s been pretty constant until then.

I´m in Arequipa, Peru, right now. The white city. I´ll post pictures and tell stories when I get back to Cusco in a day or two. For now, I am going to pack my bags and find a healthy lunch and try not to beat myself up for being flip-floppy or unsure. You don´t know until you know. Stay tuned.