El Paso - typical travel nightmare

This is primarily a travel blog and what's a travel blog without an airplane horror story? I did not arrive to El Paso on a flying unicorn full of rainbows and butterflies. Unless of course you consider the triple threat of flying - screaming baby, medical emergency, and violent turbulence - to be typical with unicorns. I have no way of knowing really. But the flight to Houston hosted the kind of turbulence that causes people to introduce themselves to one another in one potential last act of humanity. As an introvert I didn't partake, but I did safely stow my glasses, tie back my hair, and locate the barf bag in case of emergency.

We landed safely in Houston where I had my first case of US-based culture shock. Everything seemed so much bigger in Texas: the people were taller and wider as were their hats and the airport itself seemed like a never-ending warren of unnecessarily long and empty hallways. And for some perverse reason I ordered a slice of pizza for dinner to just hammer it in that I was no longer in the Northeast.

I arrived in El Paso relatively late at night, stepped outside of the airport and breathed it all in - the scent of many border towns - dust, smoke, and french fries. My travel woes were to continue a little longer as I ordered a Lyft from the airport. I saw on the app that the car was near, I saw the actual car pass me, and then I saw on the app that the car had picked me up (hmmm) and driven further and further into the city. I tried cancelling the ride (which you can't do once you've been picked up in spirit - if not in actual fact) and I tried calling the driver but no luck. So I got in a regular cab and started to chat up the driver. It was fairly obvious that he did not speak much English so I whipped out my Spanish and we had a halting conversation until he mentioned that he was actually Moroccan. He did try gamely and I will not make such assumptions in future.

We had just arrived to the hotel when my original Lyft driver called me to say that she had arrived (to the hotel to bring me to the airport?). We had a surprisingly long conversation about how Lyft actually works and who should cancel the ride and according to the app she drove around the hotel for the next fifteen minutes before finally figuring it out. Texas is big. El Paso is big. And everyone has a car so the Lyft/Uber culture hasn't taken a real hold there so I had similar issues the whole week.

I had decided to stay at the Gardner Hotel which is the oldest continually operating hotel in El Paso. Opened in 1922, it is theoretically fireproof because it is largely made of steel. John Dillinger stayed there in in 1934. If you every decide to stay there please note:

• the elevator doesn't work, 
• the bathrooms are very very clean, 
• if you stay in one of the hostel rooms you share the bathroom with another hostel room and you will have to make friends with them so they don't lock you out
• has a full kitchen
• the heat does not work at all times
• there is a club next door that is bumping pretty much all night every night
• has a decidedly creepy historical vibe but doesn't seem to be outright haunted
• and I definitely thought the beds were made to put your head on the wrong end and even though I changed it every night, the cleaning staff would change it back in the morning but maybe that's just my problem. 

Next up: My first day volunteering

El Paso - A brief background

Not quite a year ago, I went to El Paso, Texas as a volunteer with the Unitarian Universalist College of Social Justice. I'm not a UU and it's not an actual college but a friend of mine (fellow Peace Corps Bolivia volunteer, UUCSJ trip leader, and my personal social conscious) recommended that I apply to volunteer at Annunciation House for a few weeks -- and since most of her ideas are good ideas I thought "Why not?"

A note here to say that I still haven't quite processed my experience and I don't claim to be any kind of expert on immigration policy so this might be a scattered post, or several shorter posts, or just links to relevant articles and books -- or it may just devolve into "places to get good enchiladas in El Paso." Please read with patience.

I mean, even the use of the word "refugee" rather than "immigrant," "migrant," or  "asylum seeker" is a very specific choice. According to the International Rescue Committee, a refugee is "someone who has been forced to flee his or her home because of war, violence or persecution, often without warning." This is an official designation decided by the government or the United Nations Refugee Agency. An asylum seeker is someone who requests this status. The vast majority of refugees from Central America and Mexico are fleeing daily violence (and the threat of violence) from gangs, corrupt police, or military and extreme poverty. It is worth noting, however, that gang violence is not currently recognized among the "reasons of race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership in a particular social group" that are used to define refugee status. But almost all of the people who come across the border request asylum and, not to put words in Annunciation House's mouth, their use of the word refugees recognizes the true struggle that the families and individuals they serve are facing in their home countries.

How do these families and individuals get here? Here I'm just going to lift entirely from Annunciation House's fabulous volunteer guide: "Upon arriving in Juarez, the Mexican border city across from El Paso, refugee families cross the border in one of two ways. Some climb the border metal fences that separate the two countries and end up being detained by Border Patrol (BP). Others walk into Ports of Entry, turn themselves in to a Custom and Border Protection (CBP) officer, and ask for asylum. However these families cross, they end up in the custody of Immigration. "Once in Immigration custody, refugees are processed - they are fingerprinted, photographed, interviewed, screened through security databases, and officially charged with having entered the U.S. illegally."

Lenni here. Two very important things:
1. Requesting asylum from inside of the United States is a perfectly valid way to do it.
2. Being prosecuted for having entered the US illegally has increased drastically under Trump. But asylum seekers are not to be penalized for how they arrived in the US. Read this: https://www.humanrightsfirst.org/blog/trump-and-criminalization-asylum

Ok back to the process: "After being processed, families are turned over to Immigration and Custom Enforcement (ICE), the department that makes the determination of releasing the family, or a part of the family, on parole, Orders of Supervision, or recognizance. Not all families are released. Some are placed on buses or planes and sent to family detention centers like those in Dilley and Karnes, Texas. Some are being sent to Mexico to await future court dates. In addition, some families are separated with part of the family being detained and the other part released. Separation and detention is most frequently seen with the dads of families as well as the young adult children of families being separated and detained."

One more time: "the young adult children of families being separated and detained." And I saw this. And it was crushing. Imagine. You flee your country with your daughter and your 16 year old nephew and they take your nephew away. You have no idea where he is or how to contact him or even how to tell your sister. What the mother F-ing F?

And then after all this trauma, ICE releases these families to the street. With no money. No ID. No phone. No food. (And  a mandatory court date in two weeks).  That's where Annunciation House steps in. A Catholic shelter in existence since 1978, they welcome, house, clothe, and feed refugees and help them contact their families or sponsors in the US and organize their transportation. And for a little over a week in December 2018, I had the great privilege of volunteering with some rabble-rousing Unitarians, some bad-ass Maryknoll nuns, and the warm, open-hearted, and extremely generous people of El Paso to help make that happen.

Nepal - We take our chocolate cake on vacation

When all of us Yale ladies were out at a dinner, we exchanged terrifying flying stories. Featured heavily was Yeti airlines, one of the Nepali national airlines, which has a 1 out of 7 in international travel ratings (don't tell Mom) although the UN Food Programme uses it. So I faced our morning flight with a little trepidation.

The hotel gave us wrapped cheese sandwiches which we x-rayed along with our chocolate cake and luggage. When we checked in, the man at the counter made sure to repeat our flight number several times which tipped me off to a situation I had been warned about: sometimes Yeti Airlines puts you on an earlier flight so that they fill up the planes. Not sure if they just cancel the last few planes...

Although the flight to Pokhara is only about 20 minutes, a flight attendant passed through the cabin with cotton balls for your ears and hard candies and instant coffee for your tummy. And if you're going to die in a fiery plane crash it may as well be with this view.

The one side effect of leaving on an earlier flight is that you arrive early and your taxi is not there to meet you. Not content to wait in the beautiful sunlight, N asked a policeman to call our hotel and get the taxi to come. They were a little surprised to say the least. (At one point while I was standing in the warm sun eating my radioactive sandwich, someone stepped over casting a shadow on me. Without thinking, I plaintively whined "you're in my suuuun"....and they moved out of it!)

We had tentative plans but when we relayed them to the woman at the front desk of our hotel she told us how cute and misguided we were. So suddenly N had plans to go paragliding that same afternoon. We spent the morning wandering around Pokhara as N got more and more nervous about jumping off a mountain. (She made me promise to tell her parents if she died which made me freak out a little bit about the thought of that conversation.) I hugged her for luck and set of on my own adventure -- getting a massage. 

I think my experience might have been more uncomfortable actually. I went to Seeing Hands, a massage clinic staffed entirely by blind masseuses. I had a deep moment of ableist worry but reflected on the ability of anyone to make a living wage in Nepal and decided it wasn't too exploitative. (Different opinions welcome, reader). My masseuse was a man and kept asking if he should massage my butt as that is, as it happens, a part of the back. I said that I was cool and he could concentrate on my shoulders. My shoulders are a bit screwy as a result of a car accident when I was 23 and a few years of swimming and rowing recently -- and this massage huuuuurt. I actually started to cry. Gah. 

I recovered by wandering around the city (even the non-touristy bits) and treating myself to beer while waiting (worrying) for N's triumphant return. 

She had a slightly traumatic experience as well when she and her paraglide buddy blew backwards (instead of jumping off the cliff on the first go) and then landed on the wrong side of the river. I think we both came out of the day ok, and enjoyed being in a town where we could cross the street without danger and breathe without ingesting a year's worth of pollutants.

 Last point: this is the elevator door in our hotel. What say you, Japanese maple or pot?

India - take a picture

When I lived in Bolivia, and later Nicaragua, I had this strange feeling that my blue eyes could bore holes into people. I had this idea that they were beacons of light that shone out of my face and were noticeable from across the room. But my glacial blue gaze was nothing compared to the intensity of the stares that M and I got in India.

There are signs posted in tourist attractions that chide people for teasing or taking pictures of people without asking permission. I thought this was aimed at American tourists who might want to take pictures of monks or the flocks of women in colorful dress... but no, it's because the flocks of women in colorful dress try to take pictures of the pasty white tourists in khaki. The signs don't specify that you must receive permission of course. So even after receiving a "no"to their queries M and I had many photos taken of us. So many that we considered charging 100 rupees per.

We brainstormed ways to avoid getting our pictures taken:

1. say no
2. stick your tongue out in every snap
3. pull your hat down, cover your face, turn your back, or otherwise obscure the view
4. charge money
5. say, in Tamil or Hindu or Urdu or Telegu, "I'm so glad you want to take picture with little old albino me."
6. have a bodyguard yell at people
7. pretend you are deaf or mentally challenged
8. take their phone/camera and run
9. flash them boob
10. speak only in Quechua or Romani or other obscure/potentially made-up language
11. kick them in the balls

After a day at the caves, we stopped at Bibi-Ka-Maqbara a palace and mausoleum built in 1650 for Aurangzeb's dead wife a la the Taj Majal. For some reason there were hordes of teenaged boys trying to take our photos. We tried 1, 7, 10 and enlisted T in 6. At first he was resistant but he soon blossomed into a very good yeller. 

Perhaps because I'm a delicate flower and star of many unwanted photo, it was determined at one point that I was too dainty to use a squat toilet. At a roadside restaurant, I was stopped from approaching the outhouse by Auntie with the admonition that I "wouldn't like it," I almost knocked her down in my insistence that if she didn't let me use it I would pee myself...well not really, I'd just squat elsewhere. People would have definitely snapped photos of that. 

Nepal postscript

Upon returning home from Nepal I got together with my friend Ben to compare notes. He had some hilariously effective solutions to the ever-present gringo-pricing dilemma that I faced. Here are his recommended haggling techniques:

• Go into a store and tell them you're a wholesaler. See if they can give you a good deal on a thousand scarves or twenty thangka at once.
• Ask for something plainly not in the store. Say, " I would pay anything for a ______."
• When waiting for an airport cab tell them that you will pay $4 and whoever catches you gets the fare. Start walking.
• Just wait. You have all the time in the world for a $5 sweater. Wait and wait.

Let me know if you try any of these ideas or your own tried and true solutions!

Nepal - Kathmandu - the end

At our dinner, Ambika arranged that she would pick me up on her way to the airport and drop me at Bodanath. I was waiting in the sun (early, because I never learn) at the chosen corner when this car came roaring over the curb and onto the sidewalk and Ambi opened the door and waved me in, almost without stopping. We set off through rush hour traffic to stop 15 minutes later at what looked like a random store in the continuous strip mall that is the outer city. Saying good bye to Ambika I saw that to the left was a gate that opened into a wide courtyard dominated by a large white stupa, the structure around which Buddhists walk (clockwise of course) to worship. Surrounding the courtyard are quaint multi-storied stores and restaurants. It's like a Tibetan Disneyland.

I was immediately approached by a VERY close-talking man who offered to be my guide for $10. He is the first person in Nepal who made me feel genuinely uncomfortable and I considered paying him an extra $5 just to stand further away. He took me to three monasteries (the first time I am allowed to take photos inside), a thanka-painting workshop (which given my last experience I clarify before entering that I have no interest in making a purchase), and  a small shrine. He told me nothing I don't know already and I was glad to get rid of him but sad about the waste of money -- I could have bought like 30 momos instead!

I walked my three rounds of the stupa and ducked into a restaurant for a lassi. Sitting next to a group of older French tourists I hear their guide refer to momos as Chinese ravioli which cracks me up -- but then again I don't know the word for dumpling in French either.

I took the opportunity to look in my Lonely Planet for directions to Pashupatinath, the holiest Hindu site in Kathmandu. Ambika had given me the sage advice to just yell my intended location every once in a while to see where people point me. I countered that I can barely pronounce Pashupatinath. She then suggested that I try to choose people who look like they might speak English. Sigh. Lonely Planet directions are also charmingly misleading. Anyway, I walked in a straight line for 20 minutes until I saw a river which I assumed was the one I'm meant to cross. I saw neither hide not hair of a "well sign-posted tree temple." In fairness, a lot has changed since my edition of LP was written; it still thinks Nepal is a monarchy. I wandered around among some structures looking for the bridge encountering a man washing himself in the river, a young woman exhorting her toddler to say hello to me, and several monkeys. I really don't like monkeys.

Upon crossing the bridge, I encountered a lone man who tells me that it's $10 to enter the temple. No kiosk, no sign, just a peanut seller and a man in an oft-repaired uniform with a plastic bag full of tickets. My concerns are only assuaged when he takes out a rubber stamp. No con man would be so official right?

I wandered in, taking photos of structures that I only understand after a tour guide takes me around the site for a second time.

The holy Bagmati river where funerals are held. By the bridge is where important people are cremated and closer to me are where less important families hold ceremony. My guide appreciated that I didn't take ridiculous amounts of photos here

As a non-Hindu I was not allowed to enter the main temple but this
photo represents the workaround for tourists

15 votive shrines, the Pandra Shivalaya, which my guide told me conferred fertility upon the visitor.

Niches where acetics meditate

My guide also told me not to look monkeys in the eye if I didn't want to get attacked. After showing me around and giving me such useful advice he asked for a fee. I told him I could pay $10 because that's what I paid the last guide. He said that he normally got $30. I said I only had $15 and he then asked me for sweets or food for his children. I was steamed but I gave him those Nature Valley granola bars that taste like cardboard. Sorry kids.

Travelling alone and a lack of previous knowledge in a country with suddenly very few tourists put me at the mercy of price-setters. In general, while travelling I suck up the possibility that I might be overpaying because in the grand scheme of things it's never too much money, especially in a poor country but on my day in the two holiest sites in Nepal I felt cheated and angry (and I went back to the hotel to find that I had to negotiate that price too!)

So the next day, I just didn't want to deal with that so I spent the day at attractions with set admissions and no need for guides.

First I went to the Narayanthiti Palace Museum where I am so sad that I wasn't allowed to take photos especially as my notes are sketchy:

• moth balls on the floor
• hunting trophies galore especially elephant foot side tables
• throne room with tapeworm type structures
• dark panelling. marble, slate, parquet, tile
• each room named after one of 75 districts
• small room = earthquake proof 

Then I moseyed to the Garden of Dreams where Nepali teens come to take selfies and European tourists fall asleep on provided cushions to the soothing sounds of hocked lugies. It was actually quite pretty:

After a nap of my own, I headed to the airport for the long journey home. Funnily enough, I flew home with the same ladies I had arrived with! Last anecdote: on my last leg of the trip a man on my flight was being very rude to the flight attendant, citing that he had been travelling for 24 hours. I piped up that I still managed to be polite despite going on 30.

Bhutan - Not all rainbows and butterflies

Bhutan is an interesting country, full of contradictions:

• It is landlocked, sandwiched between India and China but has decided to extend trade and military relations only with India due primarily to China's annexing of Tibet. In fact, Bhutan does not even have formal diplomatic relations with China. India, on the other hand, has military bases in Bhutan. 
• As a primarily Buddhist nation, it does not have any meat production or slaughter facilities but it imports all meat from India. 
• It transitioned from an absolute monarchy to a constitutional monarchy in 2008. (There are only 6 absolute monarchies left in the world including, oddly, The Vatican.) 
• The fourth King has four wives! The fifth king and all those after can only have one though.
• The fourth King abdicated his throne in his fifties to give power to his 30 year old son. It is now written into the constitution that the King must abdicate at 60. (I asked if it was possible for the line of succession to go to a woman and was told yes but haven't had confirmation.)
• Television and internet are new to Bhutan as well: in 1999 the ban was lifted. 
• It measures its success as a nation in terms of happiness. 
• Bhutan was the first country to ban the sale of tobacco. (Can that be true Wikipedia? Most of my Bhutanese friends smoke!) 

And the monks migrate! Early in the morning all the roads were closed so that the monks could safely walk from their summer home in Thimpu to their winter home in Punakha. This had been announced on the radio as well as the restrictions that would be in place for the King's birthday celebration; the government would shut off all cellular and wifi service for the morning and no cameras would be allowed. Although this was a special occasion some other standard practices seemed overkill; for example the security protocols in the airport were more stringent than some countries that are actually targets for terrorism.

So while our trip focused on the natural beauty of Bhutan, the love and admiration felt for the Kings, and the deep traditionalism of the country, I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention the dark side of Bhutan. As a small, landlocked nation surrounded by two of the largest Asian powers Bhutan has, in fact, held itself together with this very emphasis on tradition. For example, every house in Bhutan must be traditionally built and the national costume is compulsory at school and in government buildings. That is to say the national costume of ethnic Bhutanese - not the thousands of ethnic Nepalis or Tibetans living in the country.

My first interaction with Bhutan as an entity was with the thousands of Bhutanese refugees living in Vermont. That's right, Vermont. In the 1800s, Nepalis were welcomed to Bhutan as farm laborers. They settled there long-term and were given citizenship. When a census was conducted in the late 1980s, tens of thousands of Nepali speakers (in fact about 30% of the population) were "discovered" to be living in the southern part of the country, they were de-naturalized because they couldn't produce land ownership documentation prior to 1958, event though they had lived there for generations. For those who remained, they found themselves to be further disenfranchised and ostracized as they were forced to wear traditional Bhutanese costume and elementary instruction in Nepali was discontinued. Finally, in the early 1990s, the government forced approximately 90,000 Nepali-speaking persons, now classified as illegal immigrants, to leave the country.

Lest we think this is ancient history, the US State Department reports that as of this September, "approximately 34,000 Nepali-speaking Bhutanese refugees remained in two refugee camps in Nepal administered by the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR)." There are still ethnic-Nepalis living in Bhutan but they are often classified as stateless which means that due to heavy tourism restrictions in the country, they can't travel within Bhutan without permits. Tibetans too face institutionalized barriers to participating in government and becoming citizens.

Also, in an effort to preserve the spiritual heritage of Bhutan, The Religious Organizations Act of 2007 prohibited religious proselytizing and the construction of non-Buddhist centers of worship without backing from a registered religious groups. While I am not a fan of missionaries, these restrictions present larger issues; registration requires Bhutanese citizenship which has translated into a complete lack of new public worship facilities for the Hindu yet stateless ethnic Nepalis and the Indian road crews who have recently arrived.

I'm not saying that Bhutan is a terrible repressive place or that it doesn't have fantastic environmental commitments and policies (which  I'll try to write about later), In fact, I encourage you to read about the United States' own human rights issues. I just thought it was necessary to talk about this. Papa Lee actually mentioned on our trip that given the bad things that he had heard about Bhutan on this issue, he would concentrate his trip on seeing the rainbows and butterflies. And for the rest of my posts I will too. And there are plenty.

Bhutan - I die

The beauty of globalization is that there is wifi in surprising places. So when you are struck ill at three in the morning you can facebook your sister, update her on how many times exactly you've used the toilet in any manner in the past four hours and ask her to send help. Luckily (?) I was scheduled to go on a sunrise tour so I knew I would be found prone on the bathroom tile in a mere two hours.

After passing my 20 minute test (when I can make it 20 minutes without using the bathroom) I peeled myself off the floor, put some clothing on, and staggered down to the hotel lobby where my friends made me a deal: if after an hour of travel I thought I would truly die we could turn back. Well, I made it about 40 minutes in the car before I had to clamor for us to pull over. But this was just another opportunity to test my friendship with Nara. And she passed with flying colors: rubbing my back, handing me a water bottle, and having tissues at the ready. If our roles were reversed I would have just left her on the side of the road, especially because due to our little delay we missed the official sunrise at the temple at the top of the DochuLa mountain pass.

So forgive me if the details of the day are a little sparse. I hung on admirably but that's about all I could manage. Even taking photos was too much.

After a very slow breakfast (my fault), we moseyed up to the temple where the monks had created beautiful floral mosaics using colored rice around the courtyard. We weren't allowed in the temple itself because the Queen Mother had just arrived to dedicate a butter lamp in honor of her husband's birthday. This is unfortunate because Papa Lee, who was trying to get as far away as possible from pukey me, recounted later that it was the most beautiful temple he had ever been in.

After I managed to keep down some banana and rice we rolled on to the Royal Botanical Garden where we saw a crapload of different rhododendron species and I impressed the guide with my knowledge of lycopodia. Then we drove another few hours to the Punakha Dzong.

Back in the old old days, there were several Tibetan Buddhist kingdoms, each of which built a fortress doubling as administrative center and monastery. They are generally build in defensive positions such as on mountain ridges or, as in this case, at the confluence of two rivers. The Punakha Dzong is the second oldest in what is now Bhutan and was the capital of the country until 1955.

Interestingly, all new construction in Bhutan (including their lovely airport) must maintain the stylistic elements of the dzongs such as the white-wash, painted decorations, and colorful roof.

While at the dzong it was revealed just how inept birders we are. I pointed out a bird to Nara and asked her what kind it was. She answered, "It's a pigeon." When I said that it was definitely not a pigeon she replied "Well, it's some other bird then." Thank you Yale Forestry for bestowing us with such brilliant powers of deduction.

Because the dzong is still used as administrative offices for district government we could only go inside the temple, outside of which a British scholar-type was expounding to a tour group on how Buddhism is so different than Christianity. Reductionist but vaguely interesting. Again, I'm sorry I can't recall details.

Next we decided, misguidedly, to delay lunch and hike 20 minutes to a fertility temple (Chimi Lhakhang). Phuntsho, our guide verified with Nara that it wouldn't be awkward for her or her father which in itself was awkward. Y'see this temple was built after the site was blessed by the Divine Madman, a great Buddhist master who emphasized the more earthy pleasures as a means of achieving enlightenment. In fact, he espoused the use of the phallus symbol to ward off the evil eye and bring blessings. So each of us were blessed with a large wooden penis. (My friends later said that the blessing only works if you stay in the temple overnight, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.)

The town of Lubesa, in which the monastery is located, was celebrating for the king's birthday with women performing traditional dances while the men were participating in a darts contest. The large, weighted darts were thrown at a distance of about 30 meters at a target about the size of a typical dartboard. We watched for a bit until I was struck by the fear that I might lose an eye from one of the errant darts. I will say, though,, that even the errant darts were surprisingly accurate.

Post lunch, where I worried several restaurant staff by only eating rice and bananas (again), we headed back to Thimpu for a dinner with our Bhutanese grad schoolmates. Despite sheer exhaustion and having puked one more time right before meeting, it was totally worth it to see everyone and chat about all manner of issues: invasive species, service projects that involve schoolchildren burning marijuana plants, the up-and-coming potato chip industry, Frozen, the country's sole helicopter, Donald Trump, and, of course, Bhutan's finest phalluses. (Phalli?) I'd be glad to expand on any of these conversational topic upon request.

The prevailing wisdom when sick in the USA is to eat lightly, stick to a bland diet, and drink plenty of fluids. So by the end of the dinner I thought I would lose it if one more person told me "eat more", "drink some brandy", "try yogurt", or "rice and toast aren't a sufficient meal." Nara tried to come to my rescue with the exhortation to just treat me "like an American." but that only prompted one well-meaning person to suggest a hamburger restaurant that foreigners love. Ah well, visited 20 countries and puked in 6 of them. And the company for this round was fabulous: from my sister Mary (in spririt) to Nara to the whole Bhutan crew. Chobs! (with some ginger ale.)

Isn't travel glamorous?

I find that I don't generally write about travel unless it is to rant about terrible service or whine about buses. I am not alone; my friend ATK recently wrote a searing piece on the Frankfurt airport. But even though my trip home from Nicaragua was obviously booked by a sadist, and there will be no small amount of whining, I'd like to also celebrate the quirky, the cute, and the kind people I crossed paths with on my journey.

In booking my flight home I had to check with my parents to see how their schedule could coordinate with picking me up from the airport. (After a full year in Nicaragua I was not traveling particularly lightly and could not have managed public transit.) My parents informed me that they were leaving on vacation the week I was planning to come home and so I would have to leave the day after my birthday. Since my birthday ushered in a new level of ancientness it seemed only appropriate to go to bed at 9PM. I am mostly kidding; my flight was at 6AM and I wanted to be slightly coherent in the morning just in case something weird happened and I needed to be able to think. For example, on my trip to El Salvador my name was spelled wrong on the ticket and that caused a teensy bit of trouble at an ungodly hour.

As on all trips leaving a country for forever, I had carefully calculated my currency so that I would have minimal cordobas going home. In fact, I had slightly less than $20 which I thought would be enough to pay for my taxi (who last time had charged me $10). However, last time wasn't at three in the morning so the taxista charged me a full $20. Evidently I hadn't slept quite enough to be coherent because instead of just negotiating him down to the cordobas that I had, I handed him a $20...which meant that I was going to have to spend a bit on earrings and chocolates in the airport.

I hauled my luggage up to the counter where a man told me that not only did I have way too many bags but also that one of my bags was over 50lbs. (Note: Nicaraguans use pounds for some reason. Just so you know. Once my physical therapist asked me what I weighed and I was all proud of myself that I could do the conversion to kilograms in my head and he completely deflated me by asking, "Oh, but what's that in pounds?") Again, at 4:00 in the morning my logic escaped me and I blurted out something like, "ugh. credit card me." First note about lovely people: the man in line in front of me helped me heft my behemoth bags on the scale despite having two children and several bags to wrangle himself. It was very sweet. Second note: the man at the ticket counter booked me an exit row seat. I think he felt sorry for me having to lay down about $300 on luggage. Especially after I plaintively remarked, "That's like a whole 'nother flight home."

After being freed from my luggage I set off to liberate myself from my $17 in cordobas. First I bought a box of chocolates. I sadly didn't have quite enough money for two. So I bought a pair of super pretty earrings. The saleswoman looked me straight in the eye, smirked and handed me my change in all coins. If there's anything worse than having $3 left to spend, it's having it in the form of 40 heavy pieces of metal. I subjected the poor snack woman to my ire by buying a water with those coins. She actually did not react poorly, probably because I was using the Bolivian tactic of telling her that she would forgive me before I did something wrong. ("Me va a disculpar pero...") I'd never used it in Nicaragua before. They tend to rely on the opposite tactic of forgiving wrongdoing with a "No biggie." (No hay falla.) I wonder what their disparate methods for diffusing small conflicts implies?

Then I went through passport control where I had the same problem I have every time: describing my profession. In Bolivia, every professional is either a licenciado or ingeniero. I decided early on to say that I was an ingeniera forestal or forester. The Nicaraguan officers ALWAYS have a problem with this. I'm not sure if it's because the concept does not translate in Nicanol (I never hear anyone use the Lic. or Ing. title there) or if they know that the forestry trade is largely controlled by the Nica government so there's no way I could be involved, or because I'm a woman. Then the discussion reveals that I work in international development (another tricky concept) for a Catholic agency but no one can ever think of a job title for that, least of all me. Generally, they resort to writing down "missionary" which drives me nuts.

On the plane in my spacious exit row I was seated next to a Nicaraguan woman and her American boyfriend. As we took off, the Nica and I started crying. Me because it has been a weird year that didn't go very well and her because this had been her first time back in Nicaragua in 18 years and she was leaving her family behind again. This created a bond between us and she and her boyfriend shared with me some of the Nica treats they were carrying back. We ate corn cakes and rosquillas and drank terrible coffee. When we got our customs form the Nica wrote out a list of food items to declare that rivaled War and Peace for length. It made me seriously rethink my shopping choices; hibiscus flowers and chia and coconut oil would go way farther than rum and coffee. I also subtly cautionws her that she may not want to admit to everything.

We parted ways upon landing because I only had one hour between flights. An hour between flights is pretty standard except when you need to go through passport control and customs like we all did. Like I mentioned before, a sadist booked my flights. So I grabbed my three four-hundred pound bags and went to the customs line. At one point I must have looked confused (or been staring at someone blankly) because another traveler ahead of me in line asked me if I was ok. As I finally neared the customs official I noticed that I was behind the couple carrying every single Nicaraguan export. They, surprisingly, breezed through. Maybe they took my advice. I, however, found it very hard to describe my job without using words like farm, agriculture, and plants. As I saw the gleam in the officer's eyes that indicated that he had finally nabbed a dirty farm-going hippie and would subject me to a first-degree inspection and quarantine I blurted out in a last-ditch effort, "It's an office job! I've never even touched a cow!" Phew. He left me with a parting admonition not to hold my passport in my mouth because "Who knows what these officers have touched." Not a cow though. They haven't touched any cows.

The next officer started a friendly conversation and for some reason asked how many languages I spoke. He then gave me further directions in French. Luckily they were appropriate to my pidgin level. It is always so nice to have a friendly interaction with airport personnel. (I'm not being facetious or sarcastic. It really is the little things that can help you bear lugging 150 pounds of luggage around for hours.)

Next I dropped off my bags and got in line for security. At one point a TSA agent was shepherding a man through the line saying that his flight left in 30 minutes. I blurted out, "But mine leaves in 20!" She left him right behind me. I made it onto my plane and was immediately confronted by a shrieking three year old. Hysterical. And this another one of those friendly interactions: one of the flight attendants whisked the screaming banshee and his grandma away to the galley and fixed him a juice and somehow calmed the kidlet down. They returned to their seat where the little one sang the alphabet song for the entire flight. My favorite part was "vee, dubble-ubble, ex, why, zeeeeee."

Somehow the flight arrived 20 minutes early which was the only reason I had time to pee and get something to eat before my next flight. Because, yes, the sadist travel agent could not get me a direct flight from Miami to NY. Also let's take a moment to kvetch about how airlines don't provide food anymore. I mean I had prepared in advance but there are only so many linseed granola bars a girl can eat...especially without peanut butter.

And that's all. I made it home to NY safely with all my luggage and I send thank you to the guy who helped me lift my bags, the desk attendant who gave me an exit seat, the Nica couple who shared their food, the woman who worried about my mental state, the French-speaking customs agent, the child-whisperer flight attendant, and all the people who didn't stare at me as I stretched in the airport.

Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dating life

EDIT: My classmate saw that I had linked to her page and enacted a Facebook war. I had taken this post down to avoid her ire and because I generally don't write snark but I think I'm ok with her fiery wrath.

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A classmate of mine from elementary school has just started a blog detailing her terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dating life*. Consumed with jealously that she’s getting so many hits despite completely uninteresting stories with an undeniably bitchy tone, I have decided to illuminate my readers on my own dating horror stories.

This is not the first time that I’ve delved into this realm. Please allow me a moment of shameless self-promotion to point you to my James Bond versus Indiana Jones dateability ranking, a discussion of the term “winter boyfriend,” and my short-lived blog where I faked Missed Connections and wrote about the hilarity that ensued.

So here's my story: In the interest of personal safety women do not typically reveal specifically where they live or work on dates. Makes sense. A first date is still a potentially crazy person who you don’t want showing up at the office or your apartment. Keep this in mind.

When I lived in NY I belonged to OKCupid**, a free online dating service that attracts people who are slightly less desperate than eHarmony users. The fact that I wear glasses and use full sentences generally weeds out some of the less savory characters. But then came Ediz***. He was Turkish, self-employed, living in Astoria and working in midtown. We met for Tuesday happy hour at a lounge in my neighborhood. Lounges are at best a little creepy but this one was creepier than most. Let me elaborate: The seating was the saggy type of sofa where you have no choice but to basically sit on the person you’re with. All of the cocktails had names like “tie me to the bedpost” or “jealous bitch” or “sex on the sofa.” The lighting was provided by colored bulbs and scented candles. And the bartender inappropriately suggested that my date get me drunk to take advantage of me.

So I maintained my distance from the man who thought this might be somehow romantic or classy. I sat far from him and mentioned several times that since it was a Tuesday I would have to leave early for work, in an undisclosed location. But then Ediz said…

“You work in Central Park right? I’ve seen you around. And then I recognized you on OKCupid”

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

Evidently Ediz was a pedicabber in Central Park and had seen me driving around in my sweet Parks Department Prius. Now my baseline state is road-ragey and I had a particular grudge against pedicabbers so I immediately wondered if I had run over a friend of his and he was enacting revenge.

I don’t recall much of the date except for his endless efforts to get me to drink more. He was really putting the pressure on and I was continuously and obviously resisting, avoiding, and literally drawing away from him. I even moved to an entirely different couch.

When I was finally able to leave he offered to walk me home. “No thanks” I said, “It’s not far.” He said he really wanted to see where I lived. I politely refused again. It was a surprisingly prolonged discussion. It seems that men aren’t really aware of the “don’t let a potential stalker know where you live” rule. Although I suppose you couldn’t be a potential stalker if you didn’t force the issue.

And despite all indications that I had no interest in him, Ediz tried to kiss me. I pulled some serious Matrix-level shit to avoid that. I am not joking. I had no idea I was that flexible.

Just. like. this.

Before you tell me that I overreacted and I didn’t give this guy a chance… my gut was right. He called and texted and emailed me incessantly for months. I was so so very glad that he also didn’t know where I lived because I have no doubt that he would have showed up on my doorstep. We have rules for a reason people.

And next I tell you about the time I invited a guy back to my place to “look at my new hockey skates.”

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*It’s only fair to

link to it but don’t click on the link because I can’t bear for her to have more viewers.

**Ok I still belong to OkCupid, even though there are all of 5 people who live in Managua

***Name changed to protect the no good, horrible dates. Ediz is a real Turkish name which means "high" which cracks me up for some reason. Yes I Googled

Turkish names. This is nothing if not a well-researched piece. 

Valentine's Day in a Nicaraguan jail

A slip of paper wedged into the door handle of the closed police station read"El taxero es numero uno." I, however, was number thirteen and jealous of the taxi driver's genius. While I stood on line in the sun, he went to buy breakfast and then sat in his cab eating while reading the newspaper and listening to classic baladas.

How did we get here you ask? I don't know about taxero numero uno but at 5PM on Valentine's Day I backed into a (different) taxi in a gas station. I was going at a glacial pace but since I was driving a tank and he a microwave there was a little damage to his car.

As the taxi driver ran around the gas station telling everyone "I honked!" I totally cried and called my office.

As far as I'm aware, in the States we would have just exchanged insurance information and maybe called the police for a report. The system in Nicaragua, I suppose, is somewhat similar. My office called the insurance guy and the transit police who both arrived on scene...after an hour or so. The insurance adjuster took a statement and several pictures. I found it telling that the taxista had already met him before, having had several previous accidents...many of them in gas stations.

The policeman who showed up was evidently the wrong cop (?) so we had to wait for a new one. The new one had forgotten most of his supplies. He needed a clean white sheet of paper and a ruler to draw a diagram of our cars and their placements relative to each other and to the pumps.

They actually measured.

In situations like this you are not to move your car post-impact so that the diagram and measurements can be absolutely accurate. As you can imagine this makes it a little hazardous when accidents happen on the highway or involve pedestrians. 

Then we got all of our documents copied in triplicate. Luckily there was a copy shop across from the gas station and I had small change. The cop kept our drivers license and would have given us a form to tell us when to come pick them up but he had forgotten them. So we had to follow him (as he drove like a freaking maniac through rush hour traffic) to the police station which was hidden in Mercado Oriental, in a neighborhood I had been repeatedly warned against entering.

(No worries Mom, the office driver met me at the gas station, did the crazy driving to the police station, and made sure I knew what was going on.)

We sat there for a while comparing accident battle scars and sharing snacks until finally we got our paperwork back with an appointment at 8AM on Monday. The driver asked the taxista to arrive at 7:30 and we headed off. My driver asked if I didn't want to take advantage of his driving and go to the grocery store. I had a friend waiting for me at my house and I was going away for the weekend (and I'm slow on the uptake) so I emphatically said that I did NOT want to go to the grocery store. It wasn't until we stopped at the grocery store did I realize that the driver needed to buy dinner because it was 7:30PM on Valentine's Day and his wife had asked him to pick up something.

Then I dropped off my driver in his neighborhood where he told me in the same breath that "no worries this neighborhood is safe" but that I couldn't drop him off anywhere but right in front of his house because he "might get assaulted and robbed."

I drove home, had a romaaaaantic dinner at the mall with a Peace Corps buddy, and had a great weekend at the beach with her and three other peeps...and then returned to face the music at the police station Monday morning.

I was naive enough to think that our 8AM appointment card meant that everyone had a distinct time to sign paperwork and get their documents back. But the driver and I arrived at 7:30 to find a line already forming outside of the transit office. Not because people were afraid of missing their appointment but because everyone who had had an accident or traffic infraction in that part of the city over the entire weekend were to arrive at 8AM.

Except for the taxi driver involved in my incident. He was not there.

The office opened at 8:30 and as we walked in we were handed a number. I was lucky number 13. The 10x20ft room was packed with about 50 people (and five chairs). At least there was good ventilation. It seemed like a surprisingly friendly place as people involved in the same accident reunited, often greeting each other like long lost friends. My taxista finally arrived bearing number 45 and out of the warmness of my heart I invited him to share my number. We were called into another room where the office driver was quickly kicked out and I signed a document agreeing that the accident was my fault. The taxista was given his license back and told where to pay to get his accident report for insurance claims and was out of there like a shot. I was told that I had to pay a fine according to Ley 431 and bring the receipt back before I could pick up my license. (Looking it up later, it seems I had gotten in trouble for driving backwards in a public right of way. Which is ridiculous because it was a gas station and I was trying to change sides of the pump.)

We went back to my car where we found that one of the taillights had been popped out. The driver was so furious that he almost ran over a guy who was way too stoned to get out of the way. He was not way too stoned however not to harrass us by blowing kisses.

We drove like maniacs to the bank (which wasn't the one I thought the policewoman said to go to) but I didn't have my passport and therefore couldn't pay the bill. The driver obligingly paid for me (with my money). Then we went back to the police station where I jumped the line waving around my receipt and got my license back! YAY!

Next time "la chela es numero uno." Although I really hope there won't be a next time.

Dear Mack at Travelocity,

I’m sorry I cried on the phone with you.

I thought it would just be a quick phone call. I could rebook my flight while cooking dinner. It was 6:30 and I had just gotten back from the gym. I put water on to boil and dialed. Via Skype. From Nicaragua.

I was put on hold almost immediately. I chuckled as I remembered how awful Travelocity’s hold music is.

First I spoke with Steve. I just made his name up. I’m pretty sure Steve did too. He asked me my name. Dear Steve, Americans do not say “Please me with your name?” It made me giggle. I flashed to an image of myself whispering “lenni. lennnnnni. lenni.” into his cute, brown, head-setted ear.

We got down to business. The Travelocity kind. Not the pleasing kind. I explained that I had cancelled a flight and now wanted to use the credit. I told him I wanted to find the cheapest flight within a range of dates. I gave him the cancellation number and my email address. He told me that he couldn’t hear me because there was an echo.

Fair enough Steve. I live in an airy Central American palace. I walked outside, facing ants of all different sizes and propensities towards biting. I braved mosquitoes and dengue for you Steve. I repeated myself.

Evidently my request was impossible. He asked what time I wanted to fly on the 23^rd of December. I asked again if it was possible to investigate a range of options. Y’know, like they do on YOUR WEBSITE. No. I asked Steve if perhaps it would help if I searched the American Airlines website for the cheapest option. He said yes and hung up. Oh Steve.

I called back and spoke with Dan. Again, not his real name. Dan sounded so much like Steve that I wondered if it was a cruel joke. I wondered every time he put me back on hold. The water on the stove boiled down to the pot. I turned off the gas. My computer flashed a battery warning. Finally I told Dan exactly what flight I wanted to be on, we booked it successfully (I think), he transferred me to billing…and I was put on hold. For forty minutes.

My neighbors looked out their window to see what the horrible noise was.

Had I been rude? Was this some sort of karmic punishment? I went a little nuts from the hold music. I hung up.

I dialed again. I put water back on the stove, faithful that this time all would work out. I plugged in my computer. I spoke with Vikram. (I may as well make up good names.)  I put noodles in the water and told him exactly what flights I wanted. I told him that the hold music was awful and he made every effort to keep me on the line. Vikram was my buddy. He transferred me to billing.

And Mack, you answered. You asked if I could please you with my name. You asked how you could help me. I thought you would have known. But no, you asked for my booking number and inquired after my flight dates. And that’s when I started to cry. “I already diiid all this,” I plaintively whined. But you were a specialist. We had to start over.

I gave you my booking number. You told me I was missing a number. (No Mack. YOU missed a number.) I repeated it. It was no longer in the system. I spelled my email for you. Several times. N as in Nancy. N as in Nincompoop. N as in Never use Travelocity again. You found me, “Ok a flight on Delta airlines from Los Angeles to Las Vegas in September?” Noooo. “Armstems at aol dot com?” Nooo.

I gave you specific flight times and flight numbers. You kept forgetting about the flying to/from NY part. “ok Managua to Miami.” Nooo. “Ok departing flight Managua to Miami to NY. Returning flight Miami to Managua.” Nooo.

We got it straightened out and you gave me the price. I cried again. A flight to NY is not worth $900. The American Airlines website said that it was about half that. Mack, you had the wrong date. Honest mistake. We tried again.

You told me I had $150 in credit left over. You told me that to get the voucher I would have to pay $29.50 to have it mailed and $70 for something or other. I asked, casually, if that money would be taken out of the voucher, leaving me with only $50.50. You said that that was impossible. I had to charge the $29.50 on my card. I asked, innocently, if I was essentially paying for my own money. You didn’t understand me.

My noodles turned to mush. You said you’d send me the voucher. You had the wrong address. When I gave you the correct one you asked if I lived in LaGuardia NY or JFK NY. That was funny.

Sorry I cried on the phone with you. But you can see where I was coming from, right?

Love,

Lenni

So family, I will be in NY from 23 December to 1 January. I expect bagels, Chinese food, and root beer. (They have a handle on pizza here.)

Things I still love, hate, and am amused by in Bolivia.

Once upon a time I wrote a list about all the things I loved and hated and was amused by in Bolivia. Upon my recent return I was struck by things I had forgotten about, never wrote about, or was glad to see still exasperated me. I wrote the list on the back of a receipt but the waiter took it.

So #1 is receipts. I had forgotten that everything requires a receipt. Bolivians put their name and tax id so that later they can pay sales tax. I can only imagine the accounting required for such a system. Do you have to save your receipts for an entire year? I already forgot to save my boarding passes for research funding! Or are the restaurants responsible for collating all this data? They can't even serve me an overpriced Huari in under a half an hour!
2. Tight pants. For some reason, despite living in NYC where Latinos abound, I forgot about the importance of tight pants and hair gel. I'm staying in a hostel for now so I went out to dinner with a Brasileno staying there. After I noted that I was underdressed, he mentioned that women can't even enter a club in Sao Paulo without significant surgery. (He was commiserating so I'm pretty sure I'm not offended.)
3. During the same outing I commented wistfully, "There's never any pepper in this country."
4. Mokochinchi! OMG I am super excited about dehydrated peaches soaked in water with at least a kilo of sugar! All street foods really! And soup!
5. But I forgot how gross the rice is. And that there is nothing vegetarian.
6. The constant need for spare change. Boy do I miss metro cards....and  public transportation in general because
7. I forgot how confusing the micros are, and how personal space and courtesy do not exist on them. Yesterday I was basically told to push my way through to the door (by people I was pushing through).
8. And although it rains almost every day everyone seems surprised and no one has an umbrella.

So anyway I'm back in the Oblivs, working with an organization to measure carbon stocks in a Guarani community that is struggling to make money off of sportfishing and which may eventually be flooded by dam construction rendering all my work moot. I've already lost one of my favorite earrings, my Spanish is back at a level of "suck," and my heels aren't high enough but I still find myself smiling broadly to back in this weird and wonderful country.

dating dilemma

Like all modern urban women of a certain age, I have tried the online dating thing. Since I generally judge people on the their grammar and wit, the idea of scoping people out through a written profile and email exhange (plus carefully choreographed photos) appeals to me. I meet well-read, politically literate guys who are awesome people and spiffy dressers...and we have one date.

 

Moving away from that sad fact, one prospective boytoy recently posed the question "Who would you rather date, James Bond or Indiana Jones?" Never one to make an uninformed decision, I immediately began to draft a pro-con list:

 

James Bond

 

Pro

 

• Athletic
• Snappy dresser
• Likes to travel – even been to Bolivia!
• Good with gadgets – could probably program VCR! (I still hold this as the gold-standard of gadget mastery.)
• Variety – in the literal sense you almost never get the same Bond.
• Sophisticated – he owns his own tux!
• Sexy accent – what girl doesn't go for an accent?
• Intelligent
• EU citizenship – better healthcare and education system just in case we marry
• Well paid and well connected
• Tan suavecito – por Dios!
• Superduper hot – especially Daniel Craig
• Can defy laws of physics

Con

 

• Brits not known for sexual prowess
• Emotionally distant
• High maintenance
• Ladies’ man – must have the herp by now
• Questionable morals
• No sense of humor
• High risk profession

 Indiana Jones

 

 

 Pro

 

•  Athletic
• Boy Scout
• Likes to travel
• Low maintenance
• Quick thinker
• Close to family – you could have a charming inlaw
• Self-deprecating wit
• Good with whips – if you like that sort of thing
• Dog person
• Intelligent – reads dead languages (siiiiigh)
• Looks good in a bow tie – honestly that is hard to pull off!

Con

 

• Emotionally distant
• In love with Marion
• Gruff (could be super sexy pro)
• Somewhat naïve
• Afraid of snakes and rats
• Bad temper

 

 It all comes down to this astute observation from my friend Christian, "Would you rather die a horrible death in a foreign country on the adventure of a lifetime or would you rather die a horrible death in a foreign country on the adventure of a lifetime with an std? On the other hand James Bond comes with the new-every-two plan."

I'm not sure it really matters. I'll always be a Lloyd Dobbler girl.