How I long to be on the water again. To feel the wind against my back. To see the “Brutalist” buildings of Harvard, the leafy green trees, and the runners in neon whizzing by in a blur. I exaggerate of course as I have never moved fast enough under my own power to blur something. To hear the bells of the bicycles, the insistent honking of cars and, rarely, a train rumbling across the bridges overhead. I miss seeing the herons in flight and the cormorants bobbing on the water - their golden beaks looking surprisingly friendly to spite their jet black bodies. I have been known to greet them as I pass. I even miss the sight of the setting sun burning into my eyes as I squint my eyes half closed hoping against hope that I don't hit anything as tears stream down my face. I miss the feeling of passing under the stone bridges and how the water becomes suddenly still, the air ten degrees cooler, and the splashing sounds echoing around me. I miss the feeling of my muscles working together. From my feet to my calves to my quads then abdominal muscles, back, and arms -- for that is the way you are to row. “Legs back arms. Arms, back legs.” we chant. I even miss the pain as the oars bite into my tender hands beginning another season of building calluses. I miss the splash of the water. The sound of the oars dipping under the surface and whooshing towards the front of the boat. Although to be honest I'm not quite strong enough to whoosh. What’s weaker than a whoosh? A swish? I even miss the smell of the stagnant river, the cars’ exhaust, and the diesel fumes of the passing trains. I miss the feeling of breathing hard and my heart beating fast - particularly when I fear that the ferry will crash into me or when I see dark ominous thunderclouds gathering overhead. I miss the sound of the fisherman yelling at me for I have tangled my boat into his line. The water from my bottle stored in a sock at my feet tastes clean and clear - no matter the film of bluegreen algae water clinging to the lip of the Nalgene. Hasn’t killed me yet. I miss the tinny electronic boom of the coach’s megaphone telling me that I should probably move faster.
And all you would have seen, as you walk across the University Bridge is a woman in neon pink, ponytail pulled through a ratty black hat skimming smoothly across the water of the Charles River in a bright red rowing shell. Whoosh, swish. But maybe she would greet you too.
For Christmas my sister invited me to Puerto Rico and despite the threat of having to share a room with a sixteen year old and a four year old, I jumped at the chance. My sister E is notoriously uptight well-organized about vacations. Generally, she releases a spreadsheet to the whole family months in advance that includes lodging, travel times, etc.
So it was a surprise when my sister abdicated all responsibility for planning beyond booking the flight and house...even though I roll the same spreadsheet-y way:
And it went well! Except I couldn't find any Christmas carrollers with whom to get drunk. Ah well.
Day #3 we moseyed over to El Yunque National Park. The guidebook says to stop at the Visitor Center but I'm telling you now that it's not necessary...unless you super duper have to pee or you enjoy paying $4 for documentaries about something you'll see later. There are no trails that leave from the Visitor Center. So choose some trails to hike, arrive directly there, and be aware that after around two there will be no parking anywhere. We stopped at Yocahu Tower and counted the steps three times (travelling with a four year old is interesting) and then hiked to the Mt. Britton tower whining much of the way (travelling with a four year old is interesting). On the way back sooo many people asked us if they were almost there...and many of them were wearing t-shirts from midwestern states...and my sister and her family struck up conversations with each of them. Peak Minnesota. Then it was so crowded that we couldn't park at any of the trailheads so we went home and beached.
The next day we ventured into San Juan, the gorgeous city founded in 1503. One of the tour guides referred to San Juan as in international pit stop which, although irreverent, gives you a sense of its original purpose as a much-coveted stopover for merchants and later a much fought-over location fortified up the wazoo. As big fans of the National Park Service we went to San Cristobal and Fuerte El Morro to see these forts. And I learned a new word!
Not to be confused with
One of the guerites at Castillo San Cristóbal is called "El Guerita del Diablo." Local legend says that soldiers often disappeared randomly from the guerite. The Devil got them! It;s more likely, however, that soldiers left their post to go to the bar or meet up with their boos, and decided to never come back. El Guerite del Diablo it is currently inaccessible to the general public, but it can be seen from the upper part of the fort.
See?
After the first fort we took a lunch break Cafe Manolin where we scarfed down the best mofongo on the planet. Mofongo, for the uninitiated, is plantains fried then mashed with salt, garlic and oil and then stuffed with meat. The general consensus is that it was delicious but sits like a rock and was perhaps was a one-time thing. (I have pictures of my giant food baby but I reserve the right to not display them to my ten readers.)
El Morro was stunningly byootiful:
After we were hot and tired and fort-ed out we left to wander through the city. We stopped in some random churches but the highlight, especially for my niece Elena, was Parque de las Palomas. I'm not sure that she was aware that Paloma is Spanish for pigeon and that the park would be filled with her least favorite vertebrate but she weathered it with a minimum of screaming.
The next day we headed to Fajardo where the older kids and brother-in-law went kayaking. I had neglected to say in the planning that I wanted to go NIGHT kayaking to see the bioluminescence so I also neglected to go with them because I was afraid I would fry. Instead, my sister, the kidlet, and I swam all day, stopping only to eat something called arepas but definitely not arepas but still pretty good.
Brother-in-law had only ONE thing that he really really wanted to see: Arecibo Observatory. Not because he's a big fan of the movie Contact but because he's a giant nerd.
So we obliged! According to their website "Arecibo Observatory is a research center operated by SRI International, USRA and UMET, under a cooperative agreement with the National Science Foundation (NSF). and NASA. As the site of the second world's largest single-dish radio telescope, the Observatory is recognized as one of the most important national centers for research in radio astronomy, planetary radar and terrestrial aeronomy." I don't know what any of that means and even though it was explained through a short movie, several displays, and a tour guide I still don't.
Because we didn't order a rental van in a timely manner, we were stuck with two cars. Every day I would have to bribe someone to come with me and that day my sister took the bait. So I drove to our next stop through winding Puerto Rico back roads, with E gasping any time I was anywhere close to driving us off a cliff or into another car. Such drama. (Some of you may have driven with me in Nicaragua and know that I am perfectly capable but perhaps a little Latina in my driving style.) Our next stop was Hacienda La Esperanza. Managed by Para la Naturaleza, a Puerto Rico-based conservation group, the Hacienda highlights the sugar industry and the enslaved persons that made it possible.
A press for sugar cane
Fully mechanized operation (from West Point foundry!)
A collection of machetes,
The area was beautiful, the tour comprehensive and informative, and the legacy of slavery was not glossed over.
That evening we stopped at Bebo's, a VERY popular roadside barbecue joint out by the airport. I thought I did a good job ordering (without a menu and as a vegetarian) but learned that my niece doesn't actually like yucca or platanos and was (rightly) sick of beans. Ah well.
After days at the beach and driving around I really didn't want to go home and immediately applied for a job at the university measuring urban street trees...but I didn't get it so it left me open for other adventures to write about soon!
(For realz though, I went to India. You'll enjoy this.)
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.
I send you out now, to share yourself with the world
May its promise and complexity set your mind ablaze
May you hold fast to what your life has taught you
May you question everything
And when you have changed the world,
And the world has changed you,
May you return again, to this place,
And share what you have learned with us.
—Rev. Kelly Weisman Asprooth-Jackson, "I Send You Out"
I thought I'd take a short detour from writing about my trip to Haiti (and the last few days in Costa Rica. Sorry.) to enumerate my theory of seasonal steadies. I can't take all the credit for the idea of a cycle of patterned partners. While I was living in Bolivia, and freezing my little backside off, my colleague told me that I needed a winter boyfriend. A winter boyfriend, he explained, was someone who's main role was to keep my bed warm. (Just to be clear, he wasn't volunteering himself for the job.)
Although a practical idea, I didn't think more on it until this year when I lived in the draftiest coldest apartment known to man. I mentioned to my friends that instead of buying yet another pile of blankets I was on the prowl for a snow steady. He should be somewhat stocky (to lend warmth), look good in a sweater and like to read, watch movies (and do other stuff) in bed and ideally be able to skate. If he can make pasta and soups all the better. Goodness, I just googled winter boyfriend ...and it's actually a thing. See here and here. This came up recently on a camping trip when a classmate of ours was walking around in a t-shirt and overalls while the rest of us were wearing thirty layers of flannel. My bestie yelled out, "Oh my god Lenni, he can be your winter boyfriend!" Anyway think Andrew Lincoln or Jason Segel.
But despite the residual sweaters, we are now moving into Spring. I need a sweetie who will match my sundress. I'm thinking metrosexual, stylish arm candy. Jude Law anyone? Adrian Brody? I suppose these two could transition into summer but perhaps a more bronzed muscled look would be more appropriate. Anything to distract from my glowing whiteness. Think high school. Chris Evans. James Marsden. (By the way if you google shirtless you get a surprising amount of Zac Efron results.) My favorite season however is Fall. Crispy leaves, Cool air. New school supplies and hot professors in tweed waxing poetic. John Slattery-ish.
Not that it matters. For as I've already said, I'll always be a Lloyd Dobler girl.
This Fall my Grandma gave me $20 to put towards a purchase of new hockey skates. Even though I've been on the ice since before I could walk (which honestly hasn't helped me develop any great level of skill), I can only remember once receiving a brand new pair of skates. So this seemingly age-inappropriate gift was surprisingly sweet.
Starry-eyed I set off to make "the purchase." The salesman, or more accurately the saleskid, was named Vladimir or Olaf or Gordon or some other name associated with cold weather countries whose citizens hold innate knowledge of skate craftsmanship. As such, he explained that skates come in a variety of stiffnesses that support the skater in his her speed and acrobatics. He also explained that although junior skates would be infinitely more comfortable, flexible and perhaps most importantly cheaper, they would not be really usable after they had broken in (too too flexible). However, unless I planned to skate all day every day or gain 100 pounds this was unlikely to happen. After an hour and twenty pairs of skates, Vlaimir-Olaf-Gordon began to doubt my true commitment to providing him with a sales commision and pawned me off to an even more junior associate. This guy handed me a 21st pair which I immediately bought. (Shameless plug: Paragon Sports offers free skate sharpening for life with purchase.)
I brought my skates home and put them on display in a place of prominence so that I could gaze at them and admire them every day. So excited was I that later that week I actually invited a guy back to my apartment to "meet my skates." Luckily he knew me well enough to realize that 1) I was a smidge intoxicated and 2) I was totally serious. "Meet my skates" was unfortunately not some footwear related euphemism like "knocking boots." (He declined by the way.)
As we all know, $20 does not buy a pair of skates...or even one-fifth of a pair so I swore to make them worth every penny and set the goal of skating in every rink in New York City. Queens: Flushing Meadows and City Ice Pavillion Manhattan: Wollman, Lasker, Bryant Park, Chelsea Piers, and Rockefeller Center Brooklyn: Abe Stark Staten Island: Clove Lakes, Ice Skating Pavillion
Paying to skate may not seem the most reasonable way to offset a big purchase but it provided a uniquie adventure that allowed me to experience a wide swathe of NYC with my friends.
Every family has their own unique traditions that often change into adulthood. This Christmas, as the only child of four to come home, I reflected on how our family Christmases have changed.
The holidays began with the hefting of the tree. It would be kept in the garage for a few days (leading my brother to believe as an adult that a tree needs to be kept cold before being brought into the house) until Dad struggled with it up two flights of stairs, scratching ceilings and raining needles over everything. This event was followed closely by the holiday vacuuming. We would decorate the tree with handmade ornaments and metal tinsel which unfortunately conducts electricity very well and eventually migrated from the tree to the carpeting, Christmas sweaters and anything remotely charged within a four foot radius. Then we'd set up the creche and tie our stockings on the entertainment center; the fireplace is downstairs and lacks a mantel anyway.
On Christmas morning we would run and perch in the living room. We never disturbed the inner sanctum of the parents' bedroom but adopted my father's own technique for rallying the troops - yelling - until we were allowed to open the stockings which held a treasure trove of lego sets, chocolates, and Christmas socks.
After the small taste of gift-wrapping we would all go to church where we would smoosh into the pews while trying to avoid actually touching each other. Afterwards, while still attired in relatively clean and unwrinkled clothing we were subjected to the annual family photo. This involved one sibling or another pinching or goosing another while our mother yelled "Not that smile! Your real smile!" as we grimaced to avoid flinching. After many years this joyous tradition became known affectionately (or less-so) as the "Christmas torture."
A big breakfast followed, with us kids eating as fast as humanly possible so that we could return to the living room. (Semi-annually my brother would be sick and miserable - which added an extra dimension to the festivities.) My parents, on the other hand, moved astoundingly slow, chewing more than absolutely necessary and insisting on coffee and a bathroom break as we yelled with increasing volume from the couch.
My mother gave out the presents, one to each person, and we would all open them at the same time. Santa was always generous and even included my parents who by the way had markedly different handwriting; I never figured this out. My best gift ever was new ice skates and as the youngest girl it was the only new pair of ice skates I ever got. When gift guessing/shaking one person always speculated that it was either a tennis racket or a hockey stick. To save money, or trees, my mother always reused boxes. You could always count on the Deb box making an appearance and our personal favorite, the cat box. The cat box, still in use today, is a green box that has a picture of two kittens gamboling with a Christmas wreath. In the spirit of sibling rivalry we declared that the recipient of the cat box was Mom's favorite for the year.
Christmas continued at dinner with the presence of Gram, Uncle John and Aunt Ruth, Joe and Mr. Pfister. Mr Pfister deserves his very own paragraph honestly. He was an ancient German man (I'm pretty sure this wasn't just my youthful perspective) who was so spry that he would always swing up the stairs on the banister. He had a dog named Wicket, equally ancient yet spry, who could jump at least ten feet in the air. Wicket was only allowed on the stair landing which I was perfectly fine with as he was a completely insane animal.
The Christmas spirit hasn't changed overly. The stocking gifts evolved into chapsticks and socks. The celebration just wouldn't be the same without the annual gift of lip balm! Breakfast is my favorite part as it is very rare that my entire family eats together. (My father has a slurping fondness for oatmeal that requires us kids to construct cereal box barriers to avoid seeing the gray mass in his bowl). The tree is fake. Some relatives are gone (including Wicket) and new ones introduced. My brother-in-law insists on putting hot sauce on the turkey. And this year I was declared the favorite!
In Bolivia people get sick. (duh?) As such, they have developed wide ranging wit and wisdom inherent to folk medicine. If you suffer from intestinal parasites, stys, cracking joints or rashes among other ailments, please continue reading and you may find a cure!
Got hiccups? Don't worry. You're growing.
Intestinal parasites? Eat a piece of cheese and chase it with a shot of your favorite alcohol. As it happens, bichitos can't get enough of cheese. They'll swarm to it and then be killed by the booze. Not a bad way to go if you ask me.
A sty? Or chalazion? Or whatever the heck they're called...eye pimple? Put a pair of dirty underwear on it.
Gall bladder problems are a result of RAGE. (much like zombie-ism)
UTI? You forgot to bundle your kidneys! (Don't ask. I'm not entirely sure how that works)
Don't look at something you shouldn't. You'll get pink eye.
Coke cures diarrhea. How's that for product placement?
Beer, on the other hand, cures sore throats, hangovers and all sorts of social phobias.
If you stand on something cold, you'll get arthritis. (Don't worry, beer will loosen those old joints up!)
If you sit on something hot, you'll get a stomachache.
Rashes can be caused by an unclean stomach. (I actually heard this from a medical professional.) However, hives can be cured by wearing clothing of the opposite sex.
Sinning results in knee pain...or is it the atonement?
and finally, semen is a phenomenal anti-wrinkle agent.
--It amuses me that Bolivians seem to have super human hearinh Someone can merely whisper to catch a bus or taxi. And yet they play the radio and TV at a volume loud enough to wake the dead. Perhaps only maestros have the power of super-hearing.
--I hate that people pee outdoors especially when there is an indoor bathroom readily available.
--I thus far STONGLY DISLIKE gringo pricing and bargaining.
--I love that there are no less than three stalls in the Cancha (big huge market in Cochabamba) dedicated to buttons. You can sell anything ont he street here. It is however sad that people need to resort to selling limonada and globos because they are underemployed.
--I love that sitting in the plaza doing nothing is an acceptable, and even required, activity.
--I love that Bolivian children are so darn cute.
I hate that there are no comfortable chairs.
--I am amused that people cross the street to stay in the shade. This does nothing to aggravate the already existing traffic patterns, Although I find it charming that drivers adapt a pack mentality, disregarding both lane dividers and traffic signals in Coch and Tarija, I find it absolutely petrifying in Santa Cruz. I also like that horns are used to communicate, "Hey! Look! I´m crossing an intersection!"
--I love saying "¿no ve?" after every sentence and people who can only say "Good morning beautiful" in English and insist on saying it whatever time of day it is.
--I´m not sure of my feelings that everyone and their mother plays the trumpet here..and at all hours of the night but I love parades.
*This column, hereafter to be referred to as TILHAABIB is modeled after one that I wrote in my more sentimental days about a certain (now ex) boyfriend. There will be further, markedly less sentimental items about Bolivia in the future.
"listen to the musn'ts child, listen to the don'ts. listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. listen to the never haves, then listen close to me. anything can happen child, anything can be." ~shel silverstein
Today is my 101st post. I was planning to say something witty and insightful but you know how plans go. (Actually I do have a tasteless joke about Foley if you care to hear.)
News: Medically cleared for Peace Corps! Went to a horrifically stilted alumni event. Hung with Meggie. Tutoring starts again. Am stupidest person in my Spanish class. No doubt.
Um. That's about it actually.
Anyone wanna go hiking with me this weekend? Also, anyone have anything hooded and red...cloak, sweatshirt etc?
Squeee! "Squee can be an exclamation, or interjection, of excited happiness or surprise, especially when referring to fangirls, or be a squeal of glee over something incredibly cute."
I bet Squee! in Spanish is still Squeee! Actually it's probably Esquee.
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Quote of the week: "How do you expect to sleep with the lead singer when you leave before the end of the show?"
I think this is an excellent example of how we must stick to our dreams. Believe! Stick it out (to the end of the show)! Do (the lead singer)!
So this post previously had an entire list of the Newberry Award winners with the ones i've read in bold so that I can show off to you how well read I am...in children's books. As It was pretentious and a waste of space you'll just have to go to the list by yourself.
The sun has left and forgotten me It’s dark, I cannot see Why does this rain pour down I’m gonna drown in a sea of deep confusion
Somebody told me, I don’t know who Whenever you are sad and blue And you’re feeling all alone and left behind Just take a look inside you and you will find
You gotta hold on, hold on through the night Hang on, things will be all right Even when it’s dark and not a bit of sparkling Sing-song sunshine from above Spreading rays of sunny love
Just hang on, hang on to the vine Stay on, soon you’ll be divine If you start to cry, look up to the sky Something’s coming up ahead To turn your tears to dew instead
And so I hold on to this advice When change is hard and not so nice If you listen to your heart the whole night through Your sunny someday will come one day soon to you
As they site says, and I'll repeat, "C'mon, you know you've got one. If you're like me, you've got some voicemails you've been saving on your phone for ages. For instance, right now I’ve got one from my boyfriend, followed by my friend talking in a funny accent, followed by my mom telling me to come home for dinner. Each voicemail is its own, full-length story; a time capsule of earlier parts of my life. Now I’m collecting other people’s favorite voicemails--happy, sad, ridiculous--to eventually showcase on NPR. I'm calling it The Voicemail Project, and I think it's going to catch those little fleeting moments of our everyday experience."
I actually only have two saved messages on my machine. Neither of them are particularly fascinating or funny: a call from my sister with a name of some Peace Corps guy and the boy calling about something or other.
But it made me reflect on the messages that I've left and that have been left on my voicemail. Hooray for the most obnoxious rendition of Happy Birthday ever, "She's waaaaaaaatching me. She's eeevil!", and of course minutes of dead space from me to you.
