El Paso - sorting socks and eating enchiladas

One of the tasks in the shelter is working in the ropería sorting clothing donations. I'm not sure why but this turned out to be my least favorite thing to do -- unless I'm sorting socks. I like sorting socks. One day my fellow volunteer came into the office to tell me that there is a rat in one of the donation bags and could I capture it and sort through the bags it may have eaten. Why do people think that I'm ok with rodents? This was not the first time I've been in a similar situation! I asked for a broom, a face mask and some gloves -- and was given some paper towels and a prayer. That was sufficient honestly as I threw out most of the bag in question (poop galore) and saw nary a whisker of the perpetrator.

Two things worth mentioning: many of the refugees made every effort to help the volunteers from sorting clothing to organizing and folding bedding to cleaning out the showers. They wanted to be busy and to give back and I think that is very telling. And two, if shelters near you are accepting donations please consider providing new underwear and socks, shoes, and clothing in smaller men's sizes. Please also consider who will be wearing the clothing you're donating. In the bin I found a few of Beto's campaign t-shirts that had "Border Surge" emblazoned across them - perhaps not the most appropriate for a Guatemalan refugee.

That day at lunch I was treated to champurrada brought especially over the border from Juarez by someone whom Sr. Peggy refers to as "an elder." It is like a combination of api and coquito (which is a terrible description for the vast majority of you who haven't had api) in that it's a spiced corn drink mixed with cinnamon and chocolate and typical for the Christmas season. Like api, it's yummiest when super hot. I link to this recipe with the caveat that I've never made it and I'm not Mexican so I can't vouch for the recipe's quality or authenticity (but the first recipe I looked at suggested using Taza chocolate so I rejected it out of hand) so here: https://www.mexicoinmykitchen.com/champurrado-mexican-thick-chocolate/

That day there was no bus arriving so I got to leave early. Another volunteer, a college student from El Paso, had seen my list of restaurants to try on the recommendation of the surly bartender and was horrified. She fleshed out my list with better establishments, including some vegetarian standards, and even offered to drive me over to L &J Cafe on her way home.

L&J Cafe is next to Concordia Cemetery, the final resting place for many Texas outlaws and lawmen alike. It is the only cemetery in Texas to have a section for Chinese people and
it also had a section for Jewish people, Freemasons, Mormons, and babies. Very egalitarian. We visited John Wesley Hardin's grave - yet another figure from US history that I knew nothing about. Basically Hardin killed a lot of people in the 1870s - including a man who annoyed him by snoring too loudly (we've all been there) - and wrote an autobiography of his exploits while in jail. His grave is in a cage because his family wanted to relocate his body but a court order and lawsuit prevented its removal.

When I stepped into L&J Cafe, I got the impression that I had also fallen into a crowd of gunslingers and rabblerousers but then I was seated away from the bar. Their menu supports this feeling: in 1927 the bar was started as a speakeasy popular with soldiers from Fort Bliss. Slot machines were hidden in the walls as well. In 1936 it officially opened legally and was renamed in 1968. Please don't shoot me but I thought my enchilada was a little salty.

Later that evening, I went to El Paso's Christmas fair to find my small-town husband who would show me what the holiday season is all about. But really I just ate delicious delicious churros.

El Paso - the briefest history of Mexico

Most days at the shelter I worked from noon to nine-ish so I tried to inject some border tourism into my life. -- Not on Tuesday though because I spent that whole day in the bathroom. I'll spare you the gory details but at one point my day involved puking down a flight of stairs. (Ok, I didn't spare you the gory details.) -- But on Wednesday I headed over to the El Paso Museum of History which for some reason had a whole room dedicated to the Federal Reserve Bank.

The Museum's focus is the fact that El Paso is a transient railroad town with many people coming and going. El Paso is known for the five C's: cattle, climate, copper, commerce (including the eponymous salsa), and cotton. It has some interesting displays: neighborhood photos from the 1950s, a room of travel items including a vanity case donated by a woman under the condition that it be sold if she needs money, an exhibit of movies filmed in the city, and a copy of Pancho Villa's death mask.

I'd discovered that I know very little about the history of the Southwest and Mexico. This was hammered in when I ask someone if Porfirio Diaz was a poet. In fact, Porfirio Diaz was President of Mexico from 1877 until 1911. One of those benevolent neoliberal dictators, he was supported by the US. After like six terms in office, he held an election but had his challenger Francisco Madero arrested thus sparking the Mexican Revolution in which Pancho Villa was a leader of pro-Madero military forces. Villa wasn't a poet ether although he had like 25 children with like 75 women.

In addition to historical and tourist sites, I also seek out good food in the cities I visit. Another volunteer recommended that I visit La Malinche to which I responded, "I'm sorry, what?" In my experience, that is a not very nice word meaning traitor or whore or traitorous whore I suppose but I didn't know the background of the term. Historically, La Malinche was an enslaved woman who acted as interpreter and intermediary for conquistador Hernan Cortes (and later had his child the first mestizo). Anyhoo, I continued my historical education over enchiladas. I was not terribly impressed but I'm a gringa so don't take my word for it.

At the shelter that night, I notice a teenaged boy sitting miserably outside of the bathroom. Everyone was trying to get him to come to dinner or lay down but he was not having it...and I totally empathized. Later on Wednesday night, I again traded a ride to the hotel for interpretation duties. This time we were dropping a woman and her daughter off at the airport...for a morning flight (gah). I explained where to find a clock, how security works (it's different for migrants without picture ID), where to find water, and how to change flights in Houston (a huge airport that even I got turned around in). The woman's husband had asked that I make her a sign to say "I don't speak English. Please help" and I wasn't sure if that would make her more of a target or less. I was starting to get really nervous when one of the airport cleaning staff came up to us and said (in Spanish) "If you have any problems, in any airport, look for us. We'll help." And we all welled up. It's a theme.

On Thursday I rolled over to the El Paso Museum of Art which was just a really cool space to rest and reflect over historical and contemporary art alike. Including a butter sculpture:

Ha!

El Paso - intake and more tears

In the shelter, the Spanish-speaking volunteers (like me!) do intake with each of the refugee families to allow us to organize travel for them. One of the first questions we ask is if they have any family members still in detention and the very first woman I speak to is sobbing because her mother wasn't released. We record these names but its very difficult to do anything with them.

Each person that comes over the border has the name and contact number of a friend or family member living in the US who will serve as their sponsor. Most of the refugees have carried this information with them for months, often physically written down. I speak to one woman who is petrified that she will be sent back to Guatemala because she has lost the contact information for her sponsor. (Which I get from her family over Skype.)

Some families (or family members, usually the women) don't even speak Spanish because they are from indigenous communities. One of these women has come across the border with a newborn. We search among the refugees to find people willing to interpret Quiche or Mam or Ixil.

Each refugee is given paperwork from the US government to replace their ids or drivers license from their home countries. The papers each say that the contents within have been explained in Spanish to the refugee in question. But family after family asks me what they say. The documents give details of their immigration court date: the location, time, and date. They say that families can't travel more than 75 miles from these homes of record or move without notifying the government. They say that the reason they have been released is "lack of space."

After intake we call the sponsors to tell them that their families have arrived and that they'll have to organize transportation. Anyone who didn't cry during our welcome speech usually loses it here.

This is also where I start to feel the pressure of doing my job right as I explain to the families that they will need to purchase a flight or bus ticket and correctly convey the names and birth dates of each family member -- names that might have been spelled wrong or spelled weirdly by ICE but  that are now their official names. I explain which bus lines travel to El Paso and give them phone numbers for airlines. I ask that families kindly book flights for reasonable hours. And then we ask the families to call us back with a confirmation number.

The job of the daytime Spanish speaking volunteers is to answer the shelter phones and record (correctly) the travel details for each family. And there are stories of this going wrong: tickets home booked from the wrong city, tickets booked only for the adults, writing down the wrong bus line.

In exchange for a ride back to the hotel, I go with another volunteer to the bus station to drop a family off. As I stand in the waiting area explaining the timetable to the woman and her teenaged son, I see a few Latino faces watching us and tearing up. One man comes up to me and asks me to explain his ticket as well. He is travelling from Texas to North Carolina - a trip of two days with three transfers. I barely understand the schedule myself and I leave the station with an overwhelming sense of anxiety-- obviously just a fraction of the worry and pain that these families have faced.

This process repeats itself on day two but with some notable exceptions: one of the refugees to come through has a US citizen daughter with her. The daughter, a teen, had opted to stay with her mother when she was detained by ICE as they came across the border. She is rightfully furious at how they were treated. Most of the rest of the refugees are from Brazil. In general, the Brazilian have more resources and after we do intake they opt to leave on their own and stay at a hotel.

That night I went back to the hotel to find that I had a roommate, an exchange student from Japan. I didn't want to sit in the same tiny room staring at each other so I grabbed my book and, despite wanting to be alone, perversely invited her to the bar. I learn that she's a student from the University of Alabama and this is her first time in a bar! On a Monday night we were the only ones there besides a politically apathetic, thrice-divorced bartender. (And despite the rainbow flags and the name (Tool Box) I did not connect the dots that it was a gay bar until I googled it later.)

El Paso - Arrival

The first day in El Paso I was not scheduled to work in the shelter until noon so I woke up early-ish and went for a run to explore the downtown. Downtown El Paso is a (potentially literal) ghost town. Everything was closed and there were no cars or people and, particularly striking to an East Coaster, all of the roads are at least four lanes wide and one way....because that's how much room they have in Texas. Post-run I ate the best omelet on the planet at Pot Au Feu with what they said were home fries but were actually teeny tiny actual fries. I still think about that omelet.

Then I meandered around town a bit admiring the fantastic murals that pepper the area and puzzling over a department store called "Fallas" which means "faults" in Spanish.

Eventually I made my way to the shelter. Almost immediately upon entering I was hugged by a small child. Inquiries in both Spanish and English for the center coordinator led me to the kitchen where I was sat down with a plate of leftovers: rice, corn, and cupcakes from the FOUR birthdays celebrated that day. It felt like Peace Corps: being immersed in Spanish, having no idea of the process, yet being well fed and feeling strangely comfortable with the situation. 

I was foisted onto a volunteer named Mary who showed me how to fix to-go bags for the refugees. As the refugees are resettled all over the United States they often wind up taking multi-day bus trips or flights. And we equipped every family with blankets, sandwiches and snacks, water, and one or two toys for the journey. Churches from around the country had also sent welcome notes to include in these bags in charmingly incorrect Spanish. (Do this with your parish or Girl Scout troop or school! The personal touch is so so helpful in making a family feel welcome)

Mary definitely set off my nun-dar and despite my subtle questions like "Are you sure it's not Sister Mary?" and "Are you the flying type nun, Mary?" she insisted on being called just Mary. But she was totally a Maryknoll and my nun-dar is never wrong!

After packing some bags I was then shown how to make hygiene kits: a bag with soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and hair ties for each family. Other supplies like sanitary pads, lotion, hair gel, diapers, lice shampoo etc were organized into different shelving units for use upon request. This station was my happy place for the week. Not only did it indulge my great joy in sorting things but it was also usually managed by Jean, another nun who had spent most of her life in Chile and who was just sarcastic enough to let me know she was a kindred spirit.

I also got the run down on the clothing bank and the intake routine before a bus of approximately 50 men, women, and children arrived on an ICE bus. As each family disembarked they were cheered and families who had been at the shelter for a day or two held welcome signs and ushered the newbies into the kitchen. Everyone who came off the bus looked scared or numb or shocked; they were holding in so much emotion that they had no emotion. So we fed them chicken soup. And welcomed them. 

The welcome speech went something like this,"Welcome. You are in a shelter operated by the Catholic Church. We are not the government and you are free to go. Please let us know if you have an immediate medical need. Tonight we will get you new clothing and a hot shower and we will call your families or sponsors in the US. We do have some rules...."

Invariably during this speech, one or two people would break down. Every night as people slowly  realized that after months of walking they had made it to the United States, that they would be reunited with their family soon, that they were not in detention anymore, that they were safe and warm and being fed chicken soup by people who cared -- there would be tears. (So of course Sr. Jean and I would well up as well.) The teenagers took longer to relax and it was heartbreaking. I could see them start to celebrate, to smile, to relax, but then harden up - unwilling to fully let down their guard. They were trying to stay strong and stoic for as long as possible.

And whelp, I'm crying again.

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 leave

On our very last day in Nepal we decided to walk along the lake to lounge at Krazy Gecko, which happens to be owned by A's cousin. We didn't introduce ourselves but instead ordered a slow progression of drinks and snacks while lounging in the sun. Well, I lounged in the sun while wrinkleless N opted to remain in the shade. 

N had a flight that afternoon back to Kathmandu and on to Korea so we returned to the hotel. The elevator wasn't working so she asked one of the front desk staff to help her get her luggage down from the 5th floor. By the time the man arrived, the elevator was working again. After saying goodbye to N, I despondently headed back up to my room. I decided to take the elevator. It started to go up and then suddenly stopped. There were no lights so I couldn't see the emergency button so I just knocked like a madwoman on the door. The elevator got power again briefly so when it went off another few seconds later I knew where the buzzer was and I pushed that like a madwoman. Finally the doors opened and I got off on whatever floor that was and walked the rest of the way. My best guess at the time was load-shedding -- the power in Nepal is selectively turned off at certain times of the day so some lights and outlets don't work -- but I think it's more likely that they turned off the elevator manually and had forgotten about me.   

Nothing exciting happened the rest of the day. I wandered around from coffee shop to coffee shop reading, writing, and drinking tea. I discovered the boardwalk along the lake that we had somehow missed in all of our adventures, I packed my luggage, and I watched some terrifying serial killer movie.

The next morning, I too flew back to Kathmandu. I was even less calm about the flight without N to die with me. I hung in the KTM airport for what felt like forever -- running into the newlyweds! -- and flew on home -- through China and NY. It was by no means fun and I'll never do it again... 

...until next time.

 

Nepal - sunrise, sunset

The next day I was legit sore but I think looser. We woke up at 4 in the morning to take a cab up to the town of Sarangkot to watch the sun rise over the town and mountains. As this is a pretty popular outing, N and I made sure to pay attention to what our driver looked like and note his license plates. We walked up about ten flights of stairs to a cement viewing platform that became increasingly crowded as the sun came up. There was even a barefoot white man dancing along to the dulcet tunes of a digiridoo. It was just one of those moments. I was torn between wishing that I was the only one there to experience the light diffusing over the snowcapped Annapurna range in silence and enjoying the fact that I was having this experience with the chatty riot of people from all over the world whom I had never met before and would likely never encounter again.

We walked back down the stairs, somehow coming out in a different spot, and saw our driver. N doubted my recollection of his face as his license plate was not the same. Turns out this car had different front and back license plates. The driver thought it was funny that we checked but I thought we came across as a smidge racist -- all these Nepali look alike!

Then we returned to the hotel for breakfast. N and I both ordered fruit salad and cereal (mine with yogurt and N's with hot milk because she's weird) and juice and tea and eggs and potatoes and pancakes. Turns out I have no idea how to eat a soft-boiled egg from an egg cup. WHY did no one teach me that skill?

Our vacation planner had recommended a nap and then catching the sunset at the Peace Pagoda, a Buddhist shrine on a hill above the city. I would have been down with such a fitting close to the day but we wanted to hike the hill and a sunset hike did not seem wise. So we skipped the nap and set right out for the shrine. We hired a woman to row us across the lake. She gave us an hour and a half before she would head back without us. After about forty minutes we were worried that our timetable would not match the boatwoman's so N wanted to ask a woman coming back down the mountain how much farther it was. She asked this woman (in Korean), "Do you speak Korean?" and this woman answered (in Korean), "No I'm Chinese." And then she said in English that it was five minutes to the top. It was linguistically confusing but we pressed on.

We did our three rounds of the stupa, ate a granola bar, and headed back down the hill. On the boat ride back, our oarswoman started singing. I think she was trying to drown out N's annoying tuneless humming but whatever her motivation, it added flare to the trip.

For further flare we ate lunch at a Korean restaurant. N has a rule not to eat Korean food while travelling but the owner was a friend of a friend so I sat awkwardly drinking free tea while they chatted away. The restaurant was called Nattssul which evidently means "day drinking" so I was all about it.

Then we napped. Suitably groggy, for dinner we wandered to a restaurant that had a stage and a traditional Nepali dance show. We didn't really last long. Tomorrow: we do nothing and  N leaves.

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?

Nepal - The Reception!

The great benefit that our hotel had was a comprehensive and delicious $5 breakfast. Home-baked bread all crusty on the outside and chewy on the inside with a mango spread and topped with a sharp cheese was my personal triumph but they also offered eggs, muesli, fruit, and thick tangy Nepali yogurt. (I wanted to show you the menu at Ting's but it doesn't really work.) So the morning of A's reception, N and I padded down to the dining room, snuggled into our respective piles of cushions and had a leisurely breakfast  before heading out for a high-stress day of shopping.

Our first stop was the tea store. Evidently tea yields several harvests a year and each 'flush' has distinctive taste characteristics. To illustrate this, the chai wallah brewed us a few cups which we gladly sipped daintily (because it was in glass cups that could burn your face off.) Thus caffeinated we fell into an empty fair trade shop and bought everything under the sun. I very much like the idea that my purchases are going to benefit specifically low-income, low-opportunity communities and am willing to pay more for the experience but this store was surprisingly inexpensive. I'm convinced that every item in there was cheaper than it would be on the streets. I think that in the absence of set prices, foreigners are often fleeced a bit. Note: The store was called Folk Nepal which almost caused an international incident when, at the wedding reception, people misunderstood N's Korean accent as she described our shopping luck.

We then hopped in a cab and headed off to Boudanath, Asia's largest stupa and center of TIbetan Buddhist worship in Nepal. (Also had low-stress shopping.) I had been to Boudanath in 2015 and was curious to see how it had been rebuilt after the earthquake. Almost immediately upon existing the cab we were set upon by a close-talking guide and I am CONVINCED that it was the same man as last time. (Read about that here.) This time we politely ignored him, if you can politely ignore someone, and were not approached by ANY other guides. Hmmm. This time around, we were able to go into the shrines attached to the stupa itself and climb up to the second tier to do our three laps around it.

We tried to follow the tourist map but it didn't seem like the numbers on the map matched up to the numbers on the descriptions so I can't honestly tell you which monasteries we explored. We ate lunch at a chain pizza place between a table of white monks and a table of brown monks with a little baby monk! Unfortunately I couldn't hear what the white monks were talking about; I was so curious what someone who has vowed to have limited possessions and live a life of mediation and chores talks about. Do they gossip about the other monks? Do they discuss politics? Do they plan events?  Had they just met or were they old friends? N did say that one was Canadian and one was European so they evidently discussed a bit of their personal histories but she did not eavesdrop beyond that.

We shopped a little bit after lunch but the mood was spoiled when someone addressed N in Chinese. You would think a fellow Asian would know better. We stopped into Ghyoilisang Peace Park because I thought it might be peaceful - it wasn't - and then headed back towards the hotel so N could continue her quest to find cashmere scarves. She spent a ridiculous amount of money.

At this point I voted for napping and being late for the reception but N wanted to go on time and leave early. She won. We made a beeline to the happy couple and immediately had our photos taken with them even though we hadn't taken our coats off or had opportunity to fix our newly moisturized faces. So N and I sat for a bit and took advantage of the roaming waiters before opting for a photo redo. We did a quick lap of hellos and goodbyes and then left before the dancing started. On the way back to the hotel we bought a chocolate cake which we didn't actually eat.

Stay tuned: we take our chocolate cake across the country!

Nepal - THE WEDDING!

After several conflicting electronic communications regarding the timing of the wedding, the Yale crew descended on Ryan's family's hotel room at about 8AM to have our saris wrapped by the aunties (none of whom were wearing saris because they're too smart for that.)

A has taken a page out of my sister's book

Our saris, a gift from A, were of a light, thin, silky fabric that was much harder to pleat and wrap than the traditional stiffer fabric (and didn't look quite as regal). Cinched tightly into our petticoats and with a startling lack of sparklewear (I don't travel with the amount of gold expected for a Nepali wedding) we left the hotel with the groom's family to process around the garden. We were accompanied by a band of drums and horns, one of which sounded like an elephant trumpeting (and periodically scaring the bejeezus out of me). The men were also decked out in suits and topi (the traditional Nepali hat) and carried in trays of bread, coconut, and oranges.

As we entered the seating area we were given a garland of marigolds, a prayer scarf, a tika on our foreheads, a red envelope containing money and had flower petals thrown at us. N said it made her feel like a movie star.  Evidently we were supposed to dance in to show that the groom's family was exciting and fun-loving but I'm not sure we made the best showing -- perhaps because we had little idea of what was going on and us girls are actually from the bride's side.

We weren't alone in our ignorance. Our cultural guides explained that each ethnic group has their own wedding customs and traditions and that since they were Sherpa and Newar respectively -- and the bride was Gurung -- they were less than enlightening. They did say, however, that this was the smallest and best organized ceremony they had ever seen. 

We were told to sit men and women separately but this might have been a mistranslation of groom's side/bride's side. It didn't matter much because after about fifteen minutes of chanting an auntie was dispatched to send us to breakfast. I was a little surprised at the break. Since we were told the ceremony would last from 9 until 1, I had brought snacks. So after a lackluster breakfast we returned to the ceremony. For a while we stood near the wedding platform and took close-up pictures of the bride and groom. Even one of the chanting monks took a picture. Then we were dragged off by the aunties to dance for a bit -- until we were yelled at by the monks for disturbing the ceremony.

Post-chanting the men in the groom's family were each given white turbans to wrap around their head and the women were given wool shawls as they blessed A. Then everyone and their mother were given prayer shawls -- first the family and then the bride and groom. After about an hour of blessings, the groom's brothers were dispatched to negotiate the successful return of the groom's shoes from the bride's girl cousins. Despite having a professional litigator and negotiator on their side, the American men were no match for the savvy ladies who came away with $850!

After this showdown we were escorted back into the hotel. I, and at least one family member who had unwrapped her sari, thought the ceremony was over but with petticoats digging into our full bellies we went back outside to see the bride and groom be fed yogurt and take pictures with family. The final event was the kidnapping of the bride. A was carried into the hotel to start her new life as part of R's family.

I will note that it was now 3PM.

This was the first wedding that I didn't cry at! I don't know if it was because I didn't know the groom or because there was no exchange of vows or public profession of love. The bride and groom were more figureheads, literally unmoving and unspeaking as they were blessed for hours.

Post-wedding we split a bottle of wine at our hotel and went out for momos and, again, were asleep by 9.