The Foreign Citizen

What I Know for Sure

2011-11-30T09:00:00.000-08:00

Two years ago this month I left my old life behind and started on an adventure to travel the world and live my dreams. It has been a phase I will never forget and one for which I have not a single regret.

Tomorrow I start my new job in Miami, a place where I can be surrounded by Latinos, don't have to speak English, and can eat really good Cuban food. Seems like a nice happy medium for real world re-entry.

To all those people who supported me over the past two years, (friends, family, colleagues at VML and YandR, travelers from around the world, and all those that followed my blog) thank you for all that you are and everything you did for me. You are unimaginably special to me.

And for the dreamers and the wishers, it might be worth passing a few of my humble musings, the result of a soulful renaissance after a bit of walking outside my own shoes...

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What I know for sure is that anything you are really going to know for sure, for sure...you have to find out for yourself. No one is going to answer the questions for you, and even if they did, would you really believe them? And would you be satisfied with the answer, all second hand and questionably viewed through someone else's frame of reference? Presumably not. What's more than the satisfaction of knowing 100% what the answer to your own happiness is...is the fun of finding out.

Life often feels like something inside of a box, straight laced with calendars, clocks, agendas, perimeters, rulebooks, corridors, and value meals ordered by number. However, given a bit more exploration and a tentative foot across the yellow tape, the other side is surprisingly fun and more like dancing through a watercolor or playing with silly putty while you run through Jello. The only way to the 'otherside,' however, is through your own mind. And this, as with all humans, will be your biggest challenge.

Certain creature comforts and emotional needs are almost always what keep us close to what is safest. And there is nothing wrong with that. But it is a much healthier need based relationship when you can look that need in the eye and say 'I Chose You; You Don't Own Me.'

There is no wrong way to live your life. Unless the way you are living your life feels wrong to You. If You can't fight the feeling that you want something more, or that there is something else you'd like to do with your waking, breathing moments, it would be Wrong to ignore those feelings and deprive yourself of the Right that could be.

It is never too late to try something new, to make a change, to take a risk, or to do you've always wanted to do. No idea is too big or too crazy. It's your life, and you only get one! (That you know of...)
Plus there is nothing more beautiful than fine tuning your own outlook on existence.

All dreams do not come true in exactly the way you may have envisioned them. It is possible that halfway through Dream 47, you realize 48 is even better!

It is true that All Good Things Must Come to an End. But then again, eventually so must all people. And no one ever said anything about time in that first sentence. Besides, The real world will always accept you back when you are ready! I am living proof. :)

And finally, the summary of two years of research into Why I'm Here can be summed up as follows...

All the words, songs, poems, quotes from religious leaders, street graffiti, Facebook statuses, and emotional declarations on the bathroom wall, saying that love is the most important thing in this life, etc etc. Are all true. All of them. Every. Last. One.

***

Unexpected American Desires: The Calling Has Finally Come

2011-06-04T05:18:00.000-07:00

I love Australia and all it has to offer, but something crazy is happening. Something that hasn't happened in years. Something that I thought might never happen. I miss living in the United States.

It's funny that it took coming to Australia for this to happen. But in a way, it really makes sense. In South America, I was traveling. Everything was vibrant and new, so completely different to my culture that it couldn't even be compared. But now in Australia I've reentered the system- bought a car, rented an apartment, opened a bank account, and gotten a deeper feel for what it's like to really live here. When I was here three years ago, it was a vacation, and of course when your only goal is escapism, it's easy to love your destination. But you really know a place when you come to live.

Australia is unique. Life is definitely not American, but the language in both is English and the origins of both started from people escaping (or kicked out) of England so the people have a some similar physical characteristics, moreso than we do with say Argentina. And since my traveling brain has gotten used to being everywhere but home, I've developed a keen ability to compare places around the world to each other, and to my homeland. I just didn't expect that eventually those comparisons would bring me back around to the idea that home was pretty good.

Because the United States has such a strong influence on media and consumer goods around the world, it's been easy to travel around and never feel too far from home. Our stuff is everywhere. Nike, Apple, Oprah, Oreo. If I've had a moment of home sickness, I can usually just pop a Pringles or watch a syndication of Friends and bounce back. It's those humbling moments I think about what it's like to be a South Korean or Romanian abroad and try to find something from home. I suppose a shrimp cracker or some good baklava warms the heart, but isn't really the same.

Even though I can get my hands on American goods, I still find myself getting frustrated when I can't find exactly what I want. Australia appears to have Target, my favorite US mega store franchise, but it's actually her evil twin. Apparently Target was divided in the franchise womb, two zygots of store potential. The American Target martured to delightful beauty, an ocean of mid-priced goods wrapped in quality packaging where people spend their Saturdays swimming through and filling baskets of all the unneccessary necessities. Australian Target never reached it's full potential, turning out more like the 1980's Danny Devito of Target, the smaller untidy version selling all the cheap, poor quality, leftover crap purchased from China. And it costs more. I love traveling and doing things differently....and Australia DOES have Myer, the better half to the Sears store zygot. Still a little part of me dies every time I run out of shampoo or handsoap and realize I have to visit pseudo Target and relive my disappointment.

I miss the US, but what I really miss is having a home. I had my clothes and furniture sale in October of 2009. The last time I planted my ass on something I paid for was getting close to two years ago. I have the aching desire to overpay for something overstuffed. It's funny how your perspective changes. I remember two years ago fantasizing about waterfalls and beaches, about Brazil and Argentina and glasses of read wine over conversations in another language. Now I sit at the beach and mentally decorate my pretend apartment. In my dirty dreams I rob a Pottery Barn. I spend at least thirty minutes every day trying to consider if my next home should be boho chic or Latin fabulous.

In the end though, everything is working out rather perfectly. I needed to feel this way. You see, I knew I couldn't be a vagabond forever. When I left on this worldwide adventure, the idea was to go go go, until my heart said stop. And until it said stop, I would keep traveling, supplementing my income with writing and work where-ever I could. I've lived a dream this past year and a half. Everyone has different ideas for their ideal life would be, what they would do with their days given carte blanche. I knew what mine was, see the world, take pictures, and write about it. To be honest, it's been radical. I'm sitting in Cairns with the ocean waves lapping out front and an Ozzie cover band blasting away on a 90's cover list and thinking, yeah...it's been radical. And for sure I'll be back on the road again. But for now, I'm going to follow my heart back to where she started.

Even though in a way I can't believe that I am finally yearning for some roots again, the truth is, nothing better could have happened. I am still the Foreign Citizen, I still want to see more corners of the world, and I'll keep that goal for the rest of my life. But in the mean time, I'm realizing that everything is happening as it's supposed to. You don't go on vacation just to rest or read a book somewhere else, you leave so that you can miss your surroundings and realize how lucky you are to come home to them. I've been gone long enough to start thinking that starting a life again sounds pretty good. Now I just need to decide where that life is going to be.

The People of Australia

2011-04-22T19:44:00.000-07:00

"When it all comes down to it, I'm just a regular girl living in another land trying to make sense of it all."

On a blog post before I left on this trip I compared Australia to the US... I noted that they have a lot of similarities only Oz has better beaches and a more laid back lifestyle. A lady who reads my blog from Oz took the opportunity to tell me she thought I was dead wrong but would wait and see what I thought after living here a few months. So now is the point where I say...I retract my statement. Aside of a shared love of beer and ACDC, the latter of which, by-the-way, hailed from Oz....these countries are two very different places.

How to explain the differences? Well it's a difficult thing to do. From the surface there are a lot of similarities: the English language, decendants from the U.K., an origianl settlement of Christians, etc. etc. But now I've been to Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane...as well as some small cities in Victoria and the Queensland Coast...I feel like I have a better grasp on the uniqueness that is Oz. Over the next few blog posts, I'll try to paint a picture of Ozzie life that allows you to put together your own view of Down Under. The point is not to say one country is better or another- that's an impossible comparison to make. But show how they are different, which in the end, is what makes the world such a beautiful place.

(Note, the following post is an homogenized exaggeration for the sake of humour. My blog is written to be funny with 'Inception-esc' cultural education.)

If a place can be defined by anything, it's by the people. In my observation, there are two types of people in Australia. Hard Core Ozzies (HC for short), and the migratory evolutionary adaption of the Urban Ozzie. H.C. Ozzies are the bushwalkers and nature lovers, surfers and zoo-keepers, the salt of the earth people that love this country so much they'd give up their last barbi-ed sausage to see the Ozzie culture kept alive. They tend to live in rural areas, live and die by their footy team (Ozzie football), and spend most of their free time outdoors in one way or another. They drive trucks, jeeps, or old cars that have been turned into surf rides to carry boards and water gear. They come in many shapes and sizes, clothing could be anything from Steve Irwin khaki garb and wide-brimmed hats of the Outback-er, to the shoe-less, 'live in a van down by the ocean' look of the coastal surfer.  However their exterior, common characteristics include patriotism, individualism, love of nature, and with some, a verbal vernacular that is so distinctly Aussie it almost isn't English. (Crocodile Dundee was Hollywood's attempt to represent the HC Ozzie.) Their drink of choice is beer, dinner is a steak with a side of beef. Their biggest enemies are poisonous spiders and ultra violet rays. If you meet a male H.C. Ozzie over the age of 60 who has had too much to drink, chances are you will only understand 37% of what he is saying. That said, it is 100% likely that you will like the guy regardless.

The second type, the Urban Ozzie, is often a city dweller however the Urban is more of a mindset than just a location. These Aussies can still love the traditional life but prefer to be more in the jetstream of life. They like things new and different. These Ozzies like the typical meat and potatoes fare, but given their drudges, they'd dine out for Indian or Nepalese three nights of the week. They shop at Supre' and H&M, and starting this week, Zara shows up in the country too which has Urban Ozzie females are all aflutter. Urban Ozzies drink ros'e, ride ferries to work, and push their baby strollers around square concrete blocks to 'get some fresh air.' They are hip with the world news and travel often. In fact, a good percentage of these Ozzies aren't really Ozzie at all. They're recently naturalized Londoners and South Africans, in Sydney and Melbourne they are people from all corners of the world...China, Indonesia, Brazil, India...you name it. Nicole Kidman, if she moved back to Sydney from Nashville, would be an Urban Ozzie.

Urban Ozzies drive smaller cars, and live in smaller houses or flats. (It is not cheap to be an Urban Ozzie.)  Many of them gave up the right to fresh air and open countryside for a more fast-paced existence involving live footy games, open air cinemas, international restaurants, and higher paying jobs. Urban Ozzies biggest enemy is their neighbor's stereo.

When H.C. Ozzie and Urban Ozzie meet, sometimes they do not understand each other. HC Ozzie does not understand how these Urban Hooligans live so close to each other. Urban Ozzie doesn't know what HC does all day. Other times they see pieces of themselves in the other. Urban Ozzie can relate to getting away from it all. HC Ozzie remembers that summer he moved to Sydney to get his ______ license, and couldn't wait to 'get away from all those faackin' people.'

While HC and Urban Ozzie clearly have differences, it's what they share that may most distinctly represent their Ozzie-ness. Both, and in general all Ozzies,  are kind, hospitable people with a fantastic sense of humour. Take British humour, inject some moisture and flare, and you're left with a quirky, jolly people always good for a laugh. (If you can poke fun at the fact that your country was started as a prison for outcasts, it's a solid foundation of humour.)

All Aussies are jovial outdoor people. Even though Urban Ozzie chose to give up space, the truth is that I have yet to meet an Ozzie that doesn't spend his entire day working just to explode out in to the air and head out to an activity, be it rugby practice, a late night surf, or a run on the beach. On that note, one unique element to this people is their participation in sport at all ages (they use the word 'sport' in the singular here). Men stay active in their football clubs at a local level well into middle age; many women are in biking or walking groups, even in the rural areas. The public parks and lawns are covered in people practicing rugby, soccer, and footy. In Sydney I was passed daily by crews of cyclists and tri-atholon training teams. Of course it doesn't hurt that the weather is nice right now, but I have a keen feeling that this behavior continues regardless of the temp.

Ozzies tend to be gathers. It's common here for public places to have grills and picnic tables- people show up with food, beer, and propane and bada-bing, it's a party. The people need little reason to gather together other than just to enjoy life and the public BBQs are almost always full.

The people here are hospitable, generous, and in general, easy conversationalists. People follow the rules, respect the government, and spend most of their time and energy working to earn a good living so they can just live a nice life with their families. A goal that can be said of most of humanity, but one that is very clear on a daily basis here.

And maybe it can't be explained in any better way than this. Australia, with only 20 million people living on a landmass almost the size of Europe...well people have room to spread out. Media isn't as big here; the TV shows aren't as powerful or influential on people's lives. To be honest, the shows aren't as good either, but what you get in a smaller country with less of everything Hollywood is an opportunity for people to continue being what they are and refrain from trying to conform. The HC Ozzie keeps on keeping on...and Urban Ozzie, even soaking up a bit more of that mainstream culture, continues to operate in a self-determined world, less influenced by the media than what I'm used to. Yesterday on the news I saw that a station here will be picking up a popular American show this spring- Jersey Shore. In the newspaper one lady was quoted as saying she, 'wasn't sure she'd be interested because it just isn't a lifestyle they can relate to here in Australia.' That's not to say that the world isn't all going in the direction of over-the-top reality shows about 'the worst of the worst,' but for now, here in Australia, people seem to remain more concerned with their own lives, HC, Urban, or otherwise.

Getaway to Phillip Island, Victoria

2011-04-04T05:40:00.000-07:00

Melboune is a beautiful city with food, sport, and plenty of entertainment. But when the city life becomes too much or Melbourners just need a little weekend getaway, less than two hours down the road (southeast to be specific,) quaint and calm Phillip Island awaits.

Lush, grass covered Phillip Island is the home to a few thousand locals year round. Some of those happen to be human, but most of them aren't. People come and go on Phillip Island but the cows, sheep, and birds are always there, littering the horizon with life and beauty. And lest we forget the penguins, which are probably the most popular animal resident and almost surely the cutest.

I had the opportunity to stay in a lovely little beach-front vacation community called The Waves, in the city called Cowes. (Yes, it's literally called Cowes, as in moooo.) The friendly staff were bubblly and helpful, giving me recommendations of hot spots to eat on main street and must see areas of the island. The sunsets are stunning, the pace is slow, and the people are easy-going.

At one end of the island are two small rock in the water off the coast, blast land masses that one could otherwise drive by if it weren't for the little tourist signs willing you to come in for a peak. There are the tourist station I discover that 25% of Australia's fur seal population bread right here. They also have a special shark tagging program that allows them to catch and release tagged sharks and then track their journies through the sea. Some of the great whites tagged where tracked traveling from South American, South Africa, New Zealand, and back. That's a long way to go for lunch. I guess it all depends on how hungry you are.

Phillip Island lies only a few kilometers out of Melbourne but it feels like a whole other world. A world where penguins, sheep, cowes, magpies, seals, and even a few sharks live in happiness together. Oh, and people too.

Australian Formula One Grand Prix

2011-03-27T22:24:00.000-07:00

Where are my earplugs? This race is so loud my ears are burning.

I settle back into my seat, grab the stearing wheel, and hit the gas. The TV is on, the speakers attached to my black leather chair are on full blast, and I'm feeling the heat of the race. I'm about to round my last corner on the newest PlayStation Game, Shift 2; a few hundred meters from the Formula 1 track, I'm pretending to be part of the real thing.

Having never been to a Formula One Race before, I can honestly say I am impressed; looking around at the palatial grounds it's clear the $$$ to pull this off was not minimal.

While I am definitely impressed I am not surprised. After three years working on a car account in advertising, I have a fairgrasp on the automotive world. I know the kind of people that deal in cars and can quickly pick out the insiders here in the crowd...the top level guys have on pinstripe suits and are drinking expensive scotch, the mid level guys are wearing polo shirts covered in icons, and the others are just spectators and fans. But regardless everyone is slapping each other on the back and buying rounds of drinks, more than they can indiviually finish them but unwilling to be the slow contributor.
I also see the hidden gold mines for marketing...every solid surface as another opportunity to display a product/logo/service...the areas of the event strategically held down by brands like Red Bull, Nintendo, and Mercedes, seizing the chance to release a related product and attach their brands to this high dollar/white collar crowd. Walking around inside the central track amidst Porche, Renault, Ferrari, I can see the roped-off bars and dark glassed areas that are clearly for the wives/sisters/friends (and dare I say mistresses?) of the drivers, sponsors, and all of those people shelling out the change to keep these multi-million dollar cars running.

Sunday's Australian F1 Grand Prix will be the first of many this year, including locations such as: Malaysia, China, Turkey, Spain, Great Brittain, Canada, Italy, Abu-Dhabi, Singapore and India. The final race of the year is in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Reviewing this year's race schedule, I note that the US is clearly not on the roster. This sparks a conversation amonst my clan about how the United States has not been a major market for Formula One. Europeans, SouthAsians, and Latin Americans have long been fans of this high-glitz, big dollars car racing, however Americans have instead put their racing dollars towards Indy and Nascar. That said, with millions of dollars of untapped US revenue, F1 began constructing a track in the US in 2010 and the first race on Austin's new track will be in 2012.

I'm not sure what the rest of the Americans think, but I can forsee myself getting into Formula One. This is no fairgrounds stock car race; it's clear I'm at the Oscars of the automotive world and the red carpet has been rolled out. The track is like something out of a video game- surrounded by palm trees, the Melboune cityscape in the background and a beautiful glistening lake to the south end of the track center. The entire places is a barrage of foot traffic, food vendors, and expensive trade show booths, all fighting for your eye's attention. Even though there are F1 practice laps happening on the track (I'm there on a Thursday and the official face isn't for three more days) there are various other points of interest to garner your attention if, for a moment, you'd like to forget that you are indeed there for a race. There's a stage with half a dozen cheerleader-esc women performing a dance in minimal clothing. On lake in the center of the trackwhere professional jet skiiers are doing wave-runner tricks. Have a dozen bars are skattered around the premises complete with chic white couches, silver hanging latterns, and bonzi trees...an impossibility when you consider that they were only temporary erected for this occasion. But they were. Which in the end is what really sells me on what a big deal F1 is. I am standing in the middle of a full fledged Disney World that was literally built for four days and then will be shut down until next year. Australian Magic Formula One World will make enough money in four days to keep Papa Ferrari, Princess Porche, and Little Lexus in the silver castles they have all grown accostomed to. Until the tenth of April, when the F1 Magic Kingdom China will be open it's doors for four days.

F1-Is-A-Big-Deal is solidified for me that afternoon when I take the pit lane tour. The word 'pit' in this case may be deceiving. If your mind is conjouring visions of dirty garages filled with greasy men in jumpsuits, wielding giant wrenches on blackened lugnuts...think again. Please direct your mind instead to this reality: white fiberglass garages, each with the spralling name and country flag of the driver above the respective entry ways. Inside, surrounded by immaculately kept shelving, holding what appear to be high performance space materials, are teams of well-shaven and coiffed men working on their 'patients' in the car-world's version of the Grey's Anatomy ER. Teams of five, six, seven...circled around their cars, delicating performing car-surgery on their million dollar babies. I can just imagine one of them asking for a scalpel. Or, as I walk past one of the Italian teams, 'scalpini' or whatever it might sound like in Italian.

A few doors down, an excited group gathers for a picture in front of the Columbian driver's garage. A few more down, two men in giant sunglasses pose for an iphone photo in front of Barichello's garage, one of the Brazilian drivers. I quickly try to decide if they are overly eager Australians or just Brazilians trying to send a snap back home to Rio. (I like sports that bring together people from all over the world. And if that has to include inflated beer prices and fifteen dollar hot dogs, well then so be it. ) My attention is quickly diverted to the other side of the lane and a giant 10-computer kiosk. It is then explained to me that these 'cars' are monitored down to the smallest car molecule, and if anything could possibly go wrong, the car doctors know about it before the driver himself even sense a problem. Hmmm...a few more million dollars in that technology for sure. I firmly decide that my comparison of F1 to medical practice is not that far off; they even monitor the driver's breathing and cardio performance. The only thing technology has not been able to solve is the human need for a biological break- someone explains to me that the drivers literally go in their suits. Memo to me: being a multi-million dollar race car driver is pretty posh, but at least I don't don't have to pee my pants for a living.

As I near the end of the pit lane, the crowd parts and a new car pushes through to head out on the track for a practice drive. Lewis Hamilton, one of the British drivers, takes off in a cloud of smoke/ blast of noise, and for a moment, I divert my attention back to the garages and forget about him on the track altogether. That is, until I hear a high pitched wizzing noise in my ear that gets louder and louder, signaling to my brain that something interesting could happen but just about the time I think to turn my head, a flash of color goes by and my brain tells me it was Lewis. I never saw it coming; these cars are fast.

The Great State of Victoria, Part Two: Melbourne

2011-03-24T03:28:00.000-07:00

Rippppperrrrr! (Awesome)

I'm in the process of learning a whole new version of the English language. Aussies have the same basics as in the US/Canada but the casual chatter includes plenty of unfamiliarities. To be honest, sometimes I'm just plain lost. I'm making a point to learn the local lingo; here's some of my newfound slang.

She'll be apples = It will be alright

Let's get some lollies = Let's get candy

Bloody oath = that's the truth

He barracks for carlton = He cheers for carlton

Call mum for a yarn = Call mom to talk

Bugger, I was sacked = F***. I was fired

Tea = dinner

Dinner = lunch

Breaky = breakfast

Schooner = large glass of beer

Sunnies = Sun glasses

Cozzie = Swimsuit

Here in Melbourne, Aussie phrases are just the cultural tip of the Iceberg. This city is amaaazing, divese, and clearly deserving of it's second ranking this year in The World's Best Cities to Live. From the moment I arrived here, I thought I could live here. Well, if the winter were a bit warmer. But I did Toronto for three years so I could surely handle it here.

To be honest, Melbourne reminds me a lot of Toronto. Both cities are on the water, Toronto on Lake Ontario and Melbourne with the winding Yara river and ocean coastline. Both cities have streetcars/tram systems with the electrical wiring hanging above as you drive. Both are cultural hotbeds, boasting a restaurant scene of Anything-You-Could-Wish-For. They have depth of personality, changing by neighborhood: cosmopolitan, beachy, hippie backyard, quaint family-hood, and redeemably rundown (and still costing $500k+)

I celebrated St. Patty's Day at a staple Melbourne pub called Young and Jacksons, had a lovely dinner on the South Bank including watching the Vegas Style fire pillars blast into the sky, and spent a sunny afternoon laying in the grass along the beachside in St. Kilda.

Melbourne is more laid-back than Sydney. Federation Square, the cities main plaza, has a big screen TV, outdoor lawn chairs, and a handfull of places to buy a beer or a coffee. I sat in my chair, watched the sun go down, and made goo-goo eyes at the little Indian girl shyly crawling on the chair next to me.

I'm learning to eat my chips (fries) with sweet chilli and sour cream, and am delightfully obsessed with salt and pepper squid- the seafood here is amazing. Good memories or otherwise, beer prices are keeping my liquid lust under control - a six pack of bottles is bettween $15-$18. OUCH. And the US dollar has now dropped below the Aussie dollar. DOUBLE OUCH.

For the official record: Melbourne is a city that lives up to it's reputation.

The Great State of Victoria: Part 1

2011-03-22T06:50:00.000-07:00

Occasionally each one of us requires an intervention from a friend. Someone that has to step in and drop the hammer. Tell you to ....ease up on the makeup. Stop whining about your mother in law. Put down the chocolate frosting.
Or in my case, come back to self-professed personal passion and write on your blog. (Special thanks to Kristen Boulware for telling me to get on it.)
What can I say...hard to blame the internet when I found a way to write from Peru. Regardless, I retain my dedication to vividly describe this beautiful part of the world. So here goes:

I left Sydney at the beginning of March to come south. Until then, Victoria state only meant one thing to me: VB. As in, Victoria Bitter. A beer that is regarded as bogan (crap) by the general Aussie population, but to me, a Yankee tourist, is connected to happy memories and therefore delicious. And also it's cheap. :)

So it seemed that I owed it to myself and the great state of Victoria to discover more of the things this place had to offer. And I have not been disappointed!

I started off heading to a place that I can guarantee has never been on a tourist list before. A tiny little farming town on Victoria's landlocked northern border called Tallangata. Friends of friends of friends live there and I was invited to pay a visit. I was given a hand-drawn map of the town which had key landmarks like 'Oval field," and 'Pub, and 'Jason the Mechanic." I laughed on the drive in thinking how funny it was that a girl from a small farming town in Iowa would be in this tiny farming town in Australia. One where apparently business people could go on a first name basis. (the beauty of all small towns)
As I drove into the townI decided to make a stop to see 'Jason the mechanic' about my car.

Upon arrival at the shop, a man walked out towards the car. Our conversation went as follows:

Me: "You must be Jason. Thanks for looking at my car, mate."
Jason, recognizing that my version of 'mate' had a long 'a' instead of the accented 'm-iii--te'' that would be local, smiled at me knowingly. 'Where you fraahm?''
Me: "Ahhh, well, I'm from Iowa. It's a state in the middle of the US. It's near Chicago." (I always add that last part for good measure. 75% of New Yorkers don't even know where Iowa is. )
Jason, surpisinly quick on the heels of my last word: "Where in Iowa? "
Me: "Ahhhh, a tiny town in the southeast corner of my state." (As if this guy even knows...)

Jason: "I've been to Iowa." (I look up, surprised.)
Jason: "Actually, I go every year. There's a guy here in Tallangata. Was born Burlington/Mt Pleasant. So you know where that is?"
Me, incredulous: "Yeah, those cities are only an hour from where I live! I can't believe you've been to Iowa. "
Jason: "I also go to this Harley Rally every year. It's in a little town...what's it called? Connesville, that's it. Not much there but the Rally is good fun. Lots-a--peeeeeaaple." (Ozzie accented people)
Me, laughing at this point: "Are you telling me that every year you go to the Harley Rally in my town? Columbus Junction is right beside Connesville. I can't believe you go to Hog Wild Rodeo and you're from Australia. This is riduclous. What a small world. People in CJ are going to die when they hear this."

Shortly thereafter Jason goes into the shop and returns with a picture of the farm he stays at in southeast Iowa. It is framed and has a small gold plackard displaying the family name. It's from the 70's, faded as hell, and was clearly displayed on the wall until plucked off for this conversation. At this point, I love Jason.

I declare my delight and that we must take a picture. Jason, covered in car grease from head to toe, choses this moment to rub his face self-consciously and say, ' Wish I would have shaved.'
I stifle my hysterictal laughter and disguise it as a sneeze.

So that was the beginning to my four day visit in Tallangata. I went to the 'Show' which in Iowa would be known as the 'Fair,' and had fries and beer while some guys in cowboy hats sang Taylor Swift and Trisha Yearwood. I lament to say I took no picture this night. I blame the beer.

My family friends also gave me a beautiful tour of the area, rolling green hills so lush it felt like some of the only land left on earth as divinely intended . I noted that, like southeast Iowa, this was 'God's country.' Apparently that's what people here say too. Is this heaven? No it's Tallangata. I officially have a new bumper sticker recommendation.

Later, sitting in the sun sipping a VB, I arrived at the conclusion that the more good memories you attach to a beer, the better it tastes. This one was pretty darn good.

Sydney Life

2011-02-22T22:46:00.000-08:00

Crickey!!!!

Somehow time has slipped through the cracks, and I have been here almost a month. How?! Who?! When?! I don't know, but 29 days ago I touched down in Sydney, blinked a few times, and here I am, 3/4 the way through February.

So what's been on with the adventure? Well, plenty.

First of all, Erica got married. Erica is a sorority sister from college, and a fellow friend in travel love. After a semester Down Under in college proved fun, she made a point to come back to this side of the world post graduation, and met Kristian, a nice Ozzie fellow, while she was here. Two years ago when I was visiting, they had just started dating, and I even heard the first I love you while watching the fireworks go off at the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Collective *sigh* for love. "Awwwhhhh." I live for love stories.

When I was in Argentina last year, I got an email that they were engaged. I was a month into my trip, and half into a bottle of beer over lunch, when I looked around the cafe at all the fabulous Argentines, manically talking, eating and drinking all in the same hand waving motion...when it hit me. "Thelma, let's not go back. Let's just keep going. "
Keep going. That's what I would do. Forget real life, the job, the resume, and making plans. I mean, who wants to go back to regular life when you can trot around the globe soaking up cultural inundation like this? Living in these countries is cheap, and with my resourcefulness, I was sure I could pull another year out of it! That's what my self-convincing talk was- short, sweet, and optimistic logic grounded in denial.

So, my imaginary car on the cliff, foot on the gas, I decided to go for it. (Anyone getting the Thelma and Louise references here? Maybe this is just my humour.) In any case, the wedding email was the catalyst. I would not be returning to the US and getting another big kid job- I would instead head across the globe to Australia, to see a wedding and then get a one year working visa (which all Americans and Canadians can get until they are 31 years of age.) I would work as needed to pay the bills and keep on gallivanting. Excellent.

One of my favorite things about life is the possibilities of major change from minor things. That is...the idea that everyday events and conversations can change your life if you let them, if you are open to the opportunity. I went to South America in the first place because of a conversation I had with my friend Susan one day, standing in her parent's house. She was home on leave from her job with the Foreign Service in Armenia, a lifestyle of work + living abroad that I always thought was chic and fabulous. When I told her I was thinking about taking some time off to travel, she took off in an way that only Susan could go, throwing encouraging recommendations at me at me like darts. "Go to South America!I have friends in Peru...they have a restaurant.. Argentina...Buenos Aires we know people... Brazil, we lived in Sao Paulo for years, I'm sure Tininha is still there! We can find you places to stay, give you restaurant recommendations...it will be amazing!" And that's all it took. A few dangled contacts, a google map search together, and I had a new plan. The irony and hilarity of the story, is that Susan, caught up in her new pregnancy and busier than a banker on Black Thursday, never gave me any of those contacts or answered my emails. She had the best intentions and I still joke with her about it all the time, but once I bought my ticket I realized I was on my own. The point is, that moment, that conversation, changed my life forever. (Which I will forever be indebted to her for.) Next I would book a plane ticket, and eventually find myself in Argentina in a little cafe, thinking about an email I just got from Erica and that I might as well throw caution to the wind and go to Australia. Pivotal moments here people.

Back to the present. Or reflection of the recent last few weeks here in Oz.
The wedding was everything you would hope for when you travel thousands of miles across open ocean, leaving your time zone in the dust and finding yourself upside down on the planet with an entirely new sky staring down at you and people driving on the other side of the road.

The ceremony was at Bondi Icebergs, the RSL (equivalent of the VFW) that sits overlooking on the most famous beach in Sydney. I was in heaven. Crashing waves in the background, glass of champagne in my hand, canapes!!! Since leaving Toronto, my life has cut down considerably on what I would call "VIP moments." That is, black tie, white list, top notch place, kind of moments. The kind of moments I got to experience with my agency job and city lifestyle. As per my previous blog posts, I left these moments behind on purpose, desiring a more simple existence and fearing the soul-health effects of getting too caught up in the rat race fringe benefits. However! You can take the girl out of the fabulous, but not the fabulous out of the girl. And back in my stiletto heels and holding stemware, I was le' ha-pp-ee to reconnect with my former mademoiselle.

After the wedding, Erica, her new hubby, her family, Carrie ( the best bridesmaid ever), and I, headed up to the Hunter Valley to check out the famous New South Wales wine region. The only problem was...ME. Still struggling with a post-South America stomach problem (not a parasite people, just the effects of too many antibiotics wiping out my healthy bacterica. Lesson learned- use probiotics alongside anything that ends in 'cillin.') Anway, I'd been instructed to stay away from alcohol, sugar, yeast, and processed dairy including all cheese made with mold. Well. That's great. Except for the fact that all my favorite foods, and coincidentally those most frequently found on wine tour weekends, include alcohol, bread, fancy cheese, and chocolate- a feast of sugar and yeast.

So while I wasn't exactly a my usual imbibing self on the wine tour, I did indulge in the occasional taste and enjoyed seeing all the beautiful scenery alongside good friends. I also had the best damn fish and chips of my life at the local winery pub. (What IS IT with the amazing chips (fries) over here?!!) And I saw wild kangaroos.

All in all, Sydney life is suiting me well. I plan to stay here for another few weeks, before heading off to tackle another part of the country. Once the beach weather moves on, so does Andrea.

Australia

2011-02-06T03:34:00.000-08:00

Well here I am. Down Under Again. Two Years and one month later, I have made good on my self- promise to return.

Although the Midwestern United States is experiencing the greatest snowstorm since 1979, I made it out in the nick of time to explore in warmer waters down south.

The 27 hour travel time was daunting and I was surprised how much I dreaded it on the days preceeding my departure. An hour from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to Chicago, 2 hours layover, 4 to LA, another 4 waiting, and then 14 to Oz. Throw in the drive time and customs, and it's about 30 hour ordeal. But all worth it when the plane flew low over the Sydney Harbour and touched down into the land of fun in the sun.

I spend my first week re-aqainting myself with Sydney and trying to get over the jetlag. The latter of which gives me more trouble than I remember. Although I'm a bit knackered, the Ozzies tell me to stop my 'whinging' (their word for whining) and we jet off to iconic Bondi beach to catch some rays.

Australia is.... a perpetual sunburn. Literally the sun here is so powerful, a few naive moments exposed without SPF and you're toast. Crispy, crunchy, burnt toast. I slather on the sunblock like icing on a cake- the more the merrier. It was less than a decade ago, I was a lifeguard with a penchant for being tan, a sun worshipper covered in oil who rotated hourly to get the best exposure. Times have changed and with face wrinkles a more tangible reality, I don a hat and escape under the umbrella whenever possible.
The sun doesn't just seem stronger in Australia, it actually is. It's scientifically proven that the UVB raditation exposure is stronger here, most closely linked to a large hole in the Ozone in this area of the world. This does not keep people from going outside or scare them out of sun activities: the beaches are packed with sun worshippers lined up like sardines in a can. You can pick out the tourists - they're the ones with awkward sunburns from careless suncare application or evil friends who made inappropriate shapes.

Although the fact that Ozzie's heritage dates back to the fair skinned British, does make things even more concerning. But apparently even freckly white-folk genes can mutate into melanin worthy tan-cells. Evolution is an amazing thing.

Another afternoon, a trip to the Sydney aqaurium gives me an opporunity to see my old friend sea turtle and the not-so-amiable Great White Shark. When I was here before I put shark stories aside and assumed it was all myth. That was, until Christmas Day when a man was eaten in Perth and three days later, someone was attacked in Sydney. Staring at the three layers of teeth on their jaws, I quitely remind myself not to be bait.

On sunny Friday afternoon I head to Manly beach, one of the most beloved beaches of Sydney known for it's great waves, hip hang-outs, and good people watching. It reminds me somewhat of Copacabana in Brazil, a long stretch of bustling white beach with the the city running right up to the edge. I find myself missing the Brazilian beach service- the guy bringing beer to my towel-front and the portable stores-of-wonder (bikinis, jewelry, massages, and Globo snacks 'made of wind!)

I end my day in Manly doing one of my very favorite things-returning to something familiar and loved. Anne, a South African who I met on a sunny day in Argentina, has relocated to this part of the world and invited me for dinner. No surprise, she managed to find herself a beautiful flat seaside in Manly. I gape over the sunset while she cooks up some fish, and we chat the night away about how much has happened since we met as backpackers almost a year ago. Can it really be a year since we were tasting Malbec in Mendoza? What a year it has been.

Worldwide Adventure Part Two: Savor it

2011-01-19T21:27:00.000-08:00

Hello my name is Andrea Wilson and it has been 3 months since my last plane ride. But I'm getting an itch. And I'm about to take a travel hit again. In exactly 6 days.

In the months since I returned from South America, a lot has happened. As my friend and fellow traveler Andy Stoll always says...."the big wheel keeps on turning." But even though I've been on travel down time, I continue to be delightfully surprised with the beauty of life, and even manage to look past the not so beautiful things, like the last five months of post-trip digestive issues (what's that stomach? You weren't happy with a diet of animal organs and refined flour!?) Apparently my 'If-it's-wrapped-in-an-empanada-it-must-be-fine' rule was wishful thinking.

My punishment has been considerable, as my tummy pays me back for my negligence and has required a stringent recovery diet and treatment plan. So, now with more prevention knowledge and enough probiotics to populate an Activa plant, I am packing up and getting ready to take off again. Destination continent 2.0: Oceania (aka. Australia)

Besides the probiotics, I'm also taking a nice compilation of perspective and new philosophies developed from the last year of Living Fresh. (Living Fresh: just opened, no idea what it tastes like, just going to slice it up and give it a whirl.) One thing I learned about life? You think you're in the driver's seat until you try to hit the breaks and realize there are no pedals. Time is drivin', baby. Not you. You got the wheel in a metal cockpit and not a thing to do with speed control. Sure you can pull a turn once a while but the truth is, you don't know what's coming up or if the road will end, can't pull over for a pitstop, or as I've wanted to do this past two weeks, just slam the gas and blast through these days! But alas, time runs at it's own pace so we all just might as well sit back and enjoy the ride. Or as I remind myself: "You'll never have another January 19, 2011 again. So don't screw up this one." (Hemingway surely enjoyed much more eloquent self-reminders)

My point? Is this. The art of 'savoring.' What is savoring? It's that feeling you have when you are eating a dessert, say a big triangle of Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake or a brownie Sunday from Dairy Queen.... and you suddenly take note that your decadent delight is quickly dwindling. (If you're a guy, maybe it's easier to consider the last beer in the cooler on game day.) 'Savoring' is how you feel on those last few bites when you think, "This is the best thing in the entire world; I'm going to suck every molecule out of it."
That's my goal for my life: Savor it. I don't know how long I'll get to be on this lovely planet, so I'm going to savor every moment like the bites are dwindling.

Which is why next week I get on a plane to Australia to take on Part two of my adventure. Part two is going to be considerably different than part 1. First of all, Oz is a first world country: this will not be roughing it as far as traveling goes. In fact, on the hard core travel circuit, it's hardly considered a stop. Some travelers think if you aren't without running water or life threatening danger, it's not adventure. I'm not quite this travel pretentious... but this trip is going to be cake compared to jumping buses in Peru and paying thugs not to steal the car in Brazil. (Not that I didn't love all that.)

Oz may seem far away, but it's like another United States (or Canada), just with better weather, a more laid-back lifestyle, and larger marsupials. Two years ago when I visited for the first time, I fell in love. The atmosphere, the people, the happy Shrimp-On-The-Barbe attitude that is more truth than stereotype. When I got on the plane to leave, I made a promise to myself: I'll be back soon. ( I try to make self-contracts that require me to return to beaches and tropical paradises. )

Spending some time in Iowa these last few months, I've had a lot of people say "I wish I could travel like you do."
Surprisingly, I've had just as many people say, "That's great and all, but I would never want to live like you do..always on the move."
Hey, I get it. Not everyone likes cheesecake. Or brownies. Some people don't even like dessert. (Those people aren't my friends, however.)
But whatever your 'life dessert' is...whatever your days look like when you are your happiest... I say, find a way to get to it. Because there is no time better than now to look around and say, 'This is the best damn day of my life, and I think tomorrow's gonna be too."
Whether that is kickin' it more with your hubby, watching toons with your kids, climbing a mountain or traveling the world, do it and do it now. Today is the new tomorrow.

The Gift of Family

2010-10-26T14:53:00.000-07:00

When I travel, I like to absorb pieces of culture from other countries into my own life. When I lived in Italy, I learned that meal time and good food creates togetherness and special moments. I came home and started watching the cooking channel and honing my cullinary skills to create some magic moments of my own.

When I lived in Japan, I learned about attention to detail and perfectionism. I made note of ways in my life I could show honor by attending to the little things and showing my respect for myself and my personal space. (This is a constant growth opportunity- I am naturally more free-spirited, regimen is alien to me, as anyone who has lived with me can tell you. )

In Latin America, I was touched by the family-centered lifestyle that drives most of their culture. In Ecuador, I stayed with a lovely family in Guayaquil. Three generations of grandpas, aunts, uncles, moms, dads and children lived together in a giant apartment building. Need a cup of sugar? Run downstairs to get one from Tia! (Auntie) In Brazil, it seemed like there were family events- dinners, lunches, coffees....all the time! People lived at home longer. Stayed in closer connection with their extended families. One man had a club of male cousins over 21 years that gathers together monthly " with the goal of drinking, talking about women, telling stories, and keeping the family united."

Someone, I can't remember who, once told me that when you're on your last days and you look around the room, it's the faces of family you can count on to see you through. There was a point to this- blood is an unbreakable bond.

I came back to the US and thought, I need to get on about seeing my family more. We're spread out across the US, but distance shouldn't be an excuse. And now, I finally have the gift of time!
So I booked a ticket to Seattle to see my aunts and uncle, cousins... and to get to know all the new little ones (there is quite a brood!) that they've had in the decade since I've been out here last.

My friends in Latin America would sometimes complain about their families-
"My mother is always in my business!"
"Ugh, I don't want to go to my grandmother's for coffee again today!"
"There are so many birthdays, I am going to go broke!"
"I have to go to this wedding. If not, no one will speak to me until next Christmas!"

But regardless of the complaints, I couldn't help but think, they were really lucky. At the end of the day, there were a couple dozen people obligated by DNA to love them!

In Seattle I've already visited local landmarks, made apple cider in my uncle's orchard, and spent hours playing with babies and cleaning up drool. And I can tell you, it feels good to cash in on my own bloodline lottery ticket! Family rules.

Iranian Cab-Ride Education

2010-10-25T10:15:00.000-07:00

I'm in a taxi on my way to the Toronto airport. And I'm breathing a sigh of relief.

After what seemed to be hours standing on the side of the road to hail a cab, a struggle which reminded me of past days working in NYC-- with the office's ill-situated location next to Grand Central Station I spent a lot of time standing and waving on the corner of 42nd and Madison. Today on Toronto's Queen street hadn't been much more fun, but finally a cab-in-shining-armour had arrived.

"I was really happy to see you today!" I said to the cabbie. "Thanks for picking me up. My name is Andrea"

"No problem," he said with a smile. "It is a beautiful day today. A good day for a ride."

I took a look at the plastic sign on the back of his passenger seat. "K Seyed Mohammad," it read, and I recognized what was surely a Middle Eastern name.

"Where are you from," I asked. "Wait, let me guess!" I said interupting myself.."Ok, one little hint, nothing too obvious."
He looked at me in the rear-view mirror and cocked one eyebrow up as if to say, all-right lady, let's see if you know your hisory. "My country is one of the oldest countries in the Middle East."
I paused for a moment, thought through my recent foreign service test research and then yelled, "Armenia!"
"Close! Very close..." He smiled. "I am from Iran."
This man had a very kind nature about him, I liked him already.

"Ahhhhh. Iran... Very good." I said. "It's nice to meet you." I paused for a moment before going on.
" I was born in the US. I guess from a political standpoint our countries don't like each other very much at this moment. But that's not important to me, I always enjoy meeting people from all over the world. I've never met 'a people' I don't like!"
He was nodding his head as I spoke.

"People from all countries are good. We all want the same things- to raise our children, to have a home, to live a good healthy life."
"Do you have a lot of family living back in Iran?" I asked.
"Oh yes. Many of my family are there. I go back when I can to see family, to visit."
"Does your family like the Iranian government?"
"Oh, no." He said with a jovial smile. "No one likes them right now. That is why there are always protests and revolts!"
"You know the Iranian president made a big splash at the UN this year. His speech blaming the US government for 911 was not too popular." I said this a bit hesitantly, not wanting him to think I was blaming him or wanting to start a debate on the issue- I didn't.
But his chirping response made it clear he was with me on that front.
"No one was there! All empty seats! Ahhhh...this man is not a good representitive for our country. He is a puppet. The Mullahs...the religious leaders...only wanted him in power because they could control him. But this is often the way with these things...people that are in power are not always the best. Only governments create the problems. The government always wants to keep control of people. They make one people hate another only for the reason of keeping control."
I smiled at him from the backseat. Not because I think my country is right and his is wrong, but because I always enjoy meeting people who are can see things from a more unbiased viewpoint.

"My theory is that everyone in the world has the potential to be friends, but the media and politics often get in the way. In other words, give two people from any two countries a cup of coffee and a couch, they'll find a common ground."

"This is right and true." He said. "You are a smart girl. How did you decide these opinions?"

" Oh, I just decided one day to stop beliveing everything I read and started paying attention to what is really in front of me. Besides, when you live in Toronto, you get to meet people from all over the world. You realize that we can all live together happily if given the right environment!"

We finished the rest of the ride to the airport talking about the weather, how beautiful the fall was, and how lucky we were to be enjoying this time with friends and family. I thought to myself how much I enjoyed riding with enlightened cab drivers from Iran.

What defines you?

2010-10-21T16:57:00.000-07:00

In Western culture, who we are is often what we do.

Think about every dinner party you've ever been to. Every time you've ever been introduced, on the street...at a football game...to friends of friends, especially by someone else. What immediately follows someone's name as a descriptor?

" I'd like you to meet Mariam! She just opened her own restaurant."
" This is Tom. He's a lawyer with Price Water."
" This is my friend Sarah, she's in residency at Toronto Western Hospital."
" Meet Bill, he's a no good low-down bum, otherwise known as an accountant. Hardee har-har."

Often, when it comes down to what we deem most important to tell others about ourselves and our friends, we chose work. True, right?

This cultural habit surely helps out capitalism! If what you do = who you are then surely....you will work harder which = more money for the system. So capitalism is directly related to self worth!

Economic crisis aside, the success of the United States is built on the backs of hard workin' folk. We want those business cards more than we want to sit around and enjoy la dolce vita! (Or we want to enjoy it with the card in our pocket)

I like being introduced with my work - I was proud of my success!
-"Everyone, this is Andrea, she works in advertising and manages the Ford account in Canada."
-"Lisa, meet Andrea- you both have a lot in common on the account side, I'll leave you two to talk."
-"Please meet Andrea, she heads up the Toronto office for her company in the states."

Insert proud smile here. Not there is anything wrong with that- I worked darn hard for that spot!

But then the last 7 months traveling through South America.... I noticed something very different. No one in Latin culture introduced me this way!

"Hola!!! Amigos!! Meet Annnnndreaaaa!!!.... Andrea is from the United States!! She is a very funny girl!"
"Elina, meet Andrea. You two are free spirits....you will have a lot in common!"
"Meet Andrea, she's crazy for traveling and likes to learn everything about culture!!!"

Interesting. I went from being defined by a job and a list of achievements...to a list of personality traits. I went from being "What-I-Do" to "Who-I -Am."

For a while I felt the need to introduce myself in the past tense "Hi, I'm Andrea, before this trip I was working in advertising. I managed the Ford account!"
But after awhile, I got the hang of things and realized who I was was enough!

These days, I'm introducing myself just as "Andrea" and letting people decide for themselves. I'm not a ________ or a ___________. I'm just me.

Eat Pray Love - A Spiritual Journey Relived

2010-10-11T20:49:00.000-07:00

Tonight I did something I'd been meaning to do for a while- I went to see Eat Pray Love.
Everyone I know had seen it, and me, the person who just returned from a 7 month spiritual journey and soon to set out again for part two, was procrastinating. Maybe I wasn't ready to see a movie about someone else's soul searching in the middle of doing my own. Or maybe I was just afraid of what Hollywood would do to a beautiful book like Liz Gilbert's. Either way I was stalling. Or waiting for the perfect time, which divinely presented itself this weekend, and so I took the opportunity to travel back across time and space and reunite with my former self by watching Julia Roberts play someone who I once related to.

I sat alone in a little indie movie theater in Toronto, only a few other people in the surroundings seats - the movie had been out for quite some time in North America. As the credits began, I took a deep breath, not sure how I would feel when the credits were rolling to close. To be honest, as much as Liz's book inspired me ahead of my trip, it was during my travels that I realized how different we really experienced things. She went to Italy- probably the safest and most popular (ok, I'll say it, cliche) of travel destinations, India, which is inherently much more risky but her chances were limited to cab rides while under the protection of an Ashram, and then Bali, which is pretty much the Cherry Cheesecake of Indonesia- sun, sand, surf, and tourists. She had a prepaid book deal, stayed in luxury accommodation (compared to me) and had the reassurance that no matter what happened she had a Manhattan apartment to go back to. (Meanwhile I moved out of my condo, quit my job, and sold all my stuff. )

My hesitation of self/EPL comparisons came when I realized most of my personal growth was happening from the not-so-fabulous moments of traveling. I wasn't finding myself watching sunsets, drinking wine, or reading Hemingway. What happened instead was that life taught me lessons that I didn't expect to learn from situations I had no intention of getting myself into. The kind of situations that come from not playing it safe, from diving into life head-first, from choosing culture and experience over luxury and familiarity. And doing it all without a backup plan. In those moments you hear your own voice clearly saying "So This is What It Feels Like." And you hold on for the ride figuring a safety belt is pretty much futile at this point.

But what I also learned in my travels....is that 'you can't judge another person until you've seen through their eyes.' And so, if Liz found the deepest depths of her soul by eating pasta, chanting the Geet, and sunning in Bali, well that was fine by me- and really that's how we all imagine ourselves reaching inner peace, right? With cute clothes, good food, a cocktail in hand and the sun on our face? Don't get me wrong, I learned pleeeenty in those moments too. :)

Halfway through the movie, I found myself lulled into a smiling trance, lost somewhere between Julia Roberts and my own memories. Julia watching futbol in Rome - me watching the world cup in Florianopolis. Julia walking through fruit stands in Bali - me walking through fruit stands in Ecuador. Julia napping with a room full of people after Thanksgiving- me passing out face down after Easter chuhassco. Julie talking with Ketut- me laughing with Communistista. Julia at a wedding in India- me at a wedding in Brazil.

And the Brazilian music In Bali, I had heard it before.... Samba da Benção, I could not forget. The music Javier Bardem puts on in his home, that's Joao Gilberto. *sigh* Brazilian music really is the most wonderful music in the world..

On the note of Javier though, I must say, as much as tall dark and handsome does fit the bill for Brazilian, Javier's look is Spanish and his accent isn't even close to right. (missing that sing-songy bounce to his Portuguese..."Eu tenho saudaaaaddes de voce!")

But even though Javier wasn't o peifecto Brasilero, even though Julia didn't seem to reeeeally be struggling with the same kind of passionate sorrow I remember from the book, even though the movie cut out some of my favorite parts because it's impossible to fit a year into two hours....I still loved it. Because it reconnected me to some of the happiest moments of my life. And made me wonder how my Part 2 will turn out.
I have no doubt it will be wonderful, because no matter how things come to pass, you can't mess up a spiritual journey. And you can never risk too much in finding your own happiness.

I walked home through the late-night city quiet with sweet nostalgia. And smiling, thought to myself, "My movie would sooooo be better."

A Modern Day Nelson Mandela Inspires More From Humanity

2010-10-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

If anyone had a right to hate, it was Nelson Mandela. Spending twenty-seven years imprisoned in a South African jail, it is a wonder of humanity that Mandela reemerged with his original views of racial equality and not white hatred. Twenty-seven years of his life, gone, at the hands of apartheid supporting whites. But he would not hate. Instead Mandela went on to lead South Africa to a racial harmony that years before was unimaginable, inspiring nations all over the world to consider their own opportunities for better equality. Putting hate aside gave him the power and the platform to change perception. As true as it's been done, Nelson Mandela changed the world.

Nelson Mandela wouldn't hate, and today, neither will Izzeldin Abuelaish. And although Abuelaish surely has reason to hate, his own refusal could have a world-wide affect of Mandela proportion.

In the Gaza strip, where Dr Izzeldin Abuelaish was born and raised in a refugee camp, life had not been easy, but he had certainly been blessed. After years of study and sacrifice, he was now a respected infertility doctor, a husband to a beautiful wife, and a father to eight beautiful children. After a scholarship to study medicine in Cairo, a diploma from the University of London, a masters of public health from Harvard, and now with a home and family in Gaza, he had achieved against all odds. His abilities in the medical field were so respected, in fact, that he was asked to join on and work across the border at an Israeli hospital. The Israel /Palestine conflict had been tense since the 1947 UN Partition Plan decreeing that Palestine would be divided into a Jewish state and an Arab state. Now, at a time when tensions between Gaza and Israel were at a fevered pitch, Dr Abuelaish was one of the first Palestinian doctors working in Israel.

Could there be a more beautifully vivid picture of the potential of peace and the life force that connects us all? Dr Abuelaish, a Palestinian doctor, was delivering Israeli babies. He was bringing new life into the world where many of both sides would rather see lives lost. How many Israeli's must have had their beliefs and stereotypes challenged...must have looked at this man and thought to themselves, "Is this who we are fighting?" How many Palestinians must have considered the doctor's daily plight and thought, "If he can find a way to work with them, could peace be possible?" This doctor stood in a position, maybe more than any individual at that time, to truly change perceptions. And he was working to do it, using his opportunity to further peace talks and smash stereotyped-fed hate. Above government rulings and formal handshake agreements, he was an already-in-motion example. It could work.

On December 27th, 2008 military tensions came to a head. Israeli forces initiated an air strike on Gaza and shortly thereafter, a ground invasion. On January 16, 2009, Dr Abuelaish walked out of his living room to take a phone call in the kitchen while three of his daughters and a niece remained on that side of the house. Seconds later, a shell from an Israeli tank, reportedly intending to strike military-only sites, hit the civilian building. Racing back through the chaos and debris, what the good doctor found were the decapitated remains of those he once loved. They were gone. Not even a doctor could save them, not even him.

The call that Dr Abuelaish was scheduled to have was an interview with an Israeli journalist friend; the Dr had been providing Gaza-side information to Israel as the media was not allowed in during the fighting. The call happened, no longer an interview, but as a screaming cry for medical help for his remaining wounded family members, broadcast live on Israeli television. Both sides were suddenly, poignantly aware of the reality of war.

If anyone has a right to hate, it's Dr Abuelaish. If anyone has a right to lay down, cry, pound their hands on the floor and just give up on life, it's Dr Abuelaish. But he doesn't and he's not. Instead, he is dedicating his life to creating a better world and preventing others from suffering the same pain. He moved his remaining family to safety in Canada (his wife was lost to cancer shortly before the accident) and from his new home in Toronto is using the multi-cultural city as neutral ground to speak to both sides. He is presenting at University campuses struggling with racial segregation and Muslim / Christian /Judeo conflict. He is speaking to Israeli groups in Toronto and in communication with his Palestinian people back home, trying to create a voice to affect change, begging both sides to stop the aggression, to find a solution, to focus on humanity. He's written a book, aptly called I Shall Not Hate, with which he will go on tour starting in January, sharing his story and his message of peace to the world. He also created the Daughters for Life Foundation, which will provide education and health-care access to girls and women in the Middle East, in hopes that more educated women can someday stifle the war cry.

Listening to this man's story, one can't help but be inspired. But the question remains- will he be able to make a difference? To that question, Dr Abuelaish will tell the story of a girl on the beach collecting washed-up starfish:
A man walks up to a young girl throwing things into the sea and says, "What are you doing, young girl? What are you throwing into the sea?" She replied, "The tide has gone out leaving the starfish stranded to die. We must save them and throw them back to the sea where they can continue living. " Then man looks down the beach and sees hundreds of starfish dotting the sand into the distance. He looks sadly at the her and says, "Save your energy; there are too many. It doesn't matter, you'll never make a difference." The girl looks into the eyes of the man, picks up another starfish, and throws it into the ocean. "It mattered to that one."

Thousands have already been affected by Dr Abuelaish's powerful story, and its safe to say he stands to affect millions more if his message is given the right platform. Surely enough of those starfish will gather together to create a new wave of change. If Nelson Mandela has taught us anything, it's the power behind one man's refusal to hate.

----------------------------------------------------------------
Dr. Abuelaish has asked me if I would like to be part of his book tour and spreading his message across the US. Although it appears I will be traveling at the time, if anyone who reads this would like more information on his tour dates and locations, or could help schedule new locations, please email me at theforeigncitizen@hotmail.com.
The book will be published in multiple languages- Spanish, Portuguese, Hebrew, Finnish, Swedish...etc, and his tour will also be international.

An excerpt from Dr Abuelaish's book can be found here.

The video of Dr Abuelaish's help call to Israeli journalist friend here.

Google Dr Izzeldin Abuelaish will bring you a host of articles to read, here is one interview.

Here you can watch a video of his interview on Steve Paikin's The Agenda.

The Latino Difference- A Saturday Night Story

2010-10-01T11:59:00.000-07:00

My last few blog posts have been pretty heavy. My friend Lisa said, "A few months ago you were writing about salsa dancing and caipirinas, one month back in the US and it's politics and terrorism!"
I laughed out loud. Hey, this is important stuff! And anyway, through my travels I DID write about the social and political issues facing Latin America (military coups, corrupt governments, extreme poverty). But yes, the dancing and drinks were favorite subject matter, and there are some things about the Latin America lifestyle that don't translate in the to non-Latino life. Living in both situations within the past year has made for some pretty funny comparisons. So on a lighter note, here is a post about being a woman in a bar in non-Latin America.

- - -

In Brazil, I felt like a goddess. Maybe it was just my experience, but reading stories of other women's adventures, I've come to believe that girls everywhere feel lovely in the Latin eye. The men have romance in their DNA. A man that would typically have no chance with a woman twice as good looking will even the stakes by being suave and confident.They somehow give compliments that should sound ridiculous but when delivered with conviction go right to the heart (and the ego!!)
At the time I remember thinking, Could guys at home pull this off?

This last weekend I got the answer.

Sarah, Megan, Kendra, Virginia and I are back together again. It had been almost a year since I'd seen them (except for Virginia who visited me in Brazil). Now I've come to Toronto to visit and they've all flown in for a reunion weekend (Megs lives in North Carolina and Kendra and Virgina moved back to PEI.) For the previous three years we rocked Toronto together so this weekend the plan is to relive our former fabulous. We decide to hit one of our favorite late night haunts on King Street, Two Cats.

Now to be honest, Two Cats is really not the place to relive fabulous. In fact, Two Cats is the exact opposite of fabulous. It's a tiny hallway of a bar that plays the same 80's rock playlist every single night. Where people play the air guitar at will and scream Don't Stop Believin' in each other's faces. Where the same guys talk to the same girls amidst the same blaring music. I always used to joke that going to Two Cats was like Groundhog Day Saturday Night. Every time you walk in the front door it's like that bizaar, Time Is Repeating moment that Bill Murray has when the analog clock flips 7:01.
We like to go because we can dance like fools and no one cares.

Upon arrival last Saturday I note that a year away has not changed anything; these people were here when I left! We smash our way through the crowd and over to the bar to get a beer. Victorious, we now have beer in hand, but are pretty much sequestered in a tiny space with no room to move right or left. Herein probably lies the reason that Two Cats is such a popular bar for guys- once in, girls are literally "stuck." You can't move. Escape is futile. Anyone descending on you with the hopes of conversation or an awful pick-up line will get a more than average opportunity because no one has room to turn on their heel and go anywhere. Unable to move, you figure what the heck, I'll see where this goes. Which is exactly what happens to me. I turn around with intention to find a corner somewhere and come face to face with a stranger saying, "That scarf goes beautifully with your eyes."
What?! It takes me a minute to get my wits. I say thank you and crank my neck around to find my friends. He goes on. "Toronto is sexy in the fall. Women with their scarves around their necks, everyone looks so....." He makes a little shivering motion like too hot to handle.
At this point, I stop to assess Casa-Nova (the second of which ironically translates to no-go in spanish...memo to aspiring Casanovas). He is about my height, white as the day is long, maybe 130 pounds soaking wet. (that's 60 kilos or so, metric-favoring friends) He goes on talking about scarves and trees and leaves and colors, throwing in compliments here and there that sound like something out of bargain-rack poetry book.

I am dumbfounded. I can't say a word, I just stand there and stare. Is he trying to pick me up with this rhetoric? Really? I mean, in Ecuador a man that literally came to my Elbow once asked me if I "wanted to be his angel forever," but this, this was too much. Is this crazy here by himself? I decide he is. Oh great, a lone nut-job, trolling the waters for spacially paralyzed women. Worse, I am caught in his net and going down fast!! My inner voice screams HELP!!! I back away a little bit trying not to give myself some air.

He was still talking when I saw him make a motion to the side, and my brain registered that another man standing there was his friend. And wait! There was Kendra! My Kendra! She was talking to the crazy man's friend. I dove at the opportunity, giving Kendra the sorry-for-interrupting-but-this-is-an-emergency eyes.
"Hi I'm Andrea! Is this your friend?" I said, overly fast with the Get Me Outta Here tone.
The guy laughed, sensing my panic.
"Yeah, that's Lewis," he started. "He's harmless...a really nice guy. His methods of talking to girls are just a little.....," he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

The panic immediately left my body. He was normal. Someone had vouched for him. I was not talking to a complete whack who would later try to follow me home with roses and yell up at my balcony.
I looked back over at Lewis and motioned him over, shaking my head and laughing all the while. I threw my arm around Lewis' shoulder and said to his friend, "Listen you gotta help this guy. You just can't ........ I mean he's talking to me about scarves and leaves and telling me my eyes are the colors of flowers. You just can't do that here. I mean, I thought he was a crazy person. Now I can see you are his friend and he's not a freak show...but you just can't say things like that to girls here. This is not Brazil!!!"

Everyone laughed. Lewis looked relieved. I don't think he was too comfortable with the act either.
"Hey, you're a pretty cool chick..." He said to me smilling.
"Lewis," I said, shaking my head."You are not Latino, that ...is...for ...sure."

Later when we walked out of the bar Kendra gave me the look like, "Well that was interesting."
"Ah, props to him for trying to up the romantic antie here in the north." I said. "Lewis was a good guy...... but northern Romeos have a long ways to go. " :)

Are Americans Unintentionally Recruiting Terrorists?

2010-09-29T09:51:00.000-07:00

In 2001 two planes were flown into the twin towers by members of the terrorist group Al Qaeda. Americans everywhere went "How could this happen? WHY did this happen?"

This month, in the wake of the 911 anniversary, hundreds of Americans showed up to protest a mosque being built near the World Trade Center. The mosque has nothing to do with the Muslim extremist sect, Jihad or the Al Qaeda terrorist; it is a place of worship for the overarching Islamic faith which includes over a billion spread throughout almost every country across the world. Pictures of angry, protesting Americans wearing T-shirts with anti-Muslim and racial slurs appeared in newspapers and television around the world.

At the same time a pastor from Florida named Terry Jones declared he would burn a Quran, the holy book for the entire Islamic faith (not just the extremists) in front of the mosque. Terry declared the International Burn a Quran day and created a Facebook page, spurning other extremist Americans to create YouTube videos of burning the Quran. Cnn.com said that the U.S. Ambassador in India, Timothy Roemer, condemned Quran-burning as 'disrespectful, intolerant, divisive and unrepresentative of American values,' but America put Terry Jones and Quran burning Americans on newspaper front pages and TV stations across the nation. Even though these people were the minority, the visual message was a strong one. Then, newspapers and TV channels world-wide ran the story, including those in India, the second largest nation in the world, Afghanistan, where our US soldiers are current based and seek civilian support to locate terrorist rebels, Pakistan, a country the US has been working to create stable Allied ties with, and Iraq, a country taking it's first shaky steps on the democratic legs that thousands of Americans gave their lives to instate.

After the world saw pictures of American Christians burning Islam's holy books, there were riots across the world. In Kashmir India, a Christian school was burned, eighteen people killed and another one hundred were injured. Someone erected an effigy of President Obama and set it on fire. Al Qaeda terrorists and Jihad extremists broadcast via Iranian radio stations that the world could finally see that America hates all Muslims.

Do you see the connection between our actions in America and the reaction around the world?
We don't live in a bubble....what we do, say, and put on YouTube, goes out to the world and is no longer in our control. How do we protect the Freedom of Speech of the minority but send a unified message to the rest of the world?

Do you agree that we could honor the souls of Americans lost in 911 but put our best foot forward for the safety and peace of the other 30 million people still living there? That people like Terry Jones are actually putting our country at risk and essentially are Americans recruiting terrorists?

Could the news have reported the story so that when broadcast worldwide, the strongest message was: Americans are Outraged by Extremist Terry Jones?

How can we as Americans step up to stop this back and forth pitting Muslims and Christians against each other and ensure the safety of everyone's future. (Good people in the Middle East don't like terrorists any more than Americans do.)

This last issue is one that I'm exploring. Stay tuned.

For more information you can read:

Digital Journal Article on the negative impact of the American Media

Press Release on the riots in India

GainPeace, An Islamic faith website that makes it clear that anti-Christian behavior is not a part of the Muslim faith (if you take the time to read)

** Photos : Associated Press and EPA

Is President Obama Doing a Good Job?

2010-09-24T13:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I watched President Obama's address to the United Nations, broadcast worldwide. As he spoke, I thought about how it has felt to return to the US, after seven months away, and take stock of how things are going. What I have returned to was not what I expected and truthfully, I have been scratching my head. There seem to be a lot of angry people in this country who are directing it at the President.

Over the past month back on US soil, I've been trying to understand the reasons why people aren't happy with Obama's presidency. Here is a short list of what I've encountered:
- He has not found a way to fix our economy in the last 18 months
- Everyone's lives are not improving at the speed they expected
- We are still at war
- The country is broke

Well, these are huge problems. Really. But all existed at the beginning of his term and we elected him in to start fixing them and point us in the right direction. Right now we don't seem to have realistic expectations of the speed of the fix.

We also seem to be sending a lot of conflicting signals to our president and the world.

We want government to protect us, educate us, build us roads, feed us when we're hungry, and now aid us when we're sick, but are angry we're in debt and " leaving a mess for our kids to clean up."
We want programs that are expensive ( medicaid, social security) and to give away money to people in need ( welfare, charity) ...but don't want our taxes go up.
We want to be the world hero and fight global terrorism.... but are mad it is costing us billions and nobody is helping us. (what? guns and tanks aren't free?)
We want to create jobs and have a thriving economy with products made in America.... but then buy the products made in China and India because they are cheaper. (which forces more companies to outsource.)
We want to live in a united, progressive country.... but our political parties have all but put our government in stalemate and so our people have decided rallying and protests are the best way to deal with it.
We want to regain global respect and elected a president that the world loves.... but then our own citizens openly mock him and start asking for a new guy 18 months in.

Hmmm.

Do you know who has the worst job in America? President Obama.
The list of the problems above was not even a chip of the iceberg. If I were him I'd want to put my head down on the desk and cry.

What do we expect out of a President?
I know what I want. I want someone who represents the United States of America to the rest of the world in such a way that:
- Promotes the freedoms this country was founded on
- Stimulates other countries to want work with us economically, creating trade and jobs
- Keeps us allied with other countries in times of trouble and in efforts to aid

For me, Obama is doing all these things. The world celebrated with us when we elected him, not because they wanted him to fix our social security, because they wanted him to lead us back to greatness by making the US an approachable and image-friendly ally again. And he is in the process of doing this. He's an eloquent speaker; people respect him. He is well liked abroad making it easier for those countries to work with us again. Everyone I met abroad associated Obama with positive change for the US. This is where perception is reality becomes so important.

Someone once said to me, "I don't care if we're popular or not. We'll defend ourselves to the death."
Well. Patriotism is all well and good, but our viewpoint should not be aggression + isolationism + defense.
We want to work with our Allies to make a better world. But those other countries have to decide to work with us which comes down to the support of those government officials, who will consider what is popular in their own countries because they want to get re-elected. Unfortunately for us, George Bush was extremely unpopular in Europe-- I can imagine our diplomatic phone calls to those countries asking for second term war-time assistance were not easy.

Some people try to connect Obama, his middle name, Hussein, and his Muslim heritage to terrorism and Muslim extremists. While this connection may be seen as a great weakness, I see it as a great strength. Terrorism creates soldiers of death by feeding the idea that America, Britain, and other western nations are white supremacists that hate Islam and are trying to bring down the Muslim community. That's how they recruit, that's what someone has to believe to have enough hate to be a suicide bomber. What's the best way to make it harder to recruit terrorists? Take the legs out from under their propaganda. Electing a black president with Muslim heritage was a big step in the right direction. Burning a Koran and our own people calling our president a Muslim supporting devil is not. We need to stop putting those crazies on the news because it's not representative of what the rest of us think.

When Obama spoke a Muslim greeting on a visit to Egypt last year, it was a proud moment for the US - THAT is how you make friends out of enemies and peace where there could have been dissent. It's the kind strategic diplomacy that only a man with his background could employ. We are lucky!

Later in the day yesterday at the UN conference, after Obama gave his speech, the President of Iran Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, gave his. CNN.com said it was a fiery speech about the US having involvement in 911. The part of the article that struck me most was that "Britain, Sweden, Australia, Belgium, Uruguay and Spain walked out on our behalf.

Do you think that having Allies at this time in the world is an important thing for America?
Do you see the connection between the President's foreign relationships and our ability to negotiate financial support, military partnership, and economic deals?
Do you agree that President Obama is opening up those opportunities for America again?

The New Renaissance

2010-09-22T10:01:00.000-07:00

Remember when you were little and your imagination was the limit? A box of crayons, a white sheet of paper, you could color away the afternoons. A bed sheet, some couch cushions, you could build a fort to house the good guys, bad guys, aliens, or whatever your mind allowed.
Play dough. Imaginary friends. Secret worlds. Far off places. Your universe was as big as you dreamed it. What was a universe anyway?

When you get older and things start to change. There are rules, boundaries. And the universe, as big as you once dreamed it, starts to shrink. Limitations chip away at your grand existence like an icepick, your world reduced to the remaining chunk.

Your mother tells you that pants are put on one leg at a time. But what if I want to jump in, two legs at a time? Well sophisticated people just don't do that. So you change, avoid rocking the boat. And from then on you slowly start absorbing and conforming to The Way It's Done. You sleep with your head towards the wall, hit a nail with a hammer not a wrench, walk slowly, stand in a line, dream only at nighttime, cry when you are sad and laugh when you are happy, and never wish for more than is possible. Success is defined as X + Y by the time you are Z.

And then we find ourselves saying, "I wish I could be a kid again. "

Not surprisingly, being a kid was a lot better! But we did it to ourselves. Somewhere along the line we made a choice to grow up, to follow the rules, to stop living in possibilities. We let our imaginations be slowly powered down.

Parents have all had that moment, the one where you realize your kids are smarter than you. Sure they can't balance a checkbook, drive a car, or talk politics. But they get it. They're closer to the big picture than we are and their world is more beautiful because of it. Power, ownership, politics, these are things the adult world has concocted.

Some say that we are at the beginning of a new awakening as people. That free thinking will boil to the top, that humans will evolve into new perspective. A New Renaissance. How beautiful would life be if some of those doors that we closed opened back up? Or if ideas we never allowed ourselves to consider, became realities? What if we could be better as a people than burning religious books and fighting each other over mysteries?

Tonight when you lay down in bed, put your head at the other end. Look up at this unfamiliar view of the ceiling and allow yourself to think, if for even a few moments, what if there were no limitations and you had crayon carte blanche. What would the world be like? How would it feel?

We should be making that world.

Life Without a Cell Phone

2010-09-20T14:49:00.000-07:00

The last eight months, I have simplified my life to dispose of some of the mental clutter. Things had gotten complicated!! The PDA (personal data device) was created to keep us connected and make our lives easier, but mine was making it more hectic! I couldn't stop checking my email. I had developed a Pavlovian response to the text message sound. I started writing emails in my sleep, which makes it safe to assume I wasn't sleeping deeply or soundly. The last straw/wake-up call was when I was out to dinner with girlfriends for my birthday and found myself checking my email off to the side instead of celebrating me!! Live in the moment much, Andrea?

Something had to give.

And it did. I hit the eject button and sent that cell phone flying from my life. I have officially been eight months without! Eight months without mobile Microsoft Outlook, mobile meeting makers, 15 minute reminder screens during lunch, (and cold lunch, at that, because I couldn't put down the crack phone.) Eight months without text messages, instant email, MMS, and mobile web-surfing while I'm driving (sorry Oprah, I was that girl.) Eight months without Yelp, Urban Spoon, TimmyMe, and Foursquare. (Andrea has just checked into the Peruvian Guinea Pig crate".. it would have just been creepy. )

People have found it amazing that I can exist without these 21st century mandatories. Enter dramatic questions here: "Andrea, how are you even functioning?!!" I realize that ditching the phone is not possible, or even desirable, to everyone... so for entertainment's sake here are some examples of how my life functions sans-cell-phone, and is even better at times without it.

Problem: Your friends are perpetually late

Friend: I'm so excited for our dinner tomorrow night! The reservation is at 7Pm! I have a crazy day at work, so I may be a little late...I'll send you a text message with the play by play.*sheepish grin*
Me: Oh shoot, I don't have a cell phone anymore so I'll already be at the restaurant! I don't want to leave because I think you aren't coming! Let's pick a time you are sure you can be there. Do you want to move the time back?
Friend: Yes. Ok. Let's do 7:30 and I will be there, sharp!
Victory: Gaining 30 minutes of life back and not eating alone with not-so-conversational "play-by-play" texts.

Problem: Your "busy" friends are scheduling you in like a doctor's appointment

Friend: "Andrea, let's meet for dinner sometime. We just have to catch up on your trip!"
Me: Great! When do you want to meet?"
Friend, while scrolling through phone calendar: Oh, well.... I'm just sooooo busy. Life is crazy. How about.... two weeks from Friday?
Me, slightly annoyed... " Ehh, I don't book anything more than a week out anymore, for your sake, so that I can remember to show up. No phone reminders for me, got to keep it all up here in the cabeza! What are you doing tomorrow?"
Friend: "Well, I guess could meet you after electric pilates. Starbucks, eight o'clock?"
Victory: When you can't be scheduled out, you move to the top of the priority list. Root canals are scheduled weeks in advance, friends should just get together!

Problem: You meet a guy/girl who who is clearly not your future spouse

He/She: This music is great. Can I give you a call sometime??
Me: Awww, I'm sorry.... but I don't have a cell phone anymore. Let's be Facebook friends :)
Victory: There are 1,294 Andrea Wilsons. Good luck.

Problem: telemarketers and spam texts

......*crickets*.....

Problem: You are the responsible one people call for a late night ride

Drunken Friends: Waaah!! Tonight is off the chain! We need a ride!!!! Who can we get to come and get us? Let's call Andrea, she'll totally feel sorry for us!
Friend #1: We can't call her anymore, unless we send a carrier pigeon. She's got no phone! Let's take a cab.
Victory: 8 hours of sleep on a Stay-In Friday night

Life without a cellphone is strangely, surprisingly, possible. I book things in advance through email/Facebook. I use Skype to make important calls. At some point, I'll surely get a cell phone again, but for the record- life without a cell phone hasn't been that bad!

Jersey Shore, Real Housewives, and the Kardashians: What Does Our TV Say About Us?

2010-09-15T13:11:00.000-07:00

Living inside the US we can ignore the international reputation that proceeds us, but as travelers we often have to face American stereotypes head on. Luckily for us, Americans and America are often seen as two different entities. America is the country, the government, the politics, and the military. Globally, there has been dissent with America's decisions of the past decade, one of them being the Iraq war, another was the re-election of George W Bush. Regardless, it was not uncommon to hear, "We like Americans, we just don't like the choices your government has made."
Thanks for letting us off the political hook, global friends, but now we've got something else working against us: Snooki.

US TV and Hollywood movies are a dominating media source across the world. The image of the American the people abroad is based on the tangible people they can see: those on TV.

Two decades ago we were viewed as the the jean wearing kids from 90210 and Saved by the Bell, and as the wholesome families from Different Strokes and Full House. That was the image we intentionally sent out via television broadcast to homes across the world. The scary thing is what we're sending them now.

A recent Newsweek article can give you all the facts and figures, but the bottom line is that our television programming is sending out an image to the world that shouldn't leave us surprised when our reputation is taking a dive. Is reality TV really our reality? Does an average day in American life really involve waking up to fluffy white robes, limousine drivers, photoshoots, and an endless pot of money for Louis Vuitton purses and Chanel shoes? Do our mother's hair salon dates hold more importance than the whereabouts of their kids? Do our fathers all pay for breast implants?
Do real Americans live in groups in Miami houses, drink Veuve Clicquot with dinner, wear excessive amounts of gold jewelry, and speak with three-syllable-or-less slang about little more than who is sleeping with who?

Unfortunately, citizens from elsewhere believe this IS our reality. They have no other frame of reference. I was asked some bizarre questions throughout my South American adventure- if I had ever had a job, met Michael Jackson, or rode to work in a helicopter, however those were much rarer than the expectation that as an American woman I would be an over-tanned, over make-uped, uncouth sort of lot.

No matter how much we work at changing stereotypes through international relations, charity, and socially conscious behavior, Jersey Shore, Kim Kardashian, and those ridiculous Housewives will always be working harder. In short, I'm never going to beat Snooki.

Do you think Americans should consider the content of a show before we agree to broadcast it internationally?
Does it bother you that Snooki is building your reputation abroad?

Move Over Santa, You Are So .....Last Country

2010-09-09T19:27:00.000-07:00

My friend Susan recently told me a story that had me rolling on the ground laughing. I have to share it with all of you.

Susan is in the foreign service- she works in US embassies abroad in American public diplomacy. (culture sharing and foreign relations.) She has been in Brazil, Peru and recently spent the last three years in Armenia. To a cultural junkie like me, Susan's life is alluring and interesting. She gets to see the world, live long enough in a place to learn the language, and then she's off to a new adventure.

Susan married a man from Venezuela. She and Victor have two adorable children- David is four and tiny Mara is just four months. It was during her stint in Armenia, after David turned three and was talking up a storm, that Susan and Victor realized something: even though they both worked in the business of sharing culture, their kids were basically growing up without it. David wasn't learning much about what it meant to be Venezuelan or American. If fact, most of what he was picking up was Russian. (also spoken in Armenia)

So they decided last Christmas would be a chance to start teaching him their cultural traditions. After some discussion it was determined they would do a combo of culture, that Christmas Eve would include the Venezuelan tradition of baby Jesus delivering gifts, and the 25th day would include stockings and Santa Claus.That was the plan. But as we know, kids sometimes absorb things differently than what we intended. And that's what happened. Because Jesus in Spanish is pronounced more like Hey-Zeus David didn't process the word Jesus...he heard baby Zeus. Before Susan and Victor knew it, he had adopted the idea of baby Zeus bringing him gifts and became really excited about Baby Zeus flying in from Venezuela on Christmas Eve.

Susan and Victor were beside themselves but David seemed so happy, they couldn't bring themselves to tell him it wasn't true. Hey, Santa wasn't real either, right? Around that time the Disney movie UP was released and for whatever reason, probably because it was set in the Venezuelan jungle and the little boy character flew on a colored bird, David decided that the flight of baby Zeus also involved a bird. And not just any bird, but that bird, Kevin the snipe. To top it all off, Susan and Victor had flown through Paris on a recent trip so that term was fresh in David's mind. When the movie mentioned "Paradise Falls" he heard it as Paris-dice Falls.

So, after an attempt to impart real culture on their son and give him some good, old fashioned holiday tradition, David's beliefs are currently as follows: On Christmas Eve baby Zeus flies in from Paris-dice Falls Venezuela on Kevin the colored snipe, bringing presents and love for all!!!
Susan said this year they will be leaving out bird food. Christmas snipes get hungry, you know. :)

The Great American Tailgate

2010-09-07T11:27:00.000-07:00

A lot of people who read this blog are not from North America. Thanks to travel friends and the viral spread of Facebook, visitors come from Europe, Asia, South America and Australia. And since it's a blog created to promote shared understanding through cultural stories, I thought it fitting to write about some American (US) traditions too. For those of you who have never experienced an American college football game (some of the most fun we have to offer) here is a bit of American tradition and an idea of what you can expect attending a game. (American friends, this is satirical and meant to me funny- no need to take offense! Plus as my friend Martina said regarding my Argentine soccer article which didn't paint them so well- "I can't complain because it's all true.")

In the US, college football is big excitement for one reason: the tailgate. The actual term "tailgate" refers to the back gate of a truck or as the 1980s provided us, the station wagon. At some point in football history, my research showed maybe the early 1900's, fans thought it would be a good idea to mobilize lunch and enjoy more pre-game excitement by eating by the game field. The truck was packed with goods and once at the site, people pulled down their tailgate and put out the picnic.This seemingly simple idea went on to start a tradition that would define the game of football in years to come and create the largest gathering of tennis shoe wearing people across the globe.

The key to a tailgate is to pack as many people into the football stadium parking lot as possible so together you form a chaotic atmosphere of pre-game hysteria. Groups of friends park their cars together sardine-style, hours before the event starts. Getting there early means securing a close-to-the stadium space which is where the hottest action awaits. Everyone pulls their vehicles in at the same direction and then the party area is at the back, where the food and drinks are accessible.

The tailgating vehicle of choice has gone well beyond the parked car - now people bring in painted mini-buses or small "camper vans" which have bathrooms and places to sit. This year I spotted an old army medic truck rebuilt as a mobile refrigerator and grill station.
Groups of vehicles use tents and tables to claim pavement space for partying- it is all about marking your territory. More dedicated fans bring in TV's so they can watch the pre-game show. Every third or forth group has speakers and high volume music. Later in the day after more beer has been consumed, white people may attempt to dance.

Tailgating has in effect become bigger than the sporting event itself. Sold-out stadiums hold forty or fifty thousand people and thousands more will come up just for the party. A large portion of those are students who go to that college and come to the game only to drink themselves blind, and exhibit the kind of behavior that gets Americans a bad reputation abroad. This is the same stuff kids all over the world are doing, we're just louder and arguably a bit more crass. Our kids also make the mistake of being filmed "Gone Wild" which hasn't helped matters. However students aren't the only ones getting crazy- there are plenty of usually-respectable adults that meet their disgrace on the tailgating lot.

People prepare for the tailgate days in advance, determining who is bringing what food, and most importantly, the beer. Tailgate beer is American style watered-down ale. It's almost always in cans- cheaper to consume in mass quantity and less chance of broken glass in our feet. Also you can't crush a bottle on your head- just kidding that is only in the movies.

Typical tailgate fare could include: BBQ chicken wings, potato salad (a dish started by the Germans but the American version is not surprisingly doused in a mayonnaise sauce), grilled sausages and the very American hot-dog, hamburgers, various chips, dips and finger foods, and a slew of brownies, cakes and deserts. Occasionally someone will put out a fruit or vegetable tray to make themselves feel better.

Aside from eating and drinking, people also play home-made games like washers (throw a metal thing into a can) and bean bags (throw a bag of sand into a hole). These kind of simple outdoor games are not unique to the US- in Italy they play boccie ball and in France they play croquet. However those from Italy and France may not see my noted similarity :)

Tailgating attire is always some form of the school color, typically the traditional American outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, only done up in school spirit. Girls trying to look cute wear things with glitter or be-dazzle- American women like to be sparkly.
In recent years people have taken outfits to tackier level- colored wigs, stripped overalls (a full-body pants suit that has never been flattering), giant hats and funny sunglasses. This kind of team spirit tacky is not unique to the US- at the World Cup this year in South Africa fans from around the world sport looked fantasticly ugly awful. (my term)

The tailgate rages on until around 15 minutes before kick off, at which point there is a massive migration towards the stadium and a large pile of beer cans outside (post-911 you can't drink inside. I'm surprised we can wear shoes.) After the game, the party starts all over again, a second round of burgers thrown on the grill and more fun ready to be had.

A tailgate, like a pre-game party in any culture, is just a reason to hang out, eat and drink, and celebrate a sporting event. But as Americans we like to do everything big, and as capitalists, we've figured out how to make money on it. We also find a way to make everything fun. If you're from a different country and you've never been to an American college football game, buy yourself a ticket and go experience our culture at its best.

Five Seconds for Forever

2010-09-03T09:41:00.000-07:00

After my last post, my friend and faithful reader, Gerard, wrote me a note. He said that something really struck him most about my last post- that something was five seconds. A five second moment with a woman in Peru will affect me for the rest of my life and remind me forever of what is important. "Those moments. Those 5 seconds." he wrote..." Those are the ones I want my life filled with."

I was touched by this and rethought about the moments in our lives that teach us something and how lucky we are to have been so affected. I also quickly reminded him that my life is not all moments like this and that usually the moments that leave me branded forever are the ones where I screwed up, got burned, and learned my lesson. Of which there are a lot-I am queen of doing it the hard way.

In reality, I did gain a lot of five second moments from South America. Traveling through these unique countries, some at third world status...others wealthier but with cultural twists and turns, was intensely growth provoking. I learned things about myself and life that could have only come from being on my own, overseas, just gutting it out. But the truth is, lessons lie in every moment, including the ones here at home. People teach me new things every day- you all teach me new things every day. I learn about life in the grocery store, the gas station, and on Facebook.

Gerard's facebook status the other day was "Good judgement comes from bad experience, and most of that comes from bad judgement."

How fitting! No better way to say that you don't really appreciate the stove until you've fried your hand.

Someone else reminded me via blog comment (which I love getting so people please leave more!) ...of a popular saying that often finds it's way on t-shirts and wall hangings- "Life isn't just about the breaths you take, its about the moments that take your breath away."
This saying was never one of my favorites- its overuse making it a bit cliche- but the point is a good one: that the summary of our lives really is a basket of poignant happenings that defined our learning and existence. That's why it's so important to try and put a mark on everyday, to take something from it that you'll remember though time. Days pass like clouds in the wind, you've got to find the shape because before you know it, it will be gone.

Monday I had another one of those poignant moments- I gave my baby away. Two years ago I took in a stray kitten who'd been found in the east end of Toronto. She was a little white runt with grey spots and a pink nose- I named her Mila. The first month I had her, I'm not sure I slept more than a few hours a night- she was either walking on my head or I was worried she would get lost in my condo and fall into something. I've recently seen some back and forth Facebook groups from Animal lovers- "I like my dog more than your kid" and Non-lovers - "Your dog was not on the Thanksgiving invitation so assume it's not invited!" My cousin used to feed her dog our Thanksgiving turkey so I get the annoyance, the point is when you care for something day and night, take it to the doctor and clean up it's waste, you unknowingly, unintentially, become a parent to it. Anyone who visited my condo in TO can probably tell a funny story about OCD Andrea fussing over her cat. And now, after all that, Monday night I packed up her little bag, her toys, her favorite cat treats and her brush, and put her into the arms of a new, sure-to-be-loving mommy, who doesn't travel as much and can be there for her.

What's the lesson in this moment? Well, through a waterfall of tears I decided it was this:

The road of life has diverging paths, places where we have to go right or left. And in these moments we're inately lucky- we get to choose. Some choices aren't easy, but we make them, based on our best judgement, and we move forward. Without choice we would be left to the forced opinion of others or stuck in stalemate and unable to move forward. In Mila and my case, neither of those would have been good. Instead I can say I did the best thing for both of us. Tough moment? The toughest. But for two awesome years I had a live-in best friend and she had a sweet city pad and a loving home. I'm lucky enough to have a million other five- second moments with her that were just the best. And I get to keep those forever.

Expectations and Goals

2010-09-01T12:32:00.000-07:00

Being satisfied with your life has a lot to do with expectations. The difference between expectations and goals is that an expectation is what you plan on getting and will be unhappy without; a goal is something you are working towards that you hope you'll achieve.

What you want out of your life can change. Every year my goals change, some slightly to the left or right, some drop off the list, and new ones appear. Who didn't want to be president at least once in their life? (although kids today would probably rather be a ninja or something with better PR.)

Inspired professionals will tell you that the secret to happiness is having broader goals and being open to however they manifest. There is a lot of truth in this. But I think you've got to pick a star; you need to know at least directionally which way you're headed. You can be open to various endings, but still working towards a targeted result.

North American's have a reputation for being overly-driven work-a-holics. There is nothing wrong with working hard to get where you want. The bigger questions we have to ask ourselves are:

- Why do I want to get there? Is it a good, healthy need for productive success or am I masking something else. (aka: distracting myself from other issue)
- Is the goal completely financially driven? If so, will the money buy me time or quality experiences, or just buy stuff.
- How will I feel when I reach achievement? Elated? Fantastic? Will I be able to celebrate the achievement and have a better life...or will I already be onto the next new thing. (We've got a lot of people living in the second.)

Our goals should focus on making our lives richer, brighter experiences. If they are goals for jobs or money, the focus should be personal achievement, doing what you love, or creating an avenue for betterment in another area ( ex: working towards a promotion to feel financial secure having a child.) Achieving goals should make us feel good and if done for the right reasons, will have a last impact on our lives.

It's easy to get caught up in expectations over goals. The people I met in Peru and Ecuador taught me that a large percentage of happiness is just deciding that you are and making the best of your life. Also about focusing on what's important- having memorable moments- and not sweating the small stuff. When we finished building Araceli and Edwin's new house in Pisco, we had a little party. (This was the family that had been living in a dirt floor tent for 3 years. We had reason to party.) All the neighbors came over and with a handful of volunteers, we filled the tiny house to the brim including all the chairs and places to sit. They'd gotten a new bed, mattress, and linens but the frame was their old one, loosely welded together and stabbelized with bricks. Pretty soon half a dozen people were sitting on one side of the bed, including me and Araceli and another four or five others hooting, hollering, and toasting the new house. I was worried that the bed was going to break so I started to get up and suggested the same to Will, another volunteer. Araceli saw us moving, threw her arms around my shoulders, and told us to sit back down. We'd collectively put in hundreds of hours building the place and now it was time to celebrate. To her, this moment was the most important thing. She wasn't worried about the bed and if something did happen I guess they'd just deal with it later. She wanted us there, in the circle of friends, toasting beside her.

This five second moment in Peru has impacted many of my moments since then. I remind myself that disasters are only as big as you let them be, problems only as great as the effect you allow them to have. When your expectations of life are simple, you'll find yourself pleasantly surprised by unexpected gifts. And when you put people and moments first, you've given your life the strongest of foundations.

Stories From the Road

2010-08-27T08:17:00.000-07:00

My favorite part of traveling is not the sights, not the food, but the people I meet ...and their crazy stories. Whether it be locals, for example Ecuadorian wanna-be swimsuit models (pictured), or fellow travelers whose lives are personal comedies ( for example my Aussie friends who made every photo op a joke ...pictured worshipping trash cans in the salt flats and dressed as cowboys in Cordoba. )

I didn't always have a chance to blog about the best stories so I thought I'd highlight a few of them now.

In Quito I met a girl named Jessica and her husband Freek. Jess worked in a European subsidy program geared to monetarily equalize shared borders. That is, because a small country like Belgium has a considerable ratio of border space shared with France, Holland, and Germany there is a lot of cross-over between countries in usage of government funded entities like hospitals, schools, etc. Maybe a rural Belgian family actually lives closer to a France so their children attend a cross border school. Or a family makes a 911 call and ends up getting a Dutch ambulance. Jess's job is to work with these various organizations and provide subsidies for monetary equalization. In other words, to help everyone get along instead of nickel and diming each other (or hanging up the emergency line yelling- Call your own country!) The truly interesting part of Jess's story was some of the things she is required to subsedize - my favorite being the rats. Yes, you heard me, rats. In certain areas of France where rat infestation breaks out, the issue was traced to a source across a border line. I guess the Belgian rats were going for some fine French cheese! So as a way of keeping border relations positive, Belgium would provide subsidies to France to deal with said rat problem. I howled for almost twenty minutes when I heard this story, thinking about pretty Jess with her checklist of to dos- maybe Ratatouille would just be Tatouille if it weren't for Belgium!!!
....."What are we going to do today, Pinky?? Try and take over.....France!!!"

Another interesting people story was one my Dutch friend Puck heard first hand and then passed on. It's less funny but definitely more amazing- and about a kid from Ireland which is always fun. The gent's name escapes me, but I seem to remember his nickname was Foxy.

So, Foxy was working in his government job when the economy tanked at which point said corporatation decided to offer packages to qualifying employees. That is, they could take a percentage of three years salary to walk out the door. Now Foxy wanted to take the offer but he had home debt and it just didn't seem plausible. His dream was a package-funded trek through South America, but mortgage payments had to be made. So he faces the music and tells them he can't take the offer. That night (ok it might have been a few days later, but we'll say that night for drama).....so that night, he's home watching TV and one of those trivia shows, one that he's happened to send his information into previously. The game works that the hosts dial a random number and if they get the person, they ask a question. If said question is answered correctly, person wins X thousand dollars. So the hosts dial a number as Foxy watches but they announce on live TV that "the poor sucker's phone isn't on." Foxy has a funny feeling and a history of poor cell phone service at home so he runs into the back room and stands on a chair with his phone, hoping for more bars. (apparently they have this issue in Ireland too.) Then in an unprecedented move, the hosts decide to "give the poor fool one more try." So the phone rings, Foxy answers, and in a miracle of all miracles, wins just enough money to cover his remaining mortgage. The next day he goes back to work, walks into the office and says he'll take the package. And Anie met him on his dream-come-true trip through South America.

Do the stories GET any better than this?? I've got a handfull of them- this was just my first two.

The Hit List

2010-08-23T14:10:00.000-07:00

One night in Montanita, Anie and I put our heads together to do a best-of South America list. We focused on the "can't be missed" from each country, be it food, drinks or sites to see. From a crumpled piece of paper in Ecuador to my house in Iowa, here's the sacred Hit List of South America! Travelers from around the world- feel free to add your favorites in the comments!

BRAZIL
Best food: açaí (antioxidant packed fruit blended and served in smoothies and ice cream), fresh coconut, and seafood (amazing fish and shellfish- shrimp in the north is not to be missed, oysters of Florianopolis are delivered from the boat right to your table!)
Best drinks: caipirinhas (lime, cachaca and sugar) and Choppe (Brazilian version of artesian draft beer)
Best beaches: Morro de Sao Paulo- Bahia, Galhinas- North Brazil, iPanema- Rio, Praia Mole-Florianopolis.
Best Street Parties: Tuesday nights in Pelhorino- Salvador de Bahia, Friday nights in Lapa district- Rio.
Dance to learn: Samba
Best natural wonder: Iguacu falls (shared border with Argentina)

ECUADOR
Best drinks: batidos (milk-based smoothies with all kinds of fruits) and tropical cocktails with real fruit juice
Best adventure: Watching the humpback whales in Puerto Lopez
Best surfing: Montanita
Best weekend getaway: Mindo for rolling streams and butterfly gardens
Best market: Otavalo for everything!

PERU
Best food: ceviche (raw fish in lime and chili sauce), tuna steak beach-side in Mancora, lomo saltado (national dish of beef, potatos, peppers and rice)
Best drink: Pisco sour
Best beach: Mancora
Best Bizaar chunk of history: Touring the bone collection catacombs, Francisco de Assisi monastery in Lima
Best night out: Punta de Suspiras, Barranco district in Lima (for a dinner or a night out)
Best cultural adventures: Olantaytambo city in the south, Volcano el Misti and of course, Macchu Picchu
Best volunteer opportunity: Building houses for earthquake victims with Pisco Sin Fronteras - Pisco Peru

BOLIVIA
Best street party: Barrio fiestas in La Paz
Best 4-day adventure: Uyuni Salt flat tour:
Best city visit: Sucre
Best witch doctors and shaman: Potosi
Best food: doesn't exist

CHILE (North only)
Best night adventure: SPACE star gazing, San Pedro de Atacama
Best day adventure: Sand boarding and Geysers, San Pedro de Atacama

ARGENTINA
Best food: steak! bife de lomo, bife de chorizo... all asado!
Best drink: Red wine- Malbec from Mendoza
Dance to learn: Tango, Salsa
Best market: Sundays in San Telmo- Buenos Aires
Best Sunday afternoon: Horseriding at an estancia in Salta
Best place to see a soccer game: River Plate or Boca stadium: Buenos Aires
Best natural wonder: Perito Moreno Glacier
Best sunrise: Over Mt. Fitroy in Patagonia

Home

2010-08-18T07:57:00.000-07:00

First day waking up back in Iowa and let me just say, it is wonderful. My culture shock from yesterday has faded- things are still big, but not scary. And I do not miss the pan flute. (that was a metaphor)

In fact, sitting over breakfast watching the Today show, it's easy to wonder, did that even really happen? Did I just spend half a year south of the equator or was it all just a dream? But then I see a post from Anie in Columbia, a message from Chase in Quito and Guto in Rio, and my dirty backpack stares back at me from over on the floor. Yup, it happened.

So what's it like to be back? Incredible. You don't realize what you have until you leave it!
Here's The Top Ten list of Things I am Happy to See Again. (Really happy)

10. Salad. These were around in Brazil (and a few in Buenos Aires) but once I hit Peru and Ecuador, Salad was a distant memory. As was really anything green- my diet has been a balanced pyramid of white rice, white bread, and meat. Receving a tomato or cumber garnish was a small victory.

9. Hand soap/hot water: Hooah! I forgot about all of these great products we have. This morning is like being re-born into the world of scented hand soaps. During the trip hot water was a gamble in the shower and non-existent in the faucet- I forgot how nice it is to scrub your hands with warm soapy water.

8. English television. Watching Big Brother Brazil was comical and I'll never forget seeing Woody Woodpecker in Portuguese, but there's something wonderful about not having to translate the
Colgate commercial.

7. Whole grain anything. After 9287 white bread rolls for breakfast, today I had whole grain oats with honey and peaches. I. Almost. Cried.

6. Traffic lanes. Stop signs. Turn signals. Oh, how I missed you.

5. Different clothing. I, Andrea Wilson, promise never to wear those black tights, Lulu tanks tops or long sleeve shirts again. And the boots are definitely going away for a while- I'm tired of looking like a pirate. I won't be springing into the world of fashion any time soon, but a clean and rotating wardrobe will be decadent.

4. Familiar surroundings. I have no bus to catch, no map to read. I do not need to consult Lonely Planet before making any decisions. I am in the right currency-there is no exchange rate. I know the best place to eat in the area- upstairs. And so far today, no one has tried to sell me anything.

3. Personal space. Traveling in South America you get used to having people near. Really near. The last bus ride I took across Quito, a woman standing beside me sorted through her purse on my lap.Yesterday on the plane I had moments wondering if there was something wrong with me- why is everyone sitting so far away? No Andrea, they are just in their seats and not in yours.

2. Safety. I have to remind myself that I don't need to tie my bag around my leg anymore and that no one is going to steal my passport out of my bedroom while I sleep. Deep breath. :)

1. Family. Wow, I missed them! I had some amazing adopted families in South America (many of whom I miss!) but it's lovely to see the original DNA factory again.

North America Again

2010-08-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t prepared for how I would feel entering the US again after being away for over half a year. I used to do this all the time for work- go the airport, get in a plane, get out somewhere different than I started. It was only on the ride to the airport in Quito when I looked at the van cab dash registering 4:02AM on an analog flip clock cerca 1978 that I thought, hmmm, things are going to be a little different on the other side.

Deplaning in Houston things hit me head on. Everything was huge: the ceilings towers, giant silver aircon ducts, shining marble floors spralling for what looked to be miles. I suddenly felt really small. I walked along a glass walkway and a jet landed right outside the window. That anxious feeling crept in. Where was I, who were all these people and where were all familiarities? Where were the empanada stands and black smoke shooting buses? Black pony tailed heads and traditional indigionous dress had been replaced with towering white people in flashy clothes. Why was everyone dressed in sparkly things? Why did all the clothes have words on them? Why did everything look brand new? Even the people looked brand new. I had on the Bolivian alpaca sweater I’ve worn every day for the past month. I did not feel shiny or new.

A loud speaker announcement came down over me and I almost dropped my bag.- some robotic voice about Homeland Security with twinkly background music. It all sounded so alien. Where was the guy the pan flute?

I followed the people like a drone.
“US Citizen?” A woman barked in my face.
Umm. I stopped for a minute and looked confused.
She took a glance at my passport and hastily motioned me to one side. I trudged on.

Overhead a huge television started playing a little video. The faces of diversity coming together with a booming voiceover…. “WELCOME! To the United States of America.”

I repeated it again in my head, delicately. “The United States of America.” How foreign. Then I reminded myself this was home.

I needed to stop acting so weird. I was back! I made it Stateside! This was good, right? Maybe I just needed some time.

Across the guardrail a family with three young boys stood, all in NorthFace backpacks, Timerland Shoes and Columbia fleeces. “I can’t wait to play with my iPad” one boy said. The other one twisted at the waist and kicked at his brothers shoes. I just wanted to say, hey you kids have no idea how lucky you are.

I put my head down in my Paulo Coelho book and tried to just focus on the words.

When I made it up to the immigration desk, a kind looking black man greeted me with a smile.
“Welcome back to the United States.” He went to look at my passport and then glanced back up.
“How long ya been gone?”
“Since the beginning of February,” I said.
“Wow, well, you must be glad to be home," he said and handed my passport back to me.
I took the passport and started to walk away. He must have taken another look at my immigration paper because he called after me, only this time his voice was different, a more brotherly tone than a man of US national Security.

“Did you go to all these countries alone?”
I turned around “Yeah.”
He gave me a head nod, I guess of approval.
I walked down a a long hall. Past two doors. And into another giant room. And then I burst out crying.

Why? Because I just returned from a really long trip and part of me can‘t believe I made it back in one piece. Because the giant building is scaring the shit out of me. Because maybe I miss the pan flute guy, I don’t know. I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed by it all. I’m going to have a lot to reflect on for a while now.

I pull myself together and grab my bag. I’ve got another flight to catch. Iowa here I come.

The End and the Beginning

2010-08-16T20:02:00.000-07:00

It’s my last day in Quito, and on this particular adventure, my last in South America.
What?! I know. Where has it all gone? 6 and a half months. 195 days. It seems like only yesterday I landed in sunny Buenos Aires and met Communistita. And now?! Five countries and a few thousand miles north (and even more kilometers)…. here I am. In Quito. Heading home.

Sitting here on my last night, I can’t help but reflect back on the initial blog I posted when I decided to take this trip. November 2009- Ready Set Jump.

In it I pledge to take life a little slower, to live only within the boundaries of my own imagination, and to be my authentic self. And you know what? I think I’ve done it. I came to this continent with no plans, no schedule, no particular demands whatsoever other than to just slow down, enjoy and be open. Everything I’ve seen, done or experienced has been based on life just willing me in that direction. And life has willed me well. What I’ve put out there has been real, and what I’ve gotten in return has been nothing short of amazing.

The best part about the whole trip? Not the sights, the sounds the food or the music- but the people. Oh the people I’ve met!! They have impacted my life forever. I’ve soaked it all in like a sponge- every last bit of it. The kindness, the caring, the lessons, and the love. People have taken me into their homes and into their hearts. They’ve fed me, bought me gifts, taken me on tours, and brought me to family functions. It has been incredible. And I’m not sure they’ll ever know the extent of my gratitude, but as they say, the big wheel keeps on turning, and each of those people has a special place in my heart, and unquestionably some goodwill pending from the Universe.

I also set out to do something else on this trip: reach for a dream. I’ve always been a traveler- and I’ve always been a writer. But could I combine the two into something that counts? Something that I could keep as a hobby or maybe more? Eight months ago it was a pipe dream- and now here I am! My blog gets almost 1,000 hits monthly. Not bad for something that started out as a tiny independent project! People come from Europe, Asia, Australia, South and North America. (I got one random view from Malawi. Thank you, Malawi.)

I’ve also started work as the Executive Editor of a newspaper and online community out of Vancouver. We focus on inspiring and motivating news only- right up my alley as far as the world of good. I’ll be posting more on this later.

Finally my freelance career is off and running- I’m currently a contributor on #18 of the top 100 blog sites-Dave’s Travel Corner- and my first article was published yesterday. Check it out: Building Back Peru

So! That’s all well and good Andrea, but you’re leaving! Won’t all this travel blogging and story telling and maniacal living end? Not in the slightest. Please, if you read my blog, keep it book-marked because the posting will only continue from here. After a short rest in Iowa I’ll be traveling through Canada (Toronto, Vancouver, etc.) which, if you’ve read any of my earlier year’s posts, has some of the most culturally rich stories to tell. And, when the Canadian stint is through, I’ll be setting off on my next big adventure: Australia, New Zealand, Tasmania and beyond. (Open-ended, just the way I like it.)

So, even though this isn’t the end, I would like to take a short moment and just say thank you. To those who’ve supported me, encouraged me, read my work, and answered my phone calls at all hours of the day and night- Thank you. This dream couldn’t have happened without each and every one of you.

I leave you with a Bob Marley quote, one I picked up from good times in Brazil, and that seems rather fitting: “You think it’s the end, but it's just the beginning.”
And it is! See you next post. - Andrea

The Little Schnitzel that Could

2010-08-14T20:58:00.000-07:00

In the history of time- there have been some great pairs. Batman and Robin, Black and White, Salt n Pepper, Bangers and Mash. But sometimes you find an unlikely pair that just, unexpectedly…..works! Peanut Butter and Bananas, Tweed and Cashmere, Sunny and Cher. Each one was fine alone but then you put them together and there it was- unexpected delight.

Going on a South American adventure alone was something that seemed crazy to others but I was quite game for. Coming out of my rat race corporate life, I was ready for a breather. Flying solo, I would have the opportunity to meet people from all over the world but take them in small doses. In the immortal words of Julia Roberts cerca Pretty Woman…. “I say Who, I say When, I say…Who!!”

Traveling alone would give me the space to just be me. I can be a bit of a particular sort of bird. Sometimes I like to sleep late, sometimes I can’t sleep at all and get up at the crack of dawn. Some days I’m game to climb a mountain, other days I’d rather sit on a bench and people watch. (the second is much more common.) I’m a bit eccentric, which manifests in disorganization (Do you like that I just took a negative trait and masked it with a positive?) I generally wake up each day with a feeling one way or another of what I want to do, and I don’t like compromising those ideas because someone else has others. I guess these days we call people who are stuck in their ways, “independent.“ So maybe that’s what I am. And for all those reasons as well as the individual adventure, I thought it best not to submit myself to the 24/7 company of another and decided to travel alone.

But one cold and clammy night in Lima (if you’ve learned anything from me about Lima, it’s that every night was cold and clammy) I stumbled upon a little blond haired pixie making dinner. One minute we were strangers and the next minute we were telling life stories like we’d known each other for years. It was a nice feeling.

In five months on the road, I’d met a bouquet of wonderful people, but in the end I’d always had to leave them. The road called to keep going. And the same happened with Anie and I - I went to Pisco to volunteer and she went to "Trujillo or Huanchaco" or one of those little Peruvian towns that I’ve now heard her say in Germanic Spanish about 1001 times. But after “Trujillo and Huanchaco” Anie sent me an email “ Where are you going next?! Let’s meet up!! I want to see you again!”

There something nice about being missed. Something even nicer about getting an email requesting your company. And five months in to this solo excursion, I decided it would be nice to have something constant in my days. So I said Ok! And suddenly one became two. And since we were going the same direction for the remainder of my trip, it became understood that we would just stick it out together.

Now most times in life, I have a plan B, an out. I go to a party with friends but I know I can catch a cab home if it's lame or I get tired. I wear pants to the BBQ, but I bring shorts in my purse in case the weather turns. I ask for sauce on the side. But with Anie, there was no plan B. If I regretted agreeing to travel with her, short of having one of those awkward talks or stealing off in the middle of the night, I was pretty much stuck. I had taken on a German and with-German I would be.

I like it when life surprises me. When the Universe wraps up a nice little package and leaves it unexpectedly with a knock at my door. And that’s what it did for me with Anie. She was a gift to me. The last month of my trip has been amazing. Full of fun, laughter, tears and sharing, all amazingly spent with someone who I had only just met but cared about me with the dedication of a relative or a long-time friend. I can't imagine having done it without her. Personal favorite moments: waking up under mosquito nets solving the worlds (ok mainly our) problems, watching whales jump out of water only meters from us, unexpected salsa lessons on the beach in Puerto Lopez, and DJ-ing a jungle bar party in in Mindo with locals. Today she arrived in Bogota, on to further her journey in South America and in life.

Anie always told me that the thing about traveling is that you are your true self, exposed and raw. That in these moments what you give to others is who you really are. Well my friend, I think you are right, and in that case we can officially say-- we make a pretty good pair. See you in Asia. Prost!

Adventure in the Jungle

2010-08-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

Two hours northwest of Quito the cool grass-covered mountains change to humid jungle. And a little town called Mindo is an oasis in the middle. Lonely Planet says jungle streams, orchid farms and butterfly gardens. Anie and I decide we've got to check it out.

We take a cab to the bus station to catch one of the Every-Thirty-Minute buses to Mindo, only to find out upon arrival that there are actually two a day- one at 9AM (that ship has long since sailed) and one at 4PM. It is currently 1:15 and even though we've grown accustomed to waiting, 3 hours at this dusty station seems a bit much. We hop in a cab to head back to home (we use the word "home" losely these days) and happen to complain out loud about the situation, prompting the taxi to listen up. "You guys are going to Mindo?" He asks and when we shake our heads yes he offers to drive us. Now in the US or Germany taking a two hour cab would be quite costly- as in hundreds. But we manage a bargain deal of $25, more than would pay for the $5 bus but we're just happy to be on our way and not waiting.

Our driver, it turns out, is quite the talker! He asks if les gusta conversar (you girls like to converse) and our initial head nod signs us up for two hours of chatty Ricardo! He explains that he's from the coast where people are much more talkative and less serious than the people of the Sierra (mountains). He chirps on while Anie and I stare out the windows in awe as the landscape turns tropical. Banana plants, palm trees- everything becomes bright green.

Our travel strategies have become lax so we have no reservation in Mindo. What we do have is the"Andrea special"- a scrap of paper with a name scribbled on it. (I perfected the paper scrap back in Brazil with Virginia.) In Mindo we ask the locals for Celia's Guest House and find it up a dusty little road, nestled amoung the trees. It is charming- a giant wooden treehouse with little mosquito net covered beds. Anie and I fell in love with mosquito nets back in Montanita- we're excited to be sleeping under them again. And not just because it's romantic, we're quickly reminded of their functional purpose as jungle mosquitoes start gnawing away at our legs.

We meander back down our dusty road toward town in search of the orchid farm. We pass by the same seven people we met on the way in. I just love being in small towns and villages.
The guys at the construction site whistle at us on the way by. Just like they did the first time we went through.
"I think men in this country just like women. All women. I mean, they can't even see our faces- you could be Scarface for all they know." I say to Anie.
She laughs. We have gotten enough male attention in this country to last a lifetime. And as much as we'd like to believe it's based on our un-matched beauty, we're pretty sure they're just playing the odds.

We find the Orchid garden which appears to be at a private dwelling. We slowly walk in, looking around to see if anyone is home. From under the trees slides out a small round woman who introduces herself as Alicia. She tells us that they have over 100 species of orchids at this particular farm. Anie and I raise our eyebrows at each other- this should be interesting.
What follows is the funniest tourist experience since our fancy breakfast in Cuenca of old toast and burnt milk coffee. The entire hour-long tour goes something like this: Alicia approaches various flower pots, holds a magnifying glass up to the flower (so close so that it doesn't actually magnify anything) and then announces in spanish that this plant is an orchid. Or if its not, she notes that for us. Occasionally she peppers in some limited descriptors.
"This is an orchid. It has a pleasant smell."
"This is not an orchid, this is bromelia."
"This is an orchid, it is very fragile."
Anie and I are killing ourselves trying not to laugh. After 100 species of "this is an orchid, this is not an orchid," we thank Alicia for her time. Then in an attempt to validate our entry cost, we wander through the orchid farm and act out tiny orchid drama's, photographing the whole thing. I'm the Queen of Hearts, Anie is a man with an orchid mustache. When we run out of orchid ideas we wander out of the garden.

In town people are playing soccer on a field. Children are running free without shoes. At one point a we see a lone girl running through the streets. Eventually a man who must be her father yells out to her "Hija, donde estabbas hoy dia?" Daughter where were you today? Apparently this shoeless four year old has been running the streets without supervison most of the day. It's clear Mindo is a pretty relaxed little town.

"I could live her." Anie said to me in all seriousness.
"Me too. I love little towns like this. Let's move here and work at Celias. We can sleep under mosquito nets and live a quiet life."

A few minutes later we find a little tiki bar with swings instead of bar stools. The woman behind the bar is German but holding a little half Ecuadorian baby. She opens us up a beer and we swing and drink and laugh. I look over at Anie- "We're definitely moving here."

Mitad del Mundo-- The Equator!

2010-08-11T19:42:00.000-07:00

Anie and I are testing the theory that ice cream can fully suffice as a sole source of sustenance. So far, we´re proving it true. After 6-plus months in South America for us both, plates of rice and meat roulette have just lost their luster. Frozen cream on a stick however will always be beautiful.

We´re on our second stick of the day as we start our tour at the Mitad del Mundo- translated you´ll know it as....the Equator! Our guide for the day, Carlos, begins by asking us what language we´d like our tour in. Spanish we both say with a smile. These gringas can handle it! And off we go.

Now the Mitad site we´re touring was determined by GPS and marked within the last fifty years. The government of Ecuador decided this was the spot, painted a big red line, and called it done. However a few hundred meters over is another line, one that the French, a few hundred years earlier, also said was exact. But the French guy just has a giant rock monument noting his line while the other has a host of scientific experiments, weight tests, and Ecuadorian jungle huts to tour. And they sell ice cream. Needless to say, Anie and I chose games and desert over rocks and the French. No. Surprise. There.

Another thing that happens after 6 plus months of traveling South America. You begin to get a little bit crazy. Not crazy in the actual loosing your mind way, but crazy in the ¨nothing is serious anymore¨ way. Six months down and you can´t see one more gold leafed church, one more The-Only-Virgin-Saint-That-Counts statue, one more historic Incan artifact. They have literally become one and the same, something you could paint in your sleep. What has become interesting however is being ridiculous. And that´s what Anie and I do. We listen to Carlos, we put our good student thinking caps on (Anie is German, remember- being a suck up good student and beating everyone else into the ground is in her blood)....we put those listening ears on, but the mischief and distraction tend to win over. Luckily Carlos is a patient man.

Through the course of our tour we learn many things. Important things. Most of which I can´t remember. What I do remember is that I was officially one kilo lighter at the Equator. I stood there lapping down my ice cream and thinking that they might as well be retro calories. "These things practically subtract, Anie!" It was almost reason for a third. (Almost.)

We enjoyed the various experiments showing the differences of science at zero degrees latitude. We tested our balance walking the line (apparently the magnetic fields make it more difficult- I'm going to have to agree), watched water go straight down a drain without swirling in either direction, and did a strength test to prove that we are weaker within these fields. (Being lighter was determined of importance than being weaker.) We also toured an old jungle hut, complete with kitchen and a pen full of guinea pigs at which point Anie and I tried to play with them and Carlos reminded us that in Ecuador people don't play with their food. Eek!!!

¨The egg balancing test was of particular interest. In fact my little German lit up like a light bulb at the opportunity to win this challenge. As Anie later reminded me when I asked why it was easier to balance an egg at the equator, ¨It's because the magnetic fields. They aren´t pulling right, they aren't pulling left. They are coming around (here she makes a giant circular motion with arms) allowing the egg to balance more easily on the nail.¨ She finishes explaining with a serious face, obviously wanting to make sure I understand the importance of this science. I do everything I can to participate in the caring. And then I burst out laughing. Try as I may, I have zero to nil (my terms there) interest in magnetic fields, math, uranium, or anything else that uses your right brain. ¨Thank God people like you exist¨I tell Anie. I need people like you to do all those jobs so I don´t have to.¨ She smiles, happily toting her ¨award diploma¨ for balancing the egg. And of course I don´t have one. Right brain-er gave up.

The highlight of the day may have been the ancient people exhibit displaying shrunken heads. (What this had to do with the Equator we weren't sure, but again cheers to the Ecuadorian government for finding more ways to take our tourism dollars!) Anie and I were completely shrunken-head-enthralled and proceeded to ask a million questions, some as follows - Is this a real shrunken head- Yes....How long ago were they still doing this to bodies-less than 150 years ago (WOW!)....why did they shrink people's heads- to keep the soul inside for the next life...and finally, how does one make a shrunken head? At this question Carlos told us to just turn around and look at the "recipe behind us". That's right- RECIPE! I had to pick myself up off the ground laughing- this is why I love foreign language conversations- because instead of using the word "process" or "steps" or any other word to describe the manner of slicing someone's head off, gutting the brains, and then steaming it until shriveled, our friend Carlos used the word "recipe." Just fantastic.

Anie and I finished oodling over the witch craft, took our last batch of photos and headed out to jump a bus back to Quito.
"Anie, do you know what I love about traveling? In the same day you can stand on the Equator, hold a guinea pig, and learn the recipe to make shrunken heads."
"Yeah," she agreed. "And you can eat ice cream for lunch twice in one day."
"Exactly."

The Otavalo Markets

2010-08-08T17:35:00.000-07:00

Every Saturday, ninety minutes north of Quito in the city of Otavalo, something magical takes place: the Otavalo market. Now South America is full of markets; practically every city has them. So what is so special about this one? I decided to ask my fellow travelers one night at dinner:

Anie from Germany: "Well because it's the most anicent form of market- this form of business has existed for centures. People have their stands with very specific things and they can explain everthing about them, how the each piece was made. There is such a wide range of things: chicken, spices, hammocks, knives, Indian peace pipes in the shape of tomahawks- everything you can think of, it's there."

Andre from Columbia: "The human connection is the best part of this market. The people have so much passion in their work. I love bargaining and trying to get the best price- it's not rude, it's expected here. And like Anie said, its so huge. Think of all the people that market supports economically."

Jamie & Kimberly from Australia: "We're just starting our trip so it's the only one we've been we've been to. But we found it interesting that they sell food and wares to the locals as well as all of touristy things. The best part of was the color!"

Thomas from Iceland: "In the morning there was a live animal market. For lunch we walked through the food vendors and bought corn with cheese and fried potato balls. The smells were incredible- there was so much food."

Freek and Jess from Belgium: "What's the best?- the prices! We bought hammocks, jewelry, scarves. I like haggling with the vendors- but its easier to get low prices in Asia!"

Matt from Ireland: "I've been to markets in Argentina, Bolivia, Peru, Uruguay, Venezuela. But this was the market I finally broke down and bought the token South America traveler pants. They had the selection- it's the biggest and best market in South America."

Whale Watch!

2010-08-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

“Anie, I’m feelin’ the vibe. We’re going to see some whales today.”

“Yeah!! I am really excited-we’re going to see WHALES!!!!”

“Not only are we going to see them, we’re going to see the jump. That’s the goal Anie, we gotta see ‘em jump. I want to see one of those things fly out of the water and slam down in front of us. Put the positive energy out there into the world, Anie- BELIEVE- we’re going to see it!!”

Ecuador may be most known for the Galapagos islands, a hotbed for natural wildlife and the place where Charles Darwin supposedly began deducing his theories on evolution, but the rest of the country is still filled with opportunity to witness nature at its best. The east half of Ecuador is considered part of the Amazon jungle-one of the world’s greatest ecosystems of plants, birds, insects and animals. Here on the central western coast where Anie and I are currently camped, we have the chance to see one of the world’s largest mammals- the humpback whale. Every year the humpbacks come to the coast of Ecuador to mate; they can be spotted year round but this mating season of June through August is when they are most active. And active whales means jumping whales- what we’re dying to see.

We leave out of the little fishing village, Puerto Lopez, which lies about an hour north of Montanita - the village where we are staying. The grey day just adds to the expedition like feel of it- waves crashing, seagulls flying, “It’s a day at sea Anie, Arrrrghhh!!” She laughs at my pirate impression.

We’re with a group of a dozen or so- a few Israelis, two Dutch girls, and a family of locals. Our guide is Wilmur, our lookout Juan, and I don’t catch the Captain’s name but Wilmur and Juan call him Gordo (Fatty.) I decide that if I must address him, Senor will have to do- I’m not up to calling anyone I just met Gordo, no matter how used to it he is.

While we head out to sea Wilmur gives us the safety rundown - don’t stand up quickly, remain on your side of the boat, if the ballenas (whales) are on one side, don’t run to the other or you’ll tip the boat, ect, ect. We listen, sort of, we’re already out in the water and although our heads are pointed at Wilmur, behind the glasses we’re already scanning the sea.

As Wilmur is finishing up his chat, Juan yells something from up top and bangs down on the glass to tell Gordo he’s seen something. Gordo (great, I guess I’m now calling him that for the story)…Gordo hit’s the gas and we’re off so fast Anie and I almost fall over.

Wilmur laughs at us. “Quieren subir?” He says, looking at the area up top? Sure we say, and crawl out the side, walking carefully along the little ledge while the boat is roaring over the waves. We climb up top and assume post next to Juan-The-Lookout who is leaning over the front bars, willing us close to the ballenas he’s spotted.

“This feels more like a whale chase than a whale watch!” I say to Anie.

“I feel like I should have a harpoon!!” She laughs. Killing whales is no laughing matter, it’s just that the speed and desperation at which we’re running after these things, its almost comical to think its just in the name of tourism.

“Ballenas.” Juan says pointing. And there they are. Everyone sucks in their breath. At the top of the water, swimming in synchronized and breathing in altermating moments, are two adults humpbacks.

“Hay un bebe tambien!” Juan says. (There is a baby too) The way he says Bay-beee is really quite cute. I love when languages share words so in the middle of his rapid fire Spanish I get to hear the familiar Baayyybee.
And there is a baby. A wee little one, we can see it just under the water.

“Man these things are big,” I say to Anie, all the while snapping my camera. I’m pursed in a bizarre pretzel-like position at the end of the deck, my foot pushing against the guard rail and the only thing keeping me in place on the boat. All my thoughts are on the whales and getting my photos.

We snap and snap and snap. And the whales swim and swim and swim. I put down the camera for a while- I stare, paralyzed, as if there is some magnetic connection between me and the whales. I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Just. Just look at them.“ I say to no one. They are beautiful, sleek, elegant, swimming so perfectly beside each other. We can probably only see 1/3 of the whale, the rest hides below the surface. But we see the white of their fins each time they move them, which gives the idea of their spralling mass under the water.

One comes to the top and breathes out a huge puff of watery air. “Oooohhh“….we all say together as if orchestrated. They keep swimming and puffing as our boat putters along beside them.

And then, suddenly, they‘re gone. Just like that- one minute at the top, the next disappearing into the black abyss below. We stare at the water for a moment, then Anie and I simultaneously turn and look at each other with incredulous eyes.

“Man those things are big.” I say again, shaking my head.

“That was amazing.” Anie is stunned too.

“This is more incredible than I expected. I am so glad we’re getting to see this.”

“I took some great pictures of the their- what do you call them? The things they swim with?" She is so cute, I love helping people with their English.

“Fins." I say with a smile.

“Yes, look at these pictures of the fins. Look at how big they are under the water!!!”

Anie and I review our photos for a moment. But not for long. All the while we are chatting, Juan has been hard at work, scanning the water for when they resurface. Whales breathe like normal mammals so they always have to resurface again for more air.

“Aqui, aqui!” Juan bangs on the glass. Gordo fumbles for a moment and then hits the gas and we’re off again. Anie and I hold on this time- the waves have picked up.

“The whales must really think we’re crazy. Following them around all day. If I was a whale, I’d probably knock our boat over.” I yell, my voice being half carried away in the wind.

“That’s not funny.” Anie gives me a sideways look and then snaps back to the water. “Look there they are!”

We see them a fifty meters over but this time the boat doesn’t turn towards them. Gordo speeds up the boat and it becomes obvious we’re going to try to cut them off at the pass. We pull ahead and the boat swings to the right.

“Are we going in front of them!?” I yell at Juan.

He gives me a toothy grin and nods his head.

Oh boy. “Ok!”

Once we make the turn, Gordo shuts down the motor and slows up the boat. We don’t want to scare them into diving. And it works, they keep on swimming towards us. Closer. Closer. Closer.

“Anie, holy crap! It looks like a submarine is coming right towards the boat.”

“This is crazy. This is crazy. Look at how beautiful they are.” She is talking and putting her camera up at the same time.

The whales continue swimming right towards us, At the closest point to the boat, I can only see the rounded back. I feel like I’m in the Hunt for Red October- someone call Sean Connery!! A sub is going to crash right into our boat!
Right at the moment they are upon the boat they turn a bit to the side and swim around us. The baby disappears, probably diving under the parents. Anie and I quickly turn our bodies on the boat and watch them swim on the other side. “And there they go” one of us says softly, I’m not even sure who, I’m back in my trance.

A coast guard boat passes in the background and it makes a beautiful photo with the whales. We follow them for a while longer, then finally Wilmur calls up its time to get down, that we’ll leave the whales now and go see the island. Somehow we’ve already been out here for two hours.

“Wow” I say outloud, sort of to Anie, sort of to Juan, sort of just a general announcement. “What a perfect day. This has just been amazing. I don’t even care that we didn’t see them jump, this has been phenomenal.” Anie smiles, we are both giddy. What a day, what an experience! I would have never expected to feel like this in the presence of such creatures.

Down in the boat we chat with Wilmur, share photos, talk about the experience. We’re headed over to the Island Salgado to look at the birds and do a bit of snorkeling. The air is chilly but the water in Ecuador is warm; Anie and I agree we’ll be tough chicks for the day and brave the cold. The Israeli’s don’t look as enthused.

Juan pokes his head down from the top and says something to Gordo. Gordo taps Wilmur to come over and they have a quick chat. Then Wilmur sits back down beside me. “Andrea, puedes tener suerte. Podemos verlos Saltando” (You could have luck- we could see them jumping). My face lights up. "En serio?!" I say (Really) Maybe, he tells me. Maybe.

But Gordo has hit the gas again and we are really flying fast this time, plowing through the waves at a teeth jarring speed.

“Wow, this is fast. He's trying to fly us over the waves.” Anie says to me, having heard Wilmur’s comment to me. Everyone else in the boat starts to feel the vibe that we are chasing something. Wilmur turns around and scans the water behind him. The people on our side of the boat turn around and look the same direction and everyone on the other seat looks same direction, all trying to figure out what we‘re chasing. For some reason, maybe caught up watching Gordo, I don’t turn around. He’s slowing up the boat, easing up on the gas. Things are getting quiter, I should turn around and look.

And then it happens. Like it’s out of a movie. In the illuminated light behind the shadowy heads of all my fellow passengers, I see it. I giant humpback whale flies out of the water and crashes down a few hundred meters away. It’s far enough away that it made no sound but was still close enough to be shocking.

I scream. A garbled, jumble of syllables that means nothing.

"Ahhhh…na-na-na. na..naaaaaaa." I’m pointing and waving my hands around.

Everyone in the boat turns and stairs at me. I realize I’m talking crazy. Anie starts laughing.

“Sorry.” I say, a little embarrassed but still stunned. “Whale. Jumping. There.” I point behind them.

Gordo is on it and we are off in that direction.

Anie and I get permission from Wilmur to go up again and climb out the side and up onto the top.

Gordo shuts off the boat and we wait. There’s a tiny fishing boat of tourists floating nearby- they’re standing at the edge of the boat with cameras ready, clearly having seen the same thing I saw. I wonder if they are nervous in that little boat. I would be.

Silence.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. 3. 2. 1.

BOOOOOOOOM!!! Out of the water, not 100 meters away, comes the biggest thing I have ever seen. Nose first, straight up into the air, going higher than I can believe something that big could propel itself. Once the whole body is out of the water, it turns, nose towards us, fins straight up and down, and lets the force of the jump carry it sideways in the air until slamming down onto the water. SPPPPLLLAAAASSSSSH. The burst of water is giant. Massive. A few seconds later our boat is rocking back and forth. The little fishing boat is clearly holding on for dear life.

I am stunned. Somewhere in there I have hit the button on my camera a few times. How, I don’t know. I’m not even sure I breathed during that time.

Am I even breathing yet?

I look back out and in the distance a baby jumps out, a smaller cuter version of what the mother just did. I am breathing now.

“This is nuts. This is really nuts. I can’t believe that just happened.” I murmur under my breath.

Juan laughs at me. It must have been louder than I thought.

“Andrea, you are a lucky girl!!! Really, you are lucky!!”

“I don’t know” I say shaking my head. Whatever it is, I’m never going to forget it. I gotta thank the universe for this one. I am really never going to forget that.

Back down in the boat Anie and I compare picture- in the madness she has managed to snag a great shot too.

"Anie, I think that might have been the coolest thing I’ve seen on my whole trip. Really, I mean, we’ve seen some amazing things. But that was indescribable. “

“I know what you mean. For me too.”

Wilmur comes over and gives me a high five.

“Tienen suerte, chicas. Tienen suerte!” (You have luck girls. You have luck.)

The Secret to Happiness

2010-08-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, Danny’s secret to happiness really is his girlfriend. We are back to the drink stand the next day and doing our best to pull answers out of him, but to little avail.

“Come on Danny, we need to learn your secret! Your smile is the biggest in Montanita! What keeps you smiling every day besides your novia bonita?” (pretty girlfriend)

He gives us one of his classic grins, and says “I am always happy. Always happy!” Then he shyly shrugs and shrinks back behind a tower of pineapple and passion fruit. So much for new insights-clearly it’s just the girlfriend. Well, really, I can’t blame a guy for being happy because of a woman. It’s about time someone came out and said it- women ARE the secret to happiness!

Mariana pulls out chairs for us and Annie and I happily abide. She offers us cheese and fried plaintain (banana) from a tiny colored Styrofoam plate. She was eating when we arrived so it’s safe to say that this is her lunch. Well, was her lunch- it has now become the communal snack plate. Every day when I come to see this woman she gives me some of whatever she is eating, whatever she has. She also buys me dresses, gives me smoothies on credit, and talks to me about God, love and being a woman. I have known her for five days.

“Do you girls ever leave this place?” A voice from behind us says.
It’s Tammo, a friend who we first met in northern Peru. Like Anie, he’s also from Germany. In Peru he was constantly stabbing Anie about one thing or another- especially her Saxon accent, which apparently is the bain of German dialect. Since running into him again in Ecuador, things have pretty much picked up where they left off.

At this moment however Anie is tied up with the smoothie and can’t retort so I snap in a reply…

“Ah, once in a while we go home to change clothes. But we always come back! They’re the best drinks in town! Besides my day isn’t complete if I don’t see Mariana.”

It’s true. I can get a smoothie anywhere but the free love is why I can’t stop coming back.

Mariana hops up and offers Tammo her chair, then asks him what he wants to drink. He orders a strawberry smoothie with maracuya (Passion fruit).

“Anie?” Tammo nods questioningly towards her box of cigarettes on the table. She nods back, hardly giving notice. Since meeting Tammo I have yet to see him bring his own cigarettes anywhere. It’s become almost ritualistic that he smokes Anie‘s… or Patrick’s… or whoever else is with us. For this reason I never feel guilty helping myself to whatever he is eating or drinking.

Mariana delivers Tammo his smoothie.

“MMm…Das es Gut” he says in a low, satisfied grunt.

“They’re the best aren’t they” I say, grabbing his straw and taking a giant sip.

Tammo and Anie continue chatting away in German- by the looks of her face he is once again telling her that Saxon’s have no culture or class. Whatever. Germans. I’m clearly out of my element, not knowing of Saxon, it’s location, culture or class.

Mariana gets a forth chair (she nabs one from Danny’s stand) and pulls up next to me. She offers me the last banana and cheese but I shake my no, it’s hers. She hesitates a moment more and then throws it back, chews for a minute, and looks at me knowingly like, “Ok, what do you have for me today.”

A few moments pass. Finally I throw something out there.

“Ok. Well for Danny the secret is love, what’s your secret to happiness Mariana?“ I pause. “Are you married?”

She wrinkles her face a little and pushes her chair back on two legs before sighing deep and saying in a heavy voice, “Querida, tengo una historia muy triste.” (My dear, I have a very sad history.)
She continues...“I’ll tell you the whole thing some time…when we have more time. We can go down to the beach and sit and you can hear it all.”

....But then she went ahead and told me…at least a shortened version, of her sad history.
Now here is the part where as a writer, things get sticky. Because I am always living for my story; I literally write my blog posts in my head as I’m experiencing the moments. I want all of you who read this to feel, taste, smell, and know everything I get to know. I want you to be able to laugh like you heard the joke or feel awkward like you saw the fall. But when it comes to people’s trusting me with their lives’ stories, well that’s when Andrea the Writer has to stop and Andrea the Good Friend takes over. So I cannot in good conscience write about Mariana’s history, nor am I going to ask her if its ok. I am just choosing not to. What I can tell you is that this trip teaches me every day that I have never had any real reasons to be unhappyl, no matter how big I may have thought my problem was at the time. Life has been more than kind to the likes of me, and fair to say, those around me. Over and over as I’ve traveled from country to country I’ve seen people born into circumstances that push the limitations of our human ability to cope. People are tried and tested and tried some more. And yet most of them persevere, some even doing it with a smile. Most with the belief in something holy and the greater good. They have families, raise children, care for a pet, and create a home. Home may be made of cardboard and the floor of just ground, but they carve out that little space and make it their own. There may not always be a lot of food on the table, but there are always second helpings on love.

While I can’t share with you Mariana’s history and what she has fought against to keep smiling, what I can tell you is what she shared with me as her reason for smiling every day: Christ. Mariana is a devout Christian. She found God at twenty-two and has never looked back. She has done the best she could with her life’s circumstances but her strength, she tells me, through all the difficulties, has been turning her troubles over to God and just letting it all go. “Querida, you don’t worry about a thing in your life. God knows what you need. If you think you need something, say a prayer. Then go about you life. When it’s time to know the answers, you’ll know. Everything will be as it should be.”

This is why I come to Mariana’s fruit stand. That and she really does make the best smoothies in town.

Merengue not Dengue

2010-08-02T17:32:00.000-07:00

"Anie do you ever want to know how it’s all going to turn out? I mean, do you think life would be less interesting if we knew our own futures?"
Anie and I are getting deep today. We woke up under the mosquito nets like every other day only since then have been solving life's problems one by one. Right now, this particular question, pertaining to knowing the future, is being discussed while we sit on the rocks, watching the waves crash in Montanita.

Anie takes a moment and then replies.
"Yes. If we knew all the answers, we’d just be robots, living life without choice."

"Yeah, like in that book by Lois Lowry, The Giver…people live in a world without pain, problems or violence, but they also lose free choice, emotion, and passion. I read it as a kid, then ran into it in a book store one day when I was in Florianopolis- it was too expensive to buy so I just sat in the book store and read the whole thing. Did you guys read that book in Germany?"

"No. (Sometimes she is really German- direct!) " But you should see the movie Equilibrium with Christian Bale- its on the same type of topic only they live without feeling because they take medicine. The scene where he sees the sunrise for the first time with feelings is amazing."

"I guess it’s good to not know what’s going to happen, it makes things interesting. Ok, check that one off the list of important questions I’m sorting through this morning."

"What else are you sorting through this morning?"

"Whether a strawberry daquiri counts as a serving of fruit or not." I smile slyly.

"Hmm, I think it does. They are fresh. Yes, it definitely does. Which means last night we got our fruit for yesterday and today!" We both burst out giggling like school girls. Hey, we're having a deep day. But not that deep.

"That merengue concert last night was phenomenal. 'Merengue, merengue- Montanita!!!'" I say in my best voice imitating the lead singer. " I love going to places where it’s all locals. I felt like a giant woman though- I was two heads taller than everyone there! I’m itching like crazy- look at the size of this bite! I probably have dengue. For sure I have dengue. Did you like the concert?" I'm scratching at my ankles as I talk. These mosquitoes mean serious business and its starting to seem like my net has a hole.
"It was the first concert I could actually see." Anie says with delight. "Really, I could see the whole thing- over people’s heads instead of into their backs!" She pauses for a moment to look at the giant red bump on my foot that looks to be bit of Godzilla more than a tiny bug. "You don’t have dengue. You’d be throwing up and your body would ache. " German's are also so practical- she never entertains my whining or exaggerating. No matter, I've already moved on in my head, back to our earlier conversation.

"Look at these crabs Anie. What they don’t know is that the tide is coming in on these rocks, and will eventually reach a depth for fish to swim up. And then these guys will be fish food. But for now, they have no idea. They are just happy, stupid crabs. We should be more like crabs Anie. They never worry about the future. They’re going to be fish food, but everyday is just another day on the rock until then.

"Well they’re here everyday…they probably know about the water rising and the fish." She is so practical.

"Well if they know it’s dangerous, then why do they come back!? Masochists! Why not go over in the sand with the other crabs where its safe!! Where there is no tide and no fish! Ugh. Maybe we’re like crabs after all. Playing with fire."

"We should probably go back- the tide is coming up; we’re going to get stranded. And I’m hungry." I sigh. I am a little hungry too.

"Yeah, let’s go get something to eat. Or a smoothie at Marianas. And some answers. I want to ask Mariana the answers."

_______________________________

* Later a Mariana's drink stand**

"Mariana, if you could know your future, would you want to? Or do you want to be surprised?" Mariana smiles at me, her brown hat practically covering her eyebrows. The wind has picked up these past days and her fruit stand by the sea has the essence of a wind-tunnel. She's bundled up though and giving me her full attention.

"It should be a surprise. But you can’t live your life worrying about what’s going to happen."

"What’s the secret then Mariana? Tell us your secret to happiness. "

She laughs.
"My secret? I don’t know. Ask Danny - he’s happy every single day." (pointing to the guy in the fruit stand next to us.)

"Danny, we need to know. What’s the secret to happiness? We need to take the secret back with us."

"….Ehhhhh…."- Danny smiles sheepishly and shrugs. Besides being happy, he seems slightly overwhelmed by the sudden female attention.

We look back at Mariana.
"Mariana why is Danny happy all the time?"

"Because of his girlfriend. All day he is dreaming about her." Hmm, is that so.... We look back to Danny.

"Danny??"

Danny smiles.

"Danny, we need a better answer than this. We can’t take Ecuadorian girlfriends home with us. First of all our countries won't allow it and second of all, I don't think they will be the same secret to our happiness. We’re coming back tomorrow and we want an answer!

Danny grins, happy that we have given him an out for today.

"Ok girls, tomorrow I tell you."

Sweet Oranges and a Turquoise Dress

2010-07-30T19:39:00.000-07:00

Anie and I are moving out of the treehouse- the initial charm of being central to the action wore off around 5AM when our bamboo beds were still shaking, Shakira blasting through one wall and Pitbull from the other. (Why is it that the worst songs become the most popular? ) One night was fun and exciting- two would be just exhausting.

A stroke of luck, we locate a little hotel down the road with authentic cabanas complete with bamboo roofing, mosquito nets, and tile floors. It is, in a word, perfect. Except for the cockroach, which has my little German friend sequestered to her bed, immobile and terrified. I take one for the team, hold my breath, and give him a good shoe smash. With Anie’s shoe. So it's a collective effort.

We spend the afternoon at the beach frolicking in the water like children- splashing, running, jumping, repeat. One of my goals on this trip has been to reclaim my childish enthusiasm for life. From the looks of things, its working.

Around midday I find myself thirsty and wander back down the beach to Mariana’s drink stand, leaving Anie soaking in the sun. Mariana greets me with a giant smile and a face-smashing hug. Her face, that is- I’m at least two heads taller. She makes me a raspberry strawberry smoothie and points to a chair, inviting me to have a seat and chat a little while. Throughout this trip I’ve met a handful of women who have become a combination of my second mother/life advisor/ guardian angel: a tiny Communist grandma in Buenos Aires who I met my very first day, a poor woman from Chile who shared a bus seat with me and an adventure in Andes, and a beggar woman named Maria Elena who I met outside the Brazilian embassy and went back to visit because she made me laugh. And now, Mariana in Montanita, the drink stand entrepreneur who gives me life advice.

So I pull up a chair behind the little fruit stand and start telling her what I know …

“I’ve been traveling for six months, learning about myself, about life. I’m trying to take things as they come….before I was always in control, I thought I had to be. Now I’m realizing that I never really was in control of anything, that life happens as it will and it’s a lot easier to ride the wave than paddle against the current.”

Mariana nods. “Crees in dios?” (Do you believe in God?)
“Of course,” I say. “And I trust in his plans for me.”
She smiles and gives my arm a squeeze. “Everything will be as it should be.”

As I’m finishing my smoothie, a little old woman with no teeth wanders up, a dozen or so colored linen dresses on her arm. She clearly has me pegged for a sale and begins sifting through them in front of me, holding up each color and nodding her head as if to say yes this one could be the one. I start to say no thank you, knowing that I don’t have any money on me, but Mariana is having none of it. She grabs one of bright turquise and holds it against my skin. “This will look beautiful on you- it goes with your coloring.”

Before I know it, the two women have practically pulled me out of the chair and are putting the dress on me, tugging the fabric over my chest and tying the back together.

Trying to recover from being felt up and all the while laughing at their compliments, I begin to say… “Mariana, I don’t have any money wi--…”
She cuts me off- “Don’t worry, I’ll buy it and you can just bring me some money another day.”
She grabs her purse and quickly pays the little woman, who flashes me a toothless smile and squeezes my hand before shuffling off. All that fast.

“Anie no va a creerlo,” I say laughing. (Anie isn’t going to believe this.) “I came to buy a drink and I’m leaving with a dress!”
I pause for a minute.
"Actually, she won't be surprised. This is something I would do."

I get up to leave and Mariana gives me a another full body hug. She shoves two sweet oranges in my hand, already peeled and ready to eat. “One for you and one for Anie" she says.

I run off down the beach, sweet oranges in hand, wearing a new dress bought for me by the fruit stand lady.

Livin' in a Bob Marley Commune

2010-07-30T09:32:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you take a tiny Ecuador beach town and add a few dozen tiki bars and surf shops? A hippie’s paradise called Montanita. And considering the price of being a hippie these days …. Ecuador is as a good a place as any to spend your days.

Anie and I arrive all smiles- sun on our faces. The bus ride was a gorgeous coastal cruise, we are ready for the beach! We head towards the surf and cozy up to the nearest drink stand we find. ( I maintain an incredible internal compass focused first on the beach and second on finding a beer. ) A few minutes in and we’ve met Mariana- our new best friend. Mariana used to clean houses but the lady she worked for yelled a lot. So at forty eight she created a plan to escape and soon after bought the tiny drink cart she now works at every day. Smart cookie she is, she was first to have the idea to put her stand on this heavy traffic beach alley giving her access to thirsty tourists galore.

Mariana’s makes all her drinks by hand - Caipirinas, Caipirovska’s, Daquiri’s, the list goes on. They cost more than the cart next door, but, Mariana tells us over a wrinkled nose that this woman from Chile uses brand-name liquor bottles and fills them with the cheap grain alcohol. “The people they wake up every day thinking they drank too much, but really they just drank too cheap!“ Mariana says with a series face, clearly distressed at this quality rabbit and hat trick. We nod, knowingly. Hey, we don’t want a cheap Chilean headache any more than the next guy.

Anie and I sit and laugh with Mariana for over an hour. (She all but quits working the drink stand to sit and chat with us.) And even though she’s a fifty year old woman working a drink stand in Ecuador, we feel a connection with her. We get it. In the US and Germany, we just want to leave the grind and own a nice little plot of land in the country; in Ecuador they just want to slam the door on the yelling lady and own a nice little drink stand by the sea. Dreams are all relative.

Later that night after a cheap dinner of pollo y papas fritas (chicken, rice and fries) we walk the streets of Montanita, taking it all in. Somehow the entire town manages to smell like a rasta hippie- that perfect combination of pitchuli, incense and marijuana. Bob Marley is alive and well here- tshirts, music, dread locks. Babylon go down.

We pull up a wooden stump at one of many tiki bars. A band in a nearby bar pumps out Sublime, Jack Johnson, the standard beach tunes. Out in the street, the hippie crowd is gathering to show their skills. Jugglers, fire throwers, uni-cyclers - there’s all here. The way is lined with jewelry stands and craftsman, 90% of them look to be from Argentina. (I’ve come to realize that Argentine hippie jewelry sellers are a dime a dozen down here.)

The music pulses on into the wee hours of the morning. Anie and I fall asleep in our tree house hostel to the music vibrating our little bamboo beds.

Southern Hospitality

2010-07-28T10:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Guayaquil, Florida called, they want their image back.

I’m thinking this in my head while Anie says as much out loud. “Wow, this reminds me so much of Orlando when I lived there during my student exchange!“ We can’t contain our surprise. Having just come across misty mountains from the traditional colonial city of Cuenca, we weren’t prepared for the modern Western-ism of our next destination. Guayaquil is definitely a different kind of Ecuador.

We’re in the car with Marlon, our new friend and soon to be host. Marlon and I are connected through considerable degrees of separation (not unlike most of my contacts in South America.) His sister Viviana was an exchange student some ten plus years ago in Kansas City with the family of a collegue at my last company. Scott (said collegue) gave me her contact info when he heard I would be traveling to Ecuador- since Vivi is living in Barcelona, she put me in the care of her lovely Ecuadorian family, lead by brother Marlon. And Anie is my German plus one. (If you followed all of that, you might be MENSA)

Marlon drives us around showing us various housing communities, malls, restaurants….literally everything one might expect from suburban America. He has a lot of pride in his city- we can hear it in his voice. He used to live in Miami for a while but moved back home because “I just like Guayaquil.”

We like Guayaquil too. And Marlon. And later we get the opportunity to like his lovely mother, his uncle, his cousins, and another dozen or so various family members who all live in together in a giant family-only apartment building/compound. ( Need to borrow a cup of sugar from the neighbors, no need to knock!)

From the moment we arrive, we are treated with the utmost hospitality. Everyone tells us to please feel as if we are at home. And quickly we do. We eat breakfast and lunch with mom, Marlon leaves his car so the grounds man can take us downtown to explore to Malecon- the beautiful waterfront area built by the mayor.

Marlon explained that the mayor also built the new bus terminal, the airport, the city hall, and various other city-wide moments, apparently keen on leaving his mark for posterity. Consequently the President of Ecuador does not like the Mayor of Guayaquil- one of those machismo power struggle things.

Our last night, Marlon takes us to a local haunt to drink morocho and eat pan de yuca. Morocho is a sort of warm, thick, rice milk drink. Kind of like drinking oatmeal. Pan de yuca reminds me of Pao de Queijo in brasil- little bread balls filled made from cheesy dough. Dozen of people come and go, getting morocho to-go or having a late night bit with friends. We delight in being so local.

At the bus terminal on our way out of town the next day, Anie and I reflect on the how wonderful it was to be with a family, what incredible kindness and hospitality we were shown. This family didn’t know us, they knew Scott, buy they gave us all the love and affection as if we had been their own. Including an invitation to come back, any time for as long as we want. We both received simliar affections from our past visits in Brasil, Argentina, etc.
It’s official- the reputation for Southern hospitality has been relocated to the other hemisphere.

Viva Ecuador!

2010-07-26T19:54:00.000-07:00

The adventure continues, but I’m on the home stretch. I’ve reached my last country: Ecuador.

Almost 6 months on the road and my bag is considerably heavier than before. Along the way, I’ve picked up a few souvenirs that I now carry with me. Each one is special, representing a certain piece of my trip: from Argentina I have the map of the stars from Communista’s son Homero, Brazil the ring and bracelet from the family in Francisco Beltrao, Peru the earrings from little Abigail and the family in Pisco, now the proud residents of a new house. I carry all these things with me lovingly, happy most of all to have the memories attached to them.

I’ve also picked up something else along the way : a German.

Anie and I met back in Lima, both dwellers of the same hostel trying to make good out of the Lima cold. While there, she met a nice American boy named Brandon who, I noted, could very well be Steve Job’s next “Apple Guy,“ both looking and acting the part of a brainy computer genius.

After a fun week together, I went on to Pisco to build houses while the two of them stayed on in Lima. Shortly thereafter Brandon left for the States and a few weeks later Anie emailed me to see where I was headed next. North! Well so was she it seemed. 17 ass-crushing-bus-hours later, we reunited in Mancora. A few more days of surf, sun, and Israelis, and now we’re on into Ecuador.

Ecuador reminds me immediately of Mexico. It’s bright, colorful, charismatic, and everyone is trying to sell you something. True, this isn’t a large departure from any other country I’ve been to in South America, but here it seems the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker have taken a back-seat to the traveling salesman. During our 8 hours across the Ecuadorian border to Cuenca, our bus is boarded dozens of times by men and woman selling interesting combinations of the following: fruit, ice cream, belts, wallets, and cell phone cases. I note that maybe this is Ecuador’s version of “online shopping. “

But Anie and I can’t be bothered with food or frick ‘n frack, we are too excited to see the jungle, the banana tree fields, and feel the hot sun pouring through the windows. Finally, the sun I’ve been missing since leaving Brazil! Anie notes that her hair is getting that damp curly feeling, which she celebrates as the proof of finding summer again, something she gets only a week or two of in Germany. Ahhh, humidity.

Cuenca is a colonial city, set in a mountain valley. Although we don’t know the exact elevation, our water bottles expanded outward during the trip, telling us its considerable. Ít´s full of old town beauty and we take it in with leisurely appreciation.

One afternoon in the plaza, we witness a local protest. For what, we’re not sure, but we join in for a while as the people wave their signs and chant together. Somehow the sight of these traditionally dressed Ecuadorian women, complete with braid’s and hats, makes for an interesting demonstration. Even in their protesting they remain reserved, something untouchable from the past.

Life in Pisco Peru

2010-07-19T08:34:00.000-07:00

A day volunteering at the PSF sponsored ChildCare center in Pisco and an afternoon exploring the market.

Most of the children come from poor families- some have not been bathed because their families don't have running water. PSF took over sponsorship of the childcare center from Unicef after their post-earthquake relief.

At the local market, chickens are killed and plucked daily, hung on proud display for potential buyer. We went to buy a kilo for a local family, which resulted in the following:

chicken pulled of hook, thrown on table, wacked in half with giant knife, and foot cut off. Half chicken and one foot stuffed in tiny plastic bag with a smile- "un kilo de pollo, senorita!" (one kilo of chicken!)

Sheep's heads and cow's hearts, also available at your request!

At Lutateca Child Care Center

At the Market

A Day To Remember

2010-07-15T22:36:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in life, we ask ourselves "what's it all for?"
Other days, the answer is right there in front of us.

(The Flores Original Dirt and Plastic House)

(Moving Into the New House)

(Surprising Araceli with the New Bed)

(Celebrating)

(Waving Goodbye, New House in the Background)

Some people come into our lives for just a moment, but we keep them with us for a lifetime.

All my love to Edwin, Araceli, and Abigail. Siempre estan en mi corazon!

Precious Children

2010-07-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

The children of Pisco are special little human beings. They endure through lives that provide little to smile about. And yet still they play, still they laugh, still they smile. Perfect faces.

A poem that reminds me of these children.....

precious as a child
by Mencita (Carmen) Monoi Angel

precious as a child
nothing should be
more precious
than a child

nothing should be more
contagious than a smille
of a child

nothing should be
more cared of
than a child

childrens innocence
so often shattered

childrens love
so often flouted

nothing should be more
of importance

than a child
nothing should be more
powerfully loved by us
than a child

childrens spontaneity
so often trampled on

childrens forgiveness
so often ignored

nothing should be more
cherished in this world
than a child

nothing should be more
hugged with affection
than a child

tell me stranger
what is more
beautiful and precious
than any dear child

The Flores Family Gets a Roof

2010-07-07T01:43:00.000-07:00

In Pisco, getting from point A to point B is a challenge all of its own. The roads are dirt, there is no public bus sytem, and walking isn't always an option- distances are considerable and at night it is just plain dangerous. As it stands, options for transportations are as follows- taxi (standard non-metered fare), collectivo (taxi shared with random strangers which stops intermittetly to pick up Whoever), and a three-wheeled, battery-powered contraption which the locals call a moto and the PSF team likes to call a Tuk-Tuk. (Harkening from the man-powered version in India.)

Pisco Sin Fronteras sends volunteer groups on an average of 15 projects each day, all of whom need to get to their respective job sites. A few months ago one of the big-hearted volunteers bought the group a diesel truck, so now PSF has the means to take the cement mixer on further jobs without having to rent. The other fourteen teams, along with a host of shovels, buckets, cement levels, hammers and various other tools, are left to secure public transport. With a volunteer organization budget in mind, that leaves the life-size toy moto as the option-du-jour, which creates some interesting makeshift situations, wheel barrows and all.

It's our team's lucky day today. Because we're pouring cement and therefore need the mixer, we get to have the truck. So Will, Quinn, Whitney and I pile in the back of the blue pick-up while Ed gives us and the cement mixer a haul to our job site.

The project we'll be working on, Edwin's House, is one that's been in-progress for almost 2 months. Various hold-ups have kept the project at a relatively slow pace, much of which has been lack of funds for materials. The Flores family, Edwin, Araceli, and daughter Abigail (7), lost their entire home in the earthquake in 2007. For a while they lived with Edwin's mother, before eveutally moving into a home-made modular house made from cardboard, brick remnants, bamboo weave, and plastic tarp. Home, now, is one room, four "walls" and a dirt floor. It's cold, drafty, and noisy, and when the wind blows the plastic tarp whips about making it virtually impossible to sleep . Besides a desire for a more comfortable dwelling, their need to move is driven by the fact that Abigail suffers from chronic bronchitis, worsened by the cold conditions. Their new house will also be a one room structure of similiar size, but with concrete floors and fully sealed walls and roof. They will also now have a window.

As with almost all projects, PSF provides free labor for all construction but the family must supply the materials for the core structure (that said, PSF often builds doors, windows and supplies things here and there as needed. The the family must show responsibility and inititive to get the project going, but once started, PSF never leaves anyone out in the cold.

When Edwin first contacted PSF to help with his house, he had already dug his own water trenches and poured his own foundation, making it clear that he was a strong candidate for asstistance.

Will, the PSF project lead for Edwin's House, says that the amount of accountabilty and dedication from this particular family is second to none. He reaccounts one particular day when , short a few concrete bags, they had to stop the cement beam pour while Edwin went out and drove his taxi for a few hours to earn the money for the additional materials. A few hours later he came back, "all smiles, holding 2 new bags of cement." The fact that he didn't have enough money on hand to buy the cement puts into perspective how difficult it is for these families to gather the means to construct an entire house. Also how much it will mean to them, when the project finally finished.

What the house will mean to the Flores family, first and foremost, is a warm, windless place for Abigail to sleep at night. Both Edwin and Araceli have given everything for their little girl, and with her plaid school-girl dress and ribbon-tied braids, it's clear their efforts are worth while. Abigail is sweet, affectionate, and full of questions. She hugs everyone, especially the girls, and gives complimets out at any inspiration-"Ahhhhh...Andrea.... tu pello es hermosa!" (Your hair is beautiful!) Convered in cement residue and dust, I am feeling less than beautiful, but loving Abigail all the more.

Today is a special day. After months of work on the foundation, the walls and the support beams for the top, we'll be finishing the roof. Will and Edwin have completed the groundwork for the roof- constructed the bamboo rafters and the covered the entire surface in a crushed bambo (essentially the beam pipes, hit with hammers or giant rocks until they fan open, creating more surface area.)

Our job today will involve 3 key steps:

1. Nail down all the bamboo slats to the bamboo rafters

2. Cover the entire roof in paper (the bags from the cement)

3. Pour a mixture of concrete, sand, and crushed shells over the top, creating the roof and sealing off the wind

This basic form is the best, most wind proof structure a poor family can build. No material is wasted and anything that can be secured for free, is. The sand and the shells are brought up from the sea. The bags from the cement are used instead of actual insulation. Will tells us that in the process of doing the columns, Edwin used trash, cardboard, and basically anything lying around to stuff inside for additional material. Concrete costs around $17 soles per bag, so the less that can be added to the mixture while still leaving it stable, the more money more money for other parts of the house.

Our day working starts with the bamboo nailing on the top of the roof. The weather somehow manages to be hot and cold at the same time- the Peru sun beats down, but the wind blows and keeps things chilly. (It also chases the nails and paper off the roof, if we're not careful.)

Around one o'clock we give our backs a break and join Edwin and Araceli at the table for lunch. (Abigail is at school.) While we were at work, Araceli and her mother in law made rice and fried fresh fish over a fire on the ground out back. Watching these women prepare a meal with virtually nothing- one pan, some kindling, and a few bricks to keep the pan out of the fire- makes one realize, once again, the modern conveniences we take for granted.

And yet somehow the meal is delicious. Maybe it's because it was made with love, maybe it's all the citrusy onions on top, but the food is bursting with flavor. Araceli serves all of us first, and pushes seconds before finally serving herself and Edwin. All of the PSF members on today's site speak Spanish, so lunch is jovial conversation. It''s clear the Flores are getting more excited each day as completion becomes a believable reality- "My wife will finally get her dream," Edwin tells us with a smile.

After lunch we quickly get back to work; we're a bit behind schedule. We've been using rusty nails to nail down the paper and they aren't going into the bamboo well. Also Will has had some setbacks with trimming the bamboo- broken machinery. An hour in, Quinn and Iclimb off the roof and ask Araceli if we can use the bathroom. She motions us into the house and then sheepishly points to a bucket on the foor inside (in the middle of her dining room/livingroom/bedroom.) She apologizes profusely, saying that Peru is a poor country and looking down at her feet. We reassure her that its no problem at all, and that this is perfect condition for us. She then makes a quick dash out the door and returns, smiling, with some toilet paper- clearly not a luxury that they allow themselves all the time but one she wants to make sure and give us.

At 5 o'clock when the team next door at Caesar's house is packing up for the day, we are just halfway into our cement pour for the roof. Edwin is up top, Will is manning the mixer and the three girls are filling, hauling and lifting up buckets of cement for Edwin to dump and level out. The buckets are incredibly heavy; the only thing that keeps us going is the idea that our backs will eventually heal and meanwhile Edwin will have a house, Araceli will be happy, and Abi will be warm.

We call it a night shortly after the sun goes down- 5/6 done with the project and only a small bit to finish to finish the next day. It's been hard; it's been intense, but as we drive away, we see Araceli and Abigail waving from the doorway, and it's all, unquestionably, worth it.

Pisco Sin Fronteras

2010-07-05T19:39:00.000-07:00

Voluteering in Pisco is not for the faint of heart.

The work is hard and so is the life. But it's all for a good cause.

Pisco "city" (if that's what you can call this dust bowl of disaster zone) is dry, dirty, and struggling to support its inhabitants with the remaining, broken infrastructure. It's pretty third world.
But that's why Pisco Sin Fronteras began- to help reconstruct a broken city, to give hope again to those who have none.

A day volunteering with PSF starts with breakfast at 7:30/8 and a morning meeting where the leaders roll through the day's projects and assign voluteers respectively. Most projects center around construction- modular homes, repairs to current structures, prepping materials; all stem from damage as a result of the 7.8 earthquake that hit in 2007. The projects help local Peruanos, most individual families with children. (The white board list at front looks something like this: Edwin's House, Catherine's House, Baby Maria's New Door...) The PSF project manager works with the local community to locate families most in need of help- many of whom have been living in tents and makeshift shacks for the last three years. After the quake, the government of Peru provided some initial monetary assistance to the city, but it was quickly depleted before even a sizable chuck of the population had been assisted, much of the money going to municipal repairs. Many families are still filing for government sponsored material grants, however the lucky ones that make it through all the red tape and do receive materials can't afford the labor costs to finish the job. That's where we come in.

PSF assigns each project with local maestro and a PSF leader to keep things running as smoothly as possible. Most leaders are volunteers who came planning on staying a day or two and ended up committing to a month or more. Extending stays seems to be a common occurence with PSF; most people admit an initial committment for mere days that eventually turned into months. A few have even hit the year mark. The Everyone-Belongs Amosphere and Do-Good Feeling seem to keep people around ( or coming back, as many return for a second stint.) Also enticing is the lifestyle-the opportunity to live on the cheap, far away from the real world. Bonfires, guitars, and late night story tellings are all familier scenery on the central concrete slab at PSF headquarters; it's a bit like adult charity camp with a hippie flair.

Currently there are just over 80 volunteers- most are amateurs with big hearts, a few are actual skilled laborers, carpenters, tradesman. Those are the guys that really pull the planning weight, that and Simon the cook, who may be single handedly responsible for the amount of extenders. Hard work and simple living conditions aside, everybody likes a good meal and the food at PSF is considerably above volunteer-par. (Tonight we had Morrocan meatballs, cous cous, and yogurt sauce.) But leaders without people would be generals without an army; it's the collective elbow grease of the volunteers that creates tangible results, that gets local people into new homes and better lives.

Besides construction, PSF also has two new-business projects in motion in efforts to create new avenues of income for those that lost their jobs and livelihood in the disaster. The first is a bio-diesel project- creating fuel sustainable fuel from frying oil waste, of which there is much in a country that loves papas fritas y pollo. They've already been successful at creating the fuel (the PSF truck runs on it), the challenge is getting a system up and running to produce a profitable quantity for local fisherman to use in their boats as a substite for the expensive diesel they're currently handcuffed to. The second, more grassroots business, is homemade soap production; something PSF hopes to market overseas to luxury shoppers . Both are still in progress, but stand a chance to possitively affect a considerable amount of locals if the kinks can be worked out.

The work at PSF isn't easy, and they don't taut it as such. PSF is an non-for profit with a limited cash supply- this isn't Extreme Home Makeover, that's clear from the start. Limited tools, many once-broken and rerepaired. Most of the materials used for building have been donated or traded for, some in forms that requires a considerable about of effort just to make them usable.

And that's how I found myself with my job for the day- Pallete Deconstruction. Sounds like a semi-harmless construction task right? Don't be mistaken. From pallete to usable material, its a process. PSF has made an arrangement with a local steel company for wood donation. The company receives their steel in wooden palettes, and now instead of burning them post-shipment, we get them. All splintering wood, rusty-nailed bit of them. That wood in turn is used as the siding boards for the walls used on the modular homes. (I use siding generously, think cheap kindling nailed onto a wood frame, and backed with garbage bag.) Before the planks get used as someone's new wall, those sharp, bent, wound-inducing rusty nails have to come out. And that my friends, is how I spent my day. With dirty work gloves, a hammer, and a hell-bent agenda to remove every rusty nail in my path, no matter how wedged in palete wood it may have been.

Other groups worked on building the walls, pouring concrete at housing sites, framing, just about anything you would think of with regular construction, only done with second hand materials, make-shift work sites, and limited tools. That, the Peru sun and the occasional wind storm of dirt make it pretty clear that everyone is there for the right reasons!

If at any point the difficulty of the work blurs original goodwill intentions and lets a mind wander towards quitting, there is plenty of environmental inspiration about. Today ours was a shared work space in the woodyard- two dozen Peruvian women mending and repairing fisherman's nets among a sea of black string. While we were all working hard, both the PSF volunteers and the local ladies, I couldn't help but think that in a week, I would be on my way back north for more touring, and these ladies would still be sitting in the nets, day in, day out, indeterminably. And most of them were more than likely mothers, with babies at home, who needed a warm home and shelter from the elements. And with that in mind, I attacked another nail.

Pisco, Peru lies four hours south of Lima and can be reached by bus from Soyuz station.
To volunteer with PSF, email info@piscosinfronteras.org
or view their website at http://www.piscosinfronteras.org/home
Donations are the core of their operation and are tax deductible.

Devastation

2010-07-04T05:39:00.000-07:00

Distaster has struck; and I am feeling just terrible. I'm not hurt, nothing was stolen, but I am completely devestated. Today, for the first time on my trip, I made someone's life worse.

This afternoon, I left Lima to head south to a city called Pisco, the site of post-natural distaster still remaining distaster. In 2007 the city hit by a 7.8 earthquake, rendering much of the population homeless. Since then a group called Pisco Sin Fronteras has formed, mainly of travelers and volunteers, to rebuild housing for those most in need. And I have been planning for over a month to go and help, ready to do some good, ready to help make people's lives better.

I got up, packed up, and had the hostel call a taxi. When the taxi arrived, I hopped in the backseat with my pack and happily started chatting away with the driver about where I was headed, what I would be doing. All of a sudden he pulled the cab over on the side of the road and got out. I was scared, not sure what was happening. He left me in the cab for ten minutes and walked back up the road, seemingly talking through the window to a giant black SUV. Then finally he walked back to the cab and told me what happened.

He had received a ticket because I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. 180 soles.

I was stunned, rendered practically mute. I stuttered to say I'm sorry, still trying to comprehend what happened and digest the fact that in this country, unlike mine, its illegal to go without a seatbelt in the back.

And moments later we were there, the bus terminal. And he was unloading my bag from the back. I didn't know what to do, to say. I quickly gave him all 30 soles I had handy in my jacket pocket (the ride was 15) and told him how incredibly sorry I was. Then he kissed my face, told me to take care of myself and promptly jumped in the cab and drove away.

And for the next four hours I road the bus in tears thinking about what an idiot I am, coming to a place where I can volunteer to make people's lives better, and then completely neglecting an opportunity to make right a problem that was right in front of me, one that I was partially responsible for. What was I thinking?! Why didn't I dig out my money pouch and give him all of the money for the ticket!!?? Even though I had just cost him what was at least his entire days wage, this man had the grace to treat me with kindness and wish me well.

Clearly I still have a lot to learn in the department of doing good.

The Minibus Ride is a Metaphor

2010-07-03T10:36:00.000-07:00

Peru is cold. Correction, Lima is cold.
The city sits on the Pacific coast, which the locals say creates a microclimate of cloud cover. The air has a dampness to it that soaks through your socks and follows you under your sheets. Nowhere is safe!!

Anyone who knows me, knows I hate being cold as have an unfortunate tendency to be so. In the list of Personal Hates, I list being tired, cold and hungry- in that order. In other words, give me a bed and a blanket before a sandwich. In my normal life, I am in a constant thermostat battle with others, mainly men (who seem to always be hot) and most notably my father, who during my visits home to Iowa, fights me for every degree before finally declaring "Then YOU can pay the heat bill!"
Needless to say, I'm fighting the chills here in Lima, distracting myself by seeing the city, taking in the culture...and buying llama slippers.

In a word, Lima is chaotic. More than Buenos Aires, more than Rio, this place is a cluster. Most notably Arequipa Avenue, which I have been told is the longest road in Peru. When one wants to get from point A to B in Lima, more than likely he/she will at some point be on Arequipa. Taking public transportation involves chosing a point on the avenue to stand and wait until one of a million operating minibuses pulls over on the side of the road and a man leans out of the sliding door screaming destinations, giving you the opportunity, if you act quickly, to jump into the still-rolling van and start your venture. Hesitation will leave you standing in a cloud of black smoke. (I've decided the minibus ride is a metaphor for the city in general.)
On the bright side, another one will be pulling up within seconds (there appear to be thousands of these things operating at the same time) which awards ten convenience points to Lima - you never have to consult a bus schedule or worry about missing your ride.

Lima's coastal location makes seafood readily available and the city is well known for its ceviche- a dish of chopped raw fish soaked in acidic fruit juice, which flavrs and semi-cooks the fish, or at least takes the raw edge off. I have yet to order any here, but have tried various other local delicacies, most notably a street food lunch of tripe (stomach) and sliced heart on a stick.

Eating street food breaks every rule of the Travel Rulebook, but the reward is usually homemade deliciousness at unbeatable prices. Nutshell- worth the risk. (I say this in pseudo bravery, my food poisoning in Buenos Aires still a tangible reality.) Since then, my stomach seems to be accepting everything I'm throwing at it, knock on wood, although its looking like Peru's cuisine will be a fair test of strength.

Actual tourist attractions in the city are few and far between. The pop art exhibit at the museum took all of 10 minutes and was hardly worth the six soles. ($2.50US) The more interesting thing is just to participate in the hussle and bussle of everyday life, take in the sites, smells and surroundings. I went to a Francscan mostastery under which the population of Lima was buried in mass catacombs for decades (apparently no space for graveyards.) A few years ago some people went in and organized the bones into nice classified heaps, so now when tourists walk through they can easily identify the piles of people-remains. And the skulls, femurs and tibias can all happily rest amongst their respective clans. ( During this Indiana Jones-esc tour, complete with dark tunnels, stacked skulls and spider webs, I mentally added Catacomb Bone Sorter to my list of Worst Job's Ever, right after Fed/Ex Kinkos Print Assistant and Airline Complaint Desk Attendant. )

The general populus of Lima are some of the poorest people I've seen yet. It's difficult to comprehend the hardship that many of these people are born into. Many are dirty, others without teeth. On the outskirts the houses turn to shanties, comparable to a Brazilian favella.

As with the poor in other countries, they have created every imaginable way to make a living. At each stoplight, someone enters the minivan with a box of treats, trinkets and softdrinks to sell. Corners often have mini-flea markets, some as simple as a single blanket with various Old Stuff for sale. I passed someone yesterday whose entire blanket was an offering of old radio knobs. I couldn't help but wonder the chances of a radio-listening Peruano with a knob-specific need happening upon his blanket on a given day. I wanted to buy all his knobs just to help with inventory changeover.

In fact, I find myself wanting to help everyone in this city. It's one of the best and worst things about traveling- the opportunity to see people who need, to give what you can, but all the while facing the reality that you can't do it for everyone, nor can you change the systematic problem that it stems from. But I can't help but wishing that I could. I'm riddled with an incredible amount of guilt for what I've been given in life vs what others have. Why did I draw the lucky straw? Moreso, for those weak moments when I fantasize about my clean, white sheets at home and my nice thick mattress, knowing that many will never experience these luxuries. Since I can't give them all perfect lives, my only goal is to make sure that for everyone I meet, I make their lives a little bit better. While I don't have an infinite supply of money, what I do have right now is an infinite supply of is time and kindness, and I'm happy to give mine to just about anyone who needs it. And oddly I find that sometimes people appreciate the latter more than the former. Because you know whats worse than being poor? Being insignificant. And this trip has shown me that dropping a coin in someone's hat without making eye contact is trading one travesty for another, while a few minutes chatting and a smile is like giving double.

Lima For One

2010-07-01T00:04:00.000-07:00

The cabbie is nice enough, but he won't stop asking me the same question. And now he's asking me again.

"Porque estas viajando sola!?" (Why are your traveling alone?!)

He's asked me four times already over the course of our 20 minute ride, all the while looking in the rear view mirror and flashing me these incredulous This-Makes-No-Logical-Sense eyes. At one point he puts his hands on his head and shakes it back and forth. Loca. He tells me. Loca.

This time when he asks, we are standing on a cobblestone walkway, over-looking the ocean. Five minutes earlier as we turned a corner from what I thought was the inner city I spied the water and let out a yelp of "El mar! El mar!" (The sea, the sea) At my gleeful expression, he pulled the cab over and said that I must get out and have a photo, possibly to make up for being lost three times already, but never the less.

So here I am. On an excursion, a spontaeous adventure date, with my cabbie. The water crashing in the background while he asks me, confused, for the fifth time, why I am traveling alone.

He is a kind man, clearly, he's just stopped the cab because he wanted me to see the ocean. So why does he keep asking me the same question over and over? Doesn't he realize it's a little rude? Isn't my answer enough? That I just wanted to see South America?

And then I smile. Because I realize what the problem is.

"In the United States, a woman traveling alone is independant and adventurous. It's looked at as something good." I say with reassuring confidence and a Don't Worry About Me I'm Doing Alright sort of tone.

He looks back at me like he's comtemplating something he's never considered before. Then nods understandingly.

"Ok Andrea, I see." (We are on a first name basis at this point.)
He pauses.
"Well, in Peru a girl would never travel alone, she would have one friend, or another, or maybe all of them would go with. Like to make a party! She would have a boyfriend; she would be with someone- not alone."

I smiled again. Of course she would. And many in the US would too- what's better than a best friend trip? But how do you explain to someone from a culture where female independance is slightly (kind understatement) behind the times, that you have already lived alone for almost 10 years, paid your own taxes for all of them, and made pretty much every decision alone that comes with being an employed adult?
I didn't know.
"Well some of my girlfriends have come to visit me along the way. And I meet a lot of great people too, so I'm not really alone. I like to travel and see these places. I asked my friends to go, but they couldn't get the time off work. I can't wait my whole life for other people to do things with me- I've got to just live!"

He nodded emphatically, and I thought he might understand in a tiny way that I'm just a girl who does things and doesn't think too much about what it means to the world, to women, to whoever. I just wanted to go to South America. So I did. And maybe in a small way he understands that woman, like men, need to just follow their hearts.

We started to walk back towards the cab, in the background, people kissing and walking hand in hand all around us. When we got in and shut the door he looked at me in the rear view mirror again.

"Well your boyfriend must be crazy to let a beautiful girl like you go alone to all these countries. He must be really crazy. And you, you're crazy too."

I laughed. And I didn't have the heart to tell him that where I'm from we don't have to be let to do anything. Besides, he told me I was beautiful and insinuated that there was no way I could be single- a sideways, albeit chauvinist compliment, but hey I'll take it for what it's worth.

When he dropped me off at my hostel, he gave me his card and his number and said to call him. I wasn't sure if it was just for another cab ride or not. Rodolfo. One I won't forget.

The next day when I found myself in a public minivan tearing down the Arequipa Avenue, crammed in with two dozen locals as we made whipping stops at each corner to shove other people in, I laughed, remembering our conversation. He was right about one thing- I really am crazy.

Chapters 12-19 : The Brazil Effect

2010-06-28T04:47:00.000-07:00

After three months in the country, today I am leaving Brazil.

During my time here, I’ve discovered the limitations of the English language, especially when it comes to expressing emotions. Brazilians feel things deeply and in turn have a rainbow of words to assist in conveying exactly the temperature of their hearts. Sitting at the airport, mentally reliving all of my beautiful moments, there is not a poignant English description of my sentiments. In Portuguese I would say that I feel saudade. Saudade, as a-best effort translation would most-closely align with the English word longing. A person can feel saudade for people or places; I feel it for both.

Brazil held treasures that I didn’t expect to find and wasn’t looking for. It’s been surprising, which is difficult to do when coming to a place with almost no expectations.

During my first 2 months in Argentina (with a brief stint in Chile), I took a giant plunge into my role as the foreign citizen. As part of the transformation into a more peaceful state of being, I shed almost everything material from my old life. The clothes I brought were simple: cotton, black, functional for quick drying and blending into the crowd. Most were also ugly, which apparently comes with being functional. Everything I had in my bag could be stolen or burned at any given moment and I wouldn’t bat an eye. Pickpockets would easily disregard me as possible prey; I could joke that I appeared to be someone who needed money more than one who possessed any.

In March, while traveling through the northern mountains, I was often dirty and almost never pretty. Not that I was unshowered- that ritual, thank goodness, was a luxury I didn’t need to give up and ultimately wouldn’t have been willing to -but traveling through the dusty mountains and into the Atacama desert, one only enjoys a brief few minutes of post-bathing cleanliness before ultimately finding herself sweating and covered with a thin layer of red dirt or sand.

My mental place during these first months was equally simple and without much in the form baggage. I checked my problems at the gate in Iowa and walked onto the plane with a light heart. In fact, I practically checked out of my own life, wanting nothing more than to learn about how others pass their days. Aside from my bi-weekly coffee dates with Communistita and occasional adventures with the Battista sisters, I kept a low-social profile. My previous 5 years in KC, NYC, and Toronto had provided me with more than enough drinking, dancing, and debauchery to fill a lifetime, so I enjoyed my general solitude and chose purposed moments to be social with new friends. The people I did chose to spend time with (e.g. Communistista) were those that I wanted to learn from or people who I just wanted to give love.

When I met Patricia on the way back from Chile, it seemed like the height of my bazaar but amazing happenings as a simple vagabond traveler. It was almost worthy of a movie script- American girl crossing the Andes alone on a rickety bus…sits by an old Chilean woman and strikes up a conversation, eventually sharing her crazy idea to jump off the bus a few hours before the destination to try and seek out adventure in the mountain towns of Northern Argentina. The plot would ultimately be set-up with the old woman asking if she could join. Cut to next scene –the girl standing by the side of the road as the bus pulls away, while old Chilean woman loses her guts on the side of the road and declares she has no money to fund lodging, food, or transportation out of The Middle of Nowhere. The rest of the movie is their subsequent days traveling together and the lessons about life they both learn from each other. Eating lama stew, hiking through the mountains, and talking under the stars. ( I may still pursue the idea of writing a book about all of this and if so, the Patricia chapter will be one of my favorites to write.)

At that point in time, it’s safe to say that my lifestyle was far from what I’d left at home. (Mission accomplished!) Ignoring rational travel paths and the emphatic beckoning of fellow travelers to join them and head into Bolivia (at that point I was only 3 hours south of the border), I took a 27 hour bus ride back across Argentina (and the continent) to see the famous falls of Iguaçu and subsequently cross into Brazil.

And it seemed with that passport stamp and crossing over country lines I would also flip a switch in myself. It happened slowly, so subtly that I didn’t realize at first. But each day I spent in the spicy, lively, emotion-filled country of Brazil, I was yanked out of my peaceful, chilled, existence and was pulled forward into a full-on way of being, surrounded by samba, seafood,and caipirinas.

The peak moments of utopic happiness were my weeks in Florianopolis in April. If I live 200 more years, I’ll never be able to recreate what I experienced in that place. And I don’t want to, because it is beautiful and perfect and special just as it was.

And then Virginia came and there was Rio and the island in Bahia and every day was another level of wonderful (our daily motto was literally “life is good and getting better!” ) We danced in the streets, on the beach, in our sleep. I even broke one of my cardinal travel rules- I went shopping. Suddenly I was wearing earrings, makeup and looking in the mirror a lot more. ( This was also unquestionably the result of another factor – the Brazilian man.)

It appeared Brazil had all but yanked me from the sidelines, put me in a cocktail dress and thrown me onto the dance floor again. It was intoxicating and I was loving it.

But sometime in mid-June I remembered a lesson I learned the hard way, a long time ago: you can burn out on perfect. Because if you stay too long in paradise, you face the risk that it will become normal. And that is the ultimate tragedy. The way I look at Brazil is the way someone newly in love looks at their partner’s face- as if it’s perfect. Each day when see the colors in my surroundings, I see them as more vivid than I any place I have been before. And when I taste the food, it is more delicious than any 5 star restaurant State-side. When I looked around at the green covered mountains and the blue, blue ocean, I feel like I’m in a magical wonderland complete with tiny churches on the hillside where Princes and Princesses get married.

And I want to keep it that way.

So Brazil, today I leave you and move on to Peru. I will return to my more simple existence of earlier months. I leave the jewelry and clothes ( currently in a box to be sent back to the US.) I leave the food and drinks, the dancing and the music, the language and the lifestyle. I leave many things I have grown to love.

I leave you, not because I want to, but because you are so beautiful to me, and I want to preserve you in my mind as perfect.