somewhere between champagne and backpacks

I like to make movies in my head.  I also like to sound insane by admitting really strange things and blabbing them somewhat incoherently on a blog that I have managed to trick countless readers into following.  Yeah, so, movies... I like to close my eyes while lying in bed and listening to the sounds of the city and imagine myself in places halfway round the world.  I imagine myself, for example, in Dubai, running my fingers along the sleek glass of the Burj Al Arab Hotel as it glitters under the UAE sun.  I begin to feel the hot sand seep into my sandals as I wander the beaches and take in the slight, compassionate breeze.  I listen for the Arabic, Malayalam, and Urdu words that float through the air and into my ears like foreign lullabies that sing to sleep my worries of the unknown.  I breathe in the smells of nearby shishas being shared by friends and colleagues, smells of grape, peach, and apple call me to come inhale and taste their sweet smoke.  Shawarmas, ghuzi, hoummus, and lamb cause me time and time again to overeat, as the taste is too compelling to not have just one more... 

All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. –Martin Buber

I see myself walking around markets and trying new foods, sharing experiences with new friends, and writing home to old ones.  Then, I remember where I am at that moment.  Whether I am lying in bed, riding the bus to work, walking through a park, or sipping wine on a patio... I am in Quito, Ecuador.  Six months ago, I was making movies in my sweet little hometown of Corona, California and dreaming about things I didn't even know that I would miss one day.  I dreamt of salsa dancing with Latin men, eating succulent chicken and steamy rice dishes, learning to speak Spanish, drinking ice cold beers in tiendas, and being surrounded by the bohemian spirit.  

I must constantly remind myself to be grateful for what I have, as I am not only currently living my dream but living another soul's dream, by chance, and how dare I take that for granted.  However, this fact will not keep me from dreaming, but will keep me grounded.  I find, once again, my life is a balancing act.  I refuse to let anyone tell me (or anyone else) what balance should be stricken, but I will concede that there need be one.  Some people are unable to live in the now and bury their heads in the sands of the future, finding themselves, one day, middle aged and no better off than they thought.  Some individuals refuse to look at any day but the one they reside in, giving no thought to what lies ahead.  I see merit in both of these approaches, but cannot help but dance slowly around both until we all are swaying together.  The dichotomy that both defines and frees me is what keeps me with my heart, mind, and eyes open.

I just celebrated my four month anniversary here in South America and have had a few revelations while lying on the grass watching the clouds move or cooking eggs and vegetables while listening to the rain fall... I have a gypsy spirit. I am always looking for an inexpensive plane ticket or some special on a boat or train that can deliver my spirit somewhere new and enriching.  I have lost almost all attachment to the things I have left behind in my parents' home and find myself missing people (and food) above all other worldly things. My gypsy spirit beckons to me on the regular, though I cannot honestly say that I always understand what it is she wants from me... However, I try and nourish her as often as I can.  The question has now become, "What nourishes my gypsy spirit?"

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.  -Marcel Proust

I find that when a backpack is strapped to my back and the ground moves at my discretion beneath my feet, that is when I am the most free.  I find myself dancing on the inside.  I live for the feeling of the unknown, the rush from adventure, and the newly sharpened perspective of a place or culture.  I love the independence of the road, the freedom of the sky, and the defiance of the sea.  I know what I take with me is all I need, the music that I find along the way will guide me as a soundtrack, and wherever I land there will be someone to share a cold beer and a story with. 

There is a small part of me that misses some of the comforts and, dare I say, luxuries... I am a sucker for a cold bottle of champagne and a hot bubble bath.  I don't care if it borders on a cliche from a Julia Roberts movie; I will surround myself with candles and soak in bath salts until I am drunk and pruned.  What is it about champagne and all that is associated with it that plucks at my heart strings?  I am not accustomed to luxuries, so it cannot be that I am spoiled or entitled... Is it security?  Perhaps.  The last 10 years have been more inconsistent than stable, by far, and the concept of stability is a folly, at this point.   

I have found that I now crave change more than ever, which contradicts my initial beliefs of stability being the answer to my pseudo-problems.  After just a few months in Ecuador, I was searching for mini-vacations to satiate my lust for travel and going to different bars and restaurants in an effort to diversify my days.  Instead of getting to know new friends over coffee, I prefer to take day trips with them or try something new and crazy.

I went to Colombia for Carnaval this passed February and stayed in a sweet little hostel a few minutes walk from Old Town. The freedom I felt as I rocked in an old, wooden rocking chair with my bare feet on the mosaic tile floor of the community courtyard was liberating. I am so fortunate to be sipping fresh Colombian coffee on the Caribbean coast, exploring one of the most misunderstood countries
In the world, and living, not only my dream, but countless others' as well. The beds were mediocre, but acceptable, the family running the hostel rarely wore shoes, and there was no hot running water. Why on earth was this heavenly to me? Where were the big, white fluffy bathrobes? Where was the huge jacuzzi tub? Where was the massive, luxurious bed? Why was I not missing any of those things?

These questions are not limited to this experience, nor my travels. I have little preoccupation with marriage and zero concern about my biological clock ticking. According to society, that makes me a gypsy and a weirdo... I'll take both with a smile. Though I truly miss my dryer, I have grown accustomed to hanging my laundry to dry. I feel as though my newly adopted lifestyle has altered my perception of what is normal and what is a luxury. A few years back, normal was having a fridge full of food, having a bathtub, and being able to flush toilet paper. All of those are now luxuries. I count change now, saving every coin I find, knowing it could add up to a bus fare or an almuerzo, whereas I used to give all my change to the neighborhood kids or into the family's communal beer bottle bank. I've not become money-hungry by any means, but I am definitely more careful than ever with my spending.

So, I've fallen in love with my backpack. I've traded my dreams of grey walls and throw pillows for dreams of conversations in a foreign language and stamps in my passport. What of my champagne? I am still a classy broad in need of romance (of my own, personal definition) and a a human being in need of comfort. Can I love both my backpack and my champagne? Must I choose? I believe that it can be both... I can stand on the top of a mountain, backpack in tow, and sip my champagne with sweet satisfaction. I have spent the majority of my adult life bending over backwards for people in my life, sacrificing career and self, it's my turn to find the balance I desire: I want champagne and a backpack.

My life is befitting of dichotomy. I work hard and I love harder. Dressing up and going out for a night on the town is as enticing as watching movies in bed while eating pizza. I find contradictions within my dichotomy... I feel at home in cities I've never been before. I find some of my best friends are people whom I spend a few hours speaking to while lying in a park. My favorite things to write about are experiences that leave me without words. Perhaps, my home lies somewhere between champagne and a backpack.

xx.a

salsa is delicious but hurts my feet

Admittedly, I wasn't feeling pumped yesterday, which is rare for me. I should've known all I needed was a little YOTY in my life. (Note: YOTY = "Year Of The Yes", where I say 'Yes' to everything physically and financially possible for 2011. This has brought me much joy, as well as a few battle scars.) So when I finished a delicious lunch of Seco de Carne with my fantastic roommates, we all returned home for a siesta, and I was pretty much set on staying in and reading. What was holding me back? I have some family stuff going on, but I'm 3,500 miles away and I need to take advantage of this very moment in my life.

So, I took a nap, fixed a rum drink (extremely popular here), threw on some make-up and a snazzy shirt, and marched down the hall in heels, shaking what my mamma gave me. Boom, let's do this. My American roommate didn't join us this evening due to obligations, however my Ecuadorian roommate led the way as his beautiful and hilarious friend, Alejandra, drove us to the Club District.

As a tall, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, freckled gringa (in heels, dammit) walking into a Salsa club... Ya turn a few heads. Now, I was told by a couple of Ecuadorians back in the states that I would never find a boyfriend in Ecuador because they will not find me attractive or sexy.

Bullshit.

Let's be clear; I am definitely not looking for a boyfriend (or otherwise) during this chapter of my life. However, that's a strange thing to have floating in the back of my mind as I step of the plane:

"Wow, Amie, you just move to Ecuador. Alone. Hell yes. You're a badass and you're living your life... But get used to it because the Andean men won't look twice, gringa."

So, as we strolled to the bar to get our drinks, I felt eyes upon me. And by "upon me" I mean "molesting me". Hmmm... Could those strange men have been wrong? Meh. I'm here for Salsa music- and dancing, hopefully- not the approval of the men of Quito.

I took in everything I could... The concrete floors, open-faced brick walls, the modern looking bar with an orange glow emanating from below, and even the disco ball that rotated slowly above me. My crimped hair fell over my shoulders, but the turquoise lace long-sleeved shirt and tight jeans probably gathered more attention than my freckles this time around.

A slightly older gentleman approached me and reached out his hand for mine. "¿Quieres bailar?", Marco asked me. I smiled and informed him, "Primera vez"... It was my first time. He was kind, taught me a few moves, and then asked to see what I could do. His white shirt, unbuttoned a few buttons to reveal salt and pepper chest hair and a massive silver cross, moved with him and he was leading me around enough to help me fit in. Part of me felt alive, part of me ridiculous. Either way, I knew I wasn't going to have an early night.

Thankfully, I have rhythm for a white girl and didn't embarrass him (or myself) too badly. My roommate & Alé ran into some people they knew and my favorite part of the culture became eminent: The introduction.

When Ecuadorians introduce one another, or even greet each other, they always say "Hola" or "Mucho gusto" and kiss on the cheek. Men and women or women and women, men will shake hands, and often hug if they are akin to one another. I've met dozens of people thus far, and the side-kiss has yet to get old. I look forward to the moment where my roommate introduces me and I am welcomed into the moment with a complete stranger.

We greeted and kissed one another and my roommate leans over and informs me that the men he just introduced me to are professional Salsa dancers. Grrreeeaaaaaat. I'm the white girl from LA who speaks un poco de Español and you brought me to a club (pronounced: cloob) with the pros? Ppshh. Screw it. You only live once.

Saíd (Sa-yeed), with clear eyes, mocha skin and a ridiculous upper body, took my hand and led me towards the disco ball... Damn, why the best of the group? Why the instructor? Why not. "Primera vez..." and Saíd smiled a big, Ecuadorian smile and said with a slight accent, "I teach you, Amie, don't worry". YOTY.

I was told I had rhythm, the hips, the legs, and I could feel the movement of the music. Me? Hell yeah! Let's dance til I can't feel my feet! Oh, shit, I can't feel my feet.

I took a brief break, threw my sweaty mess of a hair up, and watched my roommate twirl around a little Latin lady on the dance floor while I talked to Alé. Then a much older man, we'll call him 'Tío' because he looks like someone's creepy uncle, took my hand and dragged me on the dance floor. I am a lady, and I tried to make the best of it, but Tío was some sort of mess out there. He kept yelling, "Let's go!" uhhhh.... Go where? This dance floor is packed and you've kicked me three times. I thanked him and wandered off to find my posse, and as I begin chatting up Alé in an attempt to catch my breath (damn altitude) this pale, blonde-haired man with red pants on asks me to dance. Sabestián, he informed me, is from Quito and was a decent dancer. He spoke to me in perfect Spanish through two songs, surprisingly I kept up, and bought me a drink, which apparently comes with a phone number.

Saíd's fellow dance champion, Orlando, grabbed my hand and snatched me away from my hipster Quiteño. He spoke quick, nasty Spanish and I didn't understand a single word, so I just answered with the typical answers in English and relished in the consistent surprised faces when I tell them I will be there for a year to teach English. Kike, another professional dancer, didn't understand a word I said, and his ebony, muscular body wriggled all over as I towered almost a foot above him. This is worse than Tío's sweaty palms and incessant yelling.

Women's long, dark hair swung around all throughout the dance floor and men's shirts clung to them, drenched in sweat. The live band- comprised of a half dozen Ecuadorians, a handful of Cubans, and a Russian bass player- sounded off endlessly with beautiful brass sounds from the stage. The lead singer, a bald and chubby man with squinty, kind eyes, had his goatee braided and adorned with multicolored beads.

Around 2:00 am we finally pried ourselves away from the hips and kicks of Salsa at El Aguijón and, dripping with sweat, head back home to ease my aching feet, relish in trying something new, and laugh at how many times Saíd dipped me. The lights of Quito remind me that I'm here for a year and I need to remember to say "Yes" and appreciate how random and amazing my life is. The first time I go Salsa dancing, I go in Ecuador and am taught by professionals. I. Love. My. Life.

xx.a