machu picchu, tube dancing, and weird meat

Lista...

Peru never held a strong draw for me, even with Machu Picchu being the most sought-after world wonder to date. I had heard that the beaches bordered lackluster deserts (which is mostly true) and the major cities left something to be desired. When my good friend and co-worker, Rachel, informed me that Machu Picchu topped her bucket list, I knew I was in and in for it.

A few friends had been traveling south from Quito for the last few weeks and were meeting us in Cuzco, Peru where we would prep for our four day trek. Two American and four Canadian girls decided to bike, raft, climb, zip line, and explore the Andes mountains and have out journey culminate at the top of Machu Picchu.

Streets of Peru

Rachel and I boarded a night bus from Quito to Huaquillas with high hopes and full backpacks. I advise all adventurers to avoid Huaquillas with every ounce of energy possible. Aside from the attempted kidnapping at the border, it's a dirty and tasteless town that leaves you wanting a half dozen showers and saying a Hail Mary despite your chosen religion. For those of you who know me, I prefer to write about the places I love and avoid the negative, but this merited mentioning.

The Sexy Seis

After we avoided kidnapping, robbing, and God knows what else, we finally secured a ludicrously overpriced taxi to deliver us safely (fingers crossed) to the bus terminal (which didn't exist) and found a reputable bus line to get us the hell away from the border and to the sands of Lima. We were greeted by a double-decker bus with semi-cama (reclining) seats and a wicked view from the massive front windshield. We were off. Again.

Peruvian Ceviche

Lima, here we come! Just 22 more hours... It felt like scene out of "Swingers" when Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau head to Las Vegas from Los Angeles and they start out stoked and fade into a lackluster hoot every once in a while.

After 33 hours on a bus, Rachel and I snatched up the first hostel we found to be both reputable and affordable and scrubbed ourselves to the bone. We wandered around Lima proper, which was lovely, and kept away from downtown, which was dirty and best seen from the bus, as well as the outskirts, which were tin-roof huts stuck into the sides of the dirt hills. The coast line was well kept and consisted of cliffs, art, gorgeous landscaping, and plenty of tourists.

7 months...

Lima, though lovely, was well experienced in a day a we went for a cold beer. We scarfed down multiple-meat burgers topped with fries and tried the local brews. Calling it an early night, we enjoyed sleeping in a fully horizontal position for the first time in three days.

Cuzco, here we come! Just 22 more hours... That sounds a little too familiar. This time, in the back of the 2nd story bus, we posted up and watched another three movies poorly dubbed in Spanish. This trek from Quito, admittedly, did not commit the sin of eighties action movies that consist of Jean Claude Van Dam and an endless amount of dubbed groaning and killing women with large breasts. Aside from the young porter who developed a minor obsession with my feet during our ascent to Cuzco, it was a solid trip: We had arrived.

Cuzco, Peru

We booked our trek through Loki Hostel in Cuzco and met our Canadian counterparts around noon, where we woke them from their hungover slumber around noon. Excitement buzzed that evening as we were briefed and surveyed our trek mates.

Day 1: Spinning Wheels & Paddles

Abramalaga Bike Ride

We ascended to 4250 meters on Abramalaga Mountain and mounted our bikes. We were about to drop 2000 meters over 50 km and the views were stunning. The warm sun ripped through the thin air and tinged our skin as the wind cooled us. We bounded around curves, splashed through natural streams, raced each other over gravel and dirt roads, and we're constantly awestruck after every turn. Little black butterflies danced around us and our faces hurt as much from smiling as our arms did from the two and a half hour ride.

delish.

We loaded up our gear in a small mountain town and devoured some local cuisine accompanied by black corn, pineapple, & cinnamon juice. Dirty, tired, sweaty, and ready for more, we headed to the Urubamba & Vilcanota rivers to cross another beauty off my bucket list: whitewater rafting. Hell yes.

Our guide, Sagá, was a Chilean man in his mid twenties who put up with touring gringos for a paycheck and a chance to live his passion on the river every day. Paddles in hand, we strapped on our helmets and climbed into the giant blue and yellow rafts that would serve as platters to the 3+ rated rivers for dinner. Sagá briefed us on safety regulations and informed us about the dangers that laid ahead, much to his dismay, the our raft nodded half-heatedly and looked to me. Yep. Guess who was dubbed translator for the duration of our trip. Accepting the challenge of translator (and someone who took a sophomore Spanish class in high school a century ago), I managed to tell a bunch of strangers ad a few friends what to do while spinning down a river in Perú. I even managed to convince Sagá to let us tackle some of the more difficult rapids and spin us around in circles! It was most definitely one of the highlights of my trip.

A former resident's depiction 

After we finished, we were driven into the sunset and up a pitch black road to a clearing in the bushes, where we were promptly kicked out and told to strap on our hiking boots once again. Wait, what? We wandered up a steep path by flashlight and iPhone light, panting and hungry, until we reached a little shack with a small monkey tied to one of the door frames. We gathered our breath and played with the mischievous little bugger and fed it sweet sesame peanuts. As we all started to unstrap our packs and take of our shoes, our guide announced in hesitant English, "Ok, guys, let's go... Only fifteen more minutes!" Famous. Last. Words.

Day 2: Morning view

Forty-five grueling, uphill minutes in the pitch dark of the Peruvian jungle later, our surprise hike was over an we had reached the home stay. Exhausted and all-around pissed off, the group stared our guides down as we hung our wet clothes to dry. A delicious dinner was served as the three British boys offered to help our Señora, and we all collapsed onto our wooden benches. Food was devoured at such a rate that we could barely mutter a "Buen Provecho" but everyone seemed in good spirits and had high hopes for tomorrow.

One by one, the girls wandered off to bed, hoping to recharge for tomorrow and keep the mosquitoes at a distance. The Señor came out with his guitar and joined us in a beer while the guys and I played cards with another female traveler. We took turns teaching each other card games and listened to the Señor and one of our guides play poorly tuned guitars and saluds every few moments.

Day 2: The Cliffs of Insanity

Sta. Teresa Valley

When the sun rose the next morning, we emerged from our respective habitations and were left without words. The figureless hike last night left us with sore muscles and one hell of a view. We scarfed down breakfast and readied ourselves for the big hiking day. Frank, who was born on the very land we were trekking across, grabbed a half dozen achiotes from a nearby tree and sliced them open. They proceeded to paint our faces with the seed pollen, claiming it was a natural mosquito repellent, and then slathered themselves in our American-bought chemicals. Whatever.

Achiote

They dubbed me an Andean Inca Princess. Ha. I, in turn, painted his face like a 5th grade pottery project. Disfrutas, homie. Let's go, day 2! We continued our hike up and away from Señor and Señora, expressing our gratitude and leaving just a little part of each of us with them. every corner we turned brought surprises: coffee plants, coca leaves, random giant fruits, millipedes, massive snakes, papayas bigger than my head, and cliffs that drop off into oblivion. We plodded down carefully places steps, dug our boots into cavities scaling up mounds of dirt and rocks, and followed obediently as the path wound tightly around ancient cliffs. Frank explained the traditions and offerings that took place in order to appease the three animals: the snake, the puma, and the condor. 

Great peril...

As we explored the Santa Teresa valley we took turns leading our Puma Family. Pictures cannot do justice to the lands we trekked, but that did not stop us from trying. We teetered down into canyons and hiked the Bilkanota riverbed, had water fights in the streams to battle the almost equatorial heat, and snacked on local grown fruits like Sawinto coffee and bananas as part of the circle of life.

¡Vamos! Let's go! ¡Rrisintu hatumich! Spanish, English, Chichewa... All put a pep in our step as we marched on to night two in a small, Peruvian town, praying there was no uphill night hike. We scooted down the winding path to some thermal spas where we sunk into hot mineral water absorbed every second of relaxation we could. The vies from the pools was the sole item that superseded the pools themselves.

The Pumas

We were dragged from the pools kicking and screaming to a small restaurant where the long, wooden benches were lined with alpaca rugs and Saltado Carne greeted us and we celebrated Shannon's birthday and found the only discoteca within a hundred miles. We went, as Frank called it, "tube dancing" which was actually a bunch of drunk gringo guys taking turns trying to outdo each other on a pole in the middle of a small dance club, but was sufficient enough to give us all a slight hangover the next day... Guides included.

 Day 3: Zip, Zip, and Away

Since Frank and Renaldo we're sufficiently hungover after drinking games and the discoteca, we skipped the three hour hike first thing in the morning and we took a van to the zip line local. Strapped in and stoked for something besides hiking, we climbed a vertical route to the first line of six. One by one we glided across the canopies, lush, green mountains rising up on every side of us and the stream winding intricately below us. Birds darted up and around as the incredible silence was only broken by the whir of the line and the wind in our ears.

Pulling your leg...

After we reluctantly stripped off our gear, devoured another delicious lunch of comida típico, we hiked a few hours around the base of Machu Picchu. We followed the railroad tracks through the jungle to Aguas Calientes, our final stop before the grand finale. Exhausted and riddled with homerun fever, we matched into the pseudo-Aspen town at the base of Machu Picchu. Luxurious hotels, hostels, and countless restaurants and shops lined the paved roads of the touristic city. The pavement and pavers felt strange beneath our blistered and worn feet, as they'd only known rocks, pedals, dirt, and mud for three intense days. We welcomed the stranger beneath our feet, battled with scalding hot and ice cold showers, and tried our best to sit up straight at dinner. After a ridiculous amount of food and some briefing for the big day that would follow, we were all settling in to the worst of the three hospitalities thus far. Running water aside, we all longed for the first homestay that followed the night hike from the first night. 

And then there was Day 4.

Sunrise over Machu Picchu

Day 4: Machu Picchu & Every Man Left Behind

Sufficed to say, our new guide relieved Frank and Renaldo but that was the extent the word "relief" was used for that day. Hugo, though very funny, left us all to find our way to the top of Machu Picchu at 4:30 am. My team of Pumas managed to make it up to the top alive and well about the time I was delivered by bus. My body had decided it had put up with enough and it wasn't sufficiently healed from my appendectomy from a few months back. Deciding my body knew best, and I too having been left my Hugo the Ridiculous, meandered in to my sweet Bucket List item and decided to make the best of every second by following other guide groups here and there and staring at the sun directly until an Inca God spoke to me... Ok, maybe not the last part.

Sun rising in silence

I sat on the compressed dirt that surrounded the stone sun dial at the second highest point in Machu Picchu and gazed silently at the insane dichotomy of the ruins. Old and new, clean and dirty, organized and mysterious. As the sun rose over the mountains in front of me, the chatter stopped and all that could be heard was silence broken by the shutters of hundreds of cameras around me. No one spoke, as it is a sacred and revered time and in a sacred place. Worth every penny, every sore muscle, every hour on a bus getting down there, and every sacrifice made.

Before dawn....

The friends made on this trip were a definite plus, as our group dynamic was untouchable and obviously envied by other groups. The weather was absolutely perfect every single day, especially the last day. The adventures were wonderful and irreplaceable. Taking the train back from Machu Picchu to Cuzco sealed the trek as one of the best experiences of my life; and I've done some pretty cool shit.

7:30 AM

I know I learned more from this adventure than I have yet realized, but I will wait patiently for these lessons to unfold in time. One of the Seven Wonders crossed off, a few Bucket List items completed, and a few steps closer to an intangible state I have yet to identify... Plus, Peruvian ceviche is amazing. I also managed to try alpaca (very similar to beef) and cuy (guinea pig, not as delicious as I had expected) which crossed off a few from my "Let's Eat Meat" list (yet to be published).

The Pumas

Weird meat, big rocks, and tube dancing aside, I know how fortunate I was to have been able to not only experience this, but to do it alongside so many wonderful people.

Hello, Bucket List...

Andean Inca Princess, signing out...

xx.a

P.S. I'm eating one of your relatives tonight.

holly golightly and a cup of tea

Being sick is one of the most miserable experiences we as humans have to deal with. Sinus pressure, itchy eyes, coughing, sneezing, exhaustion, and body aches. All we want to do is sleep it off and find a bit of comfort and reprieve. Interestingly enough, this is also when the people around us tend to keep their distance more, for fear of contracting this misery incarnate themselves. Truth be told, nobody likes even ready a status update about how sick someone is. When I am sick I want a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato soup, ginger ale, and to watch "The Princess Bride"... Not to be shunned and ignored. It is human nature to want to be cared for in moments of weakness, regardless of what that weakness is.

I consider myself to be an extremely independent person an am proud of the steps that I have taken (and bullets dodged) over the years to become the woman I am today. However, lately I have taken more notice of my internal desires to "be taken care of". What the hell does that even mean? I don't want a sugar daddy. Hell, I've never even dated anyone with money. Give me a poor guy with great eyes or a charming smile and I'm in! I am not interested in your pocket book, pal. I am also not a victim of any sorts. I don't need someone standing next to me saying, "poor baby" every time I have a tough day. Save all that jazz for the big moments, folks.

I want someone in my life who will take an absurd amount of photos with me because they know it makes me dance on the inside. I want someone who will have a Harry Potter marathon with me (yep, letting my geek flag fly...) and drink beer all day. I want someone that I can cook for and make shadow puppets with for no damn reason. I want someone to share a life with... To make tea for.

I wandered the halls of my hostel and bothered travelers from all over the world on our amazing rooftop to see what these independent vagabonds thought. To my surprise, most of them were dead on with what I had scribbled down as my thoughts on the matter: Everyone needs to be taken care of and to take care of others.

I crawled into bed that evening and watched an old favorite, "Breakfast At Tiffany's" and in a flash I saw the correlation between my ponderings and this silly, yet classic, movie. Holly Golightly, the main character played by Audrey Hepburn, is this wildly lovely and wonderfully lost girl who doesn't know she needs help until a man comes along and stands in front of her to look her in the eye instead of chasing her. Throughout the movie I noticed aspects of not just caring for each other, like when Holly buys Paul the ribbon for his typewriter, but taking care of each other. When she demands that he take her out and to "Promise me one thing: don't take me home until I'm drunk - very drunk indeed." he does just that. In essence, he is taking care of her by giving her what she needs at the time, not what he feels is best.

Why is it we try to impose our solutions and needs on others in times of difficulty? I have noticed over the years that those who surround me, especially former flames, just thrust their ways of handling difficulties and obstacles upon me. If they like to be left alone when struggling, they'd disappear into a puff of mystical smoke as soon as there was a road block in my path. Difficulty communicating? They shut down. Loss in the family? It's softball time, cry it out in the couch, darling.

I find it mind boggling that we as a human race find it so damn difficult to look the person we care about in the eyes and say, "What do you need?" and then figure out how to give it to them. Is that not what loving a person- regardless of the relationship- is about? Jesus, when I care about a person I want to bake them a cake for no reason, clean their house, and let them know they're loved; friend, lover, family, whatever. That's why Holly Golightly giving Paul the ribbon for his typewriter struck me: I may be a kindred soul with Holly Golightly.

Oh, hell. I don't want to be one of those girls staring with puppy dog eyes at an episode of Sex and the City muttering, "Oh my gosh, I am so totally Carrie..." yet I find myself seeing glimpses of these elements we share. I don't think I am quite as much of a mess as she is, but who am I to be judge and jury? I don't have an obsession with jewelry, I don't smoke like she does, and I definitely don't have a preoccupation with marrying some fat, rich bastard. In all, I believe that Holly just wants this sense of security and manifests that desire in monetary aspects, as opposed to matters of the heart. Why? Easy. The heart can be broken. Money doesn't have feelings. I push people off because when I want a hand from someone, they have their hands full. When I do get a hand, it often let's go halfway out of the well.

I began to ask myself, "Am I manifesting my desires for security outside of a desire for a relationship and all that it entails?" and, boy, did I sit and stare at the skyline of Quito waiting for an answer. Still waiting.... However, I think it is safe to say that I am avoiding the majority (if not all) of Holly's mistakes. I think my personal security endeavors are more closely tied with my resistance to commit to another human being. "If we keep it light, no one gets hurt."

Famous last words.

I'm by no means opposed to commitment, I just know so many who are, both conscious and subconscious, who are that I am hesitant to trust.

Upon my six month anniversary of living here in Quito, I went to a few of our favorite spots with a few friends and was drugged with some sort of GHB-ish substance. This was, unfortunately, not my first tango with this bastard of a drug, so when I woke up with my iPhone in a rain boot and my pants half-on and backwards, I knew what had gone down. My stress level was a tad bit higher that morning, and my moral had an inverse correlation, scraping the pavement as I walked out to my rooftop terrace for breakfast. A friend and fellow traveler offered me some blueberry herbal tea and my first inclination was to decline. What the hell? This nice guy just wants to make you a cup of tea, you ditz. Let him.

So, I lifted my head up off my folded arms on the wooden picnic bench and squinted at his smiling face and agreed to a cup of sweet comfort. Thank my lucky stars that I wasn't raped or robbed the night before, but I was still emotional, and the moment I relented and allowed this sweet, German-American to make a caring gesture towards me I felt it: the flood gates opened.

It felt so incredible to let someone take care of me. It seems trivial, but I am 100% used to taking care of myself. Family aside, every person that I had ever trusted to catch me when I fell had failed miserably. I don't want to be jaded or cynical, but I don't want to be foolish, either. Letting someone make me a cup of tea helped me realize that I am, indeed, inertly wanting someone to trust. I don't need a significant other to be whole, that was established ages ago, but I do want someone to bring me a cold Gatorade and rub my neck when I am hungover. I want someone to surprise and make laugh. It is the companionship and a teammate I want, but that's the hardest part: knowing when it's real. This cup of tea isn't me signing my life away; it's just a moment of allowing someone to showcase cariño. It isn't admitting I am weak or incapable of the same actions myself; it is a human connection.

So, if Holly feels the need to go through all the crazy motions of throwing a cat in the rain and trying to marry the future president of nowhere (seriously, if you haven't seen "Breakfast At Tiffany's" get your act together and Netflix it...) that is her prerogative. I'd much rather just throw this collection of ideas out in the universe and when I come across some hottie who loves to travel, hates liars, wants to be unstoppable partners in crime, and digs my freckles... We'll have a cold beer and see where it goes. Until then, I'm going to shed my Holly Golightly shadow, however minor the resemblances may be, and try and let someone make me a cup of tea once in a while and not throw the nameless cat in the rain.

xx.a

doctor in español is doctor

Everyone fears being stranded in a foreign country and needing an operation to save their life. I lived it.


Mind you, I lost a dear friend and companion in 2006 when she developed pneumonia in Vietnam and passed on due to negligence of her condition. So the concept of putting my life in the hands of a developing Latin American country's doctors and praying I understand them and they me... Scared the shit out of me.


I was headed to work on a Monday and wasn't feeling wonderful. I had slept all Sunday and most of that day, as well. Then came the dizziness. Followed by the nausea. Then the anxiety. Then exhaustion. Agitation. Pain. Loss of sight. More pain. Oh, dear Lord, the pain. Wait, why can't I walk?


On a recommendation, I went to a local private hospital to see a friend of a friend. I figured I had a parasite and just needed some antibiotics and solid night of sleep. The surgeon told me I was probably ovulating.


Ovulating.


Seriously? I only have one ovary, señor, so.... I'm pretty sure I know what that feels like. After some painful poking and prodding, a little fondling, and a lot of waiting, the doctors threw me in a wheel chair and told me that I was a few hours short of a major explosion in my abdomen. So... I'm not ovulating?


The clean halls and neatly dressed staff rivaled that of the United States and the kind smiles of all the nurses calmed my anxiety. They scooted me into a private hospital room with a private bathroom equipped with shower and all the cable TV I could handle. I pulled of my rain boots, folded my clothes neatly, and placed everything in the storage closet near the sink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped as though I didn't recognize myself. Who was this pale, ghostly face staring back at me? Who was this woman standing bare and exposed, new tattoo gracing her left abdomen, and her fear hanging around her neck like the latest fashion?


The surgery wasn't the scary part. It was knowing that I took a Spanish class in high school- over 10 years ago- and I remembered colors and vegetables. All my Spanish up to this point had been learned through conversation and surgical terms aren't exactly part of bar talk. It was knowing I was going in alone. Yes, I had a few friends around, but all have lives and things to do. I was on my own. It was not knowing anything about the reputation of the hospital, the doctor, or what I was going to be wheeled into.


I pulled on the lilac hospital gown, wrapped it tight to cover my backside, and sat down in the bed. Breathe. Everything will be fine. Wait, I know. So why the anxiety? In reality, this room had quickly become my sanctuary. I was in the process of looking for new housing and was feeling very unsettled, and this was a place that had a warm bed, a soft pillow, and people to make me feel safe. Three nurses entered with their greetings: Hola, mi vida. My life. They smiled warmly, touched my hands like my own mother would, and started getting me ready. I decided to just lie there and let them take me on this journey.


I managed to chat with the nurses while they took me from my sanctuary through the hospital and into my operating room. After changing beds four times, I was strapped into the operating table and the anxiety crept up on me. Hearing "la gringa" so many times WILL grate on your nerves after 5 months... I promise. I had become a novelty of sorts and I need to assert myself as a human being once more.


Before I could think, I started spouting off questions: Who are you? Are those sterile? Will I be asleep? Could you please avoid my new tattoo?


How did I know all these words? Collective consciousness, I owe you a beer.


I made a few jokes in Spanish (yes, I'm proud of myself for being funny in two languages) and tried to get in a few brownie points before the drugged me up, as though, like a superstition, I needed it juuuuust in case. A happy surgeon is a focused surgeon, right?


So sleeeeeeeeeeepy.


I see a nurse. See? Oh, dear God. I muttered, in very sloppy Spanish, "I can feel things! Don't cut me!" Christ on crutches. I was about to experience a nightmare beyond words: being operated on while awake.


Or... It was already over and I was headed back to my sanctuary. Awesome. I'm sure everyone had a good laugh at the freaked out gringa. In recovery I was a mess. The anesthetic wore off quickly and I was tense, in pain, and anxious.


Fast forward. Hello, sanctuary. As I was wheeled into the room, I passed three very familiar, very handsome faces. My heart filled. My roommate, Ian, whom had been instrumental in getting me to the hospital and checked in had returned. Drew, Ian's friend turned my friend, who had been a gentleman in suffering through this ordeal (and my surprisingly revealing medical examination) on his last night in Quito. A very good friend, and the one who recommended the hospital, Juan David, had driven straight from work and waited with my boys. I am loved.


Some gibberish talking by yours truly and some random Ecuadorian TV filled my night and soon the boys were gone and I was alone with my thoughts, my drugs, and my sanctuary.


The hardest part was feeling lonely. Being restricted to a bed, unable to work or connect with the outside world, was incredibly hard. I slept. I watched Futurama in Spanish. I thought. Boy, did I think. I somehow slipped into a massively reflective and introspective state if mind that I have yet to find way out of.


I thought about my time here in Quito, both what I have done and what I have learned about myself and others. I thought about home, the people I miss the most, and the ones I surprisingly don't miss much at all. I thought about my students and how much I really enjoyed teaching. I thought about my next step in my career. I thought about a special guy. I thought about which super powers would be best to have while in a hospital. I thought about ice cream. (I was on drugs, don't judge me.)


Wednesday morning rolled around and the surgeon checked me out, changed my bandages, and told me to be a good gringa while I was here in Ecuador. The doctor took his leave and the nurse helped me sit up.


For those of you who have not had a laparoscopic operation, let me assure you it blows. Your incisions burn when you move. Your organs shift when you move and, believe me, you can feel EVERYTHING. You have air trapped inside your abdomen and all you can do is bubble and fart. Yes, I'm aware I'm a sexy bitch.


Just the process of sitting up raises the question that I may not, in fact, be ten foot tall and bulletproof. I can't roll over, I can't sit up... I'm a bad dog.


I hobbled to the bathroom, just 3 short feet from my bed, so naturally it took me 5 minutes. Bladder, pancreas, spleen, stomach... As they dropped and squish around, I noticed them all as they sound off in attendance. Success. I peed all by myself. Now to shower. With a massive needle shoved into my left hand, my right hand took over and started domination of what needed to be done: remove gown, drop gown (shit), find tolerable water temperature, clean body, wash hair, dry off, new gown on bed (score), and buzz for help getting back in bed before passing out. Internal happy dance.


Little did I know that'd be the last bit of brightness for 36 grueling hours.


The nurse to the least of my liking padded in while I was watching 'House Hunters International: Buenos Aires' and handed me a simple piece of calculator paper with a series of numbers and one with a star. No words- English or Spanish- just numbers. $5000.


Mierda.


I explained in a drug-free, pain-clouded state that I needed a description of why my bill was five grand and I needed wifi to start moving money around because I sure as hell didn't have a handful of cash lying around, contrary to popular belief. Gringos are not made of sugar, spice, and limitless credit cards. Hours passed. Hours. No one came to administer medicine, less than 48 hours after my surgery, and the food stopped coming as well. The staff would poke their head in my once sanctuary, just to make sure I was still there. I explained I could pay some now and some later, but since wifi wasn't an option, nor were free international calls, I needed to scoot on outta this porcelain palace of pain.


Apparently, the hospital staff and the guard at the front door carrying a shotgun disagreed with me. I plopped down (worst idea ever) in a wheel chair, grabbed my rain boots, and wandered 4 floors downstairs to try and talk to the payment center. Come on Collective Consciousness...


With my friend, Rachel, sitting by my side in the lobby of a heavily guarded, private, Ecuadorian hospital I started to wonder how in the living hell I was going to pull this off. Then I started wondering, how the hell did this turn into a living hell? Where did my sanctuary go? I could feel it fading into darkness a few floors above me.


They sent me a gentleman who worked in the financial department who spoke a tidbit of English and was obviously in over his head and not thrilled that his superiors were dropping him in with this gringa who was obviously in pain and less than thrilled at the goings-ons of the situation. He tried, but he really helped about as much as the janitor when it came to my situation. Unless we were in an episode of 'Scrubs' in which I would be both thrilled and terrified because it really, really hurt to laugh.


So, to recap: I had emergency surgery 36 hours ago, I'm a broke English teacher with a student visa, they won't reduce the fees on a $5,000 bill, they don't have wifi so I can get ahold of my folks for help (or even to let them know I'm alive), they won't let me go until its paid, and I'm pretty sure that guard with the shotgun has yet to have to use it and is looking like he has an itchy trigger finger. Right.


After a few more hours of talking to people and waiting around, occasional tears escaping my eyes, both from pain and frustration, the sun finally disappeared from the alluring glass doors that held my freedom. The darkness had settled outside my prison and inside my chest. I was being held captive. My chains were electronic lines of information and lightly-inked numbers I couldn't reproduce in reality. Such intangible things that mattered more than that tangible person and the tangible pain displayed before the eyes of heartless number crunchers. Finally, I just cried. I let them see me cry. I let each tear try to buy my freedom. I let each tear try and tug at heart strings that may or may not exist. I did it with dignity... Well, as much dignity I could, looking homeless an walking like a drunk toddler.


They finally sent me back upstairs to the same room, Room 303, where I once maintained my sanity.  They had again cleaned it and changed the sheets, but that wasn't why it felt different.  It was no longer my sanctuary.  I climbed into bed in my sweats and flipped on the TV, just to ignore it.  I managed to steal some wifi for a few moments and sent electronic smoke signals back home.  Rachel went and bought some awful fast food next door to the hospital with the last bit of our money and we forced down terrible burgers and remarkably delicious chocolate cake.  She left me an hour later for the comfort of her bed and I laid there staring at the dark ceiling and the dancing shadows from the repeat of Friends, which was surprisingly comforting.   I found no sanctuary here. 


After having the needle ripped from my hand- following hours of pleading- the the evil bitch of a nurse laughing, I lost it.  I informed her that it was extremely difficult for me to come to a foreign country, learn the language, have emergency surgery, and handle it all on my own.  I am trying.  How dare you. Tears of anger stung my eyes and the nurse looked as though she had struck a puppy with her car.  She backed out of the room and was never to be audible again.  A sweet, fresh faced doctor, Dr. Medina, came in and spoke with me, apologizing for all the mishaps and explaining the bill to me.  After some hustling on my mother's part and a team effort of moving money around and asking for some help from the credit company, I was close to tasting freedom. 


4:00 pm Thursday afternoon, with a drained bank account, $1.60 in coins to my name, and a maxed out American Express card, I walked through those elusive glass doors and breathed the fresh air of freedom. Tears, different than those that escaped my eyes before, streamed down my flushed cheeks and I breathed out every ounce of stress I had been holding in. I wobbled to a taxi, slumped in, and left the prison that had been my only world for the last 4 days.  


A word from someone who has lived it: get travel insurance.


And, yes, my new tattoo is fine.  

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

musical hearts

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

-Aldous Huxley

My bare feet on the hardwood floors of my room here in Quito slowly exchange places as I wander between my four walls, cup of freshly brewed coffee warming my hands and my hair falling over my shoulders as I collect discarded pieces of days passed.  Rain drops hit my window and cause the plants outside to dance to the melody made by the collaboration with the glass.  Adele pours from the speakers of the laptop on my bed and seems to roll across my alpaca blanket and float off the edges and dance around me.  My jeans scrape the floor as I step to the window and listen to Adele mix with the sounds of the rain on the pavement and I return to my bed and close my eyes to allow Adele's sultry voice to take me to a peaceful, yet passionate, place... A place I am sure I could not have reached without her.  A place where I do not believe I could have reached with Snoop Dog or Thrice, though, admittedly, I am a fan of both.  

We have all been in a place where the music sets the tone of the moment: getting ready with the girls for a night out calls for Pink's "Raise Your Glass" and driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the windows down and the sun kissing your skin calls for "Drive" by Incubus.  The more I travel, the more types of music I am exposed to, and the more I find myself connecting memories with a soundtrack. The emotion we associate with songs can define a moment (a la romantic comedies) or create within us an undeniable alegra. 

I wanted to explore what it is about a song- or music in general- that moves us to move mountains for a chorus or dive the depths of the sea for a hook.  I figured, where better to find the source of the emotion of the song than the songwriter? 

I wrote to my good friend, Paul Stark, in Dallas, Texas in hopes of grasping an understanding of such an intangible gift.  I asked him to shine some light on my newest blog subject, and to no surprise, he did just that.  The songwriter wrote: 

"I used to sit and look at pages of lyrics and have no 

idea how to bring them together, then I would put together 

a song and hate it. I didn't like my own songs, even 

though everyone around me requested to hear them, 

they all seemed to have more of a connection to them than i did. 

 That's when I started writing songs for myself and no one else. 

When i started doing that, true emotion started coming through 

because it was what I was feeling at the time... 

it was very real to me. 

When a song has true emotion, the listener can 

feel it and THAT is when they make an emotional 

connection to the song. Then, things started to flow... 

I realized why so many song writers write so vaguely-- 

because even though they know exactly how 

the song translates to for them, and what it means, 

it can translate into something completely different for someone else. 

That's the cool thing about music: it is interpreted. 

No one hears it through the same ears. 

So, to answer your question, 

"What do you hope your music does for people?"... 

I hope it does exactly what they want it to."

I inquired about Paul's latest release, "Jump", as a follow up to his first original, "Avalanche", it had big shoes to fill.  Paul told me the song is about himself and a girl, and the only thing holding them back from something that could be really great was the fear that she would get hurt like she had been in the past. The song was his effort to get her to "jump", to take a risk on him, as well as on them...

"...she felt it

...I felt it

...so jump."

I loved the message of "Jump" so much that I found my attraction to this song growing and growing with every repeat on YouTube.  "Avalanche", on the other hand, though I loved the strong lyrics, the guitar is what caused me to fall in love with the song.  His clean playing style and soulful melodies had me hooked.  Like any good musician, Paul has all of his social networking ducks in a row.  Paul Stark Music on facebook, his YouTube channel has a few of his songs (with more to come) and his Twitter account is building quickly... Please take some time to have a listen and enjoy.  Your ears, and most likely your heart, will thank you.

Without music, life would be a mistake.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

I also wrote to my father, a longtime musician and songwriter, who I owe my appreciation of music to almost wholly.  I asked him what kept him in love with music after 50 years of loving, fighting, breaking up, reuniting, and creating beautiful miracles together.  My father has continuously surprised me over the last 20 something years, and I believe that I inherited a lot of that from him.  The response I received not only helped me understand him even more than I believed I already did, but helped me realize why I do what I do when it comes to music.  I connect.  I live and die through some songs.  I can hear "Hands Down" by Dashboard Confessional and think back to my senior year in high school, when I was dating a junior in college, and remember the emotions that were associated with our dating and our break-up.  I can hear "Hero" by Mariah Carey and remember rewinding the cassette tape (shut up) two or three (ok, twenty three) times over and singing on the top of my lungs as I imagined myself on stage in front of thousands of people. 

"As I started playing guitar, I found a new level in enjoying music. 

I thought everybody had songs going in their heads 

all the time like I did. Not true, I found.  

I also found some had others tunes going, 

but not new, unheard music like I did. 

When I started playing in bands, I didn't pay much attention 

to "cover" songs. We did a few, but we did play 

songs that I or we wrote. 

The world had changed for me, again."

My father started teaching me to play guitar at the ripe old age of 16.  He broke down chords for me, simplified power chords (hey, my hands aren't as big as his) so I could play more songs, and helped me break down the strumming patterns of my favorite songs. I began hearing music differently, as well.  I heard strumming patterns, bass lines, drums that swayed my emotions... I realized it wasn't just a singular thing that determined how I reacted to a song: It was a collaboration beyond words. 

I detest Coldplay.  There.  I said it.  I understand if you want to stop reading and call me a communist in the comment section, so be it.  However, before you line me up in front of the firing squad, know that one of my absolute favorite songs is "Fix You" by the very band I cannot stomach.  One day, I was on this thing called "YouTube" (it should make it big one day...) and I discovered a cover by a group called "Boyce Avenue".  After listening to their cover of "Fix You" I found my eyes closed, tears streaming down my face, my hand on my heart, and my body involuntarily swaying to the sweet and simple sounds emanating from the speakers.  Whoa.  I mean, I love this song, but, really?  The arrangement wasn't too different, but I found their version touched me differently than the somewhat over-produced original. I started seeking out more covers to see if it was just this one song, just Boyce Avenue, or if there was a massive abundance of covers that were going to rip my heart away from my allegiance to the originals.  Turns out, there is a solid mixture of both.  I believe that everyone is affected differently by each song.  Personally, I am a sucker for a prominent guitar any day.  My good friend here in Ecuador, Juan David, is a drummer and will pick a song with solid drumming over everything else, without fail, regardless of lyrics or overall sound.

"Making music with friends is as good as sex. When a band is clicking together, it's almost telepathic. You glance at the drummer and lock eyes and the punches or changes are tighter, more together and sometimes happen spontaneously. All the band starts to feel it and the harmonies get tighter, everybody is smiling and you feel safe and supported by the band. You take a solo, knowing that they won't fall apart without you. You get to soar, feel the notes flying off your finger tips. You play things you didn't know you could do 2 minutes ago and feel 10 feet tall. Time ceases to exist as all you are is a guitar and a song. U2 said it as they recorded All Along The Watchtower. "All I have is this guitar, 3 chords and the truth". And, like a teenager that discovered sex, you can't wait to do that again."

My father's words.  This may be the very reason why we become addicted to music and find ourselves in a pseudo-relationship with songs.  If musicians pour themselves into these songs as my father described; no wonder the emotions bind us to their verses! Regardless of where your musical interests lie, it is undeniable that music is innately a part of us and is a massive part of our lives.  Every movie, every major event in our lives, and every relationship has music... And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

  

A painter paints pictures on canvas.  But musicians paint their pictures on silence.  

-Leopold Stokowski

xx.a

learn from a baby: do not have a wishbone

Whether we remember it or not, we all learned to walk at some point in our lives by putting one fat, little foot in front of the other at a time. Before We did that, however, we had to find the catalyst for our endeavor.

We, as infants, sit there on our diaper-clad bottoms and crane our necks around to see what is going on and what we can find. We then either let out a gut-wrenching wail, signifying we want something and it should be delivered to us immediately, or the consequences are deafening... Or we roll defiantly onto our Buddha belly and manage to slither over to our holy grail and pull on shit til something happens. For a child, whom is learning everything for the first time, this is not only acceptable, but it is the norm. For an adult, however, I implore those who can find the connection in my metaphor: Have you no legs to stand upon?

As our infants selves find, after a while, that we are indeed tired of banging our knees on hardwood floors and using our hands for movement and support, when they should be used for grasping and exploring. We begin to pull ourselves upwards for a clearer view and more efficient approach to our world. It's amazing what you can see when you choose to stand and rise above the mess. We realize that the bottoms of our fet enjoy the fuzzy carpet or cool tiles of our home and, shortly thereafter, we learn that they desire the rough texture of the sidewalk or the warmth of the asphalt after a long Summer's day. Our hands, we find, never miss the weight of our bodies and our necks do not long for the crick they develop from always straining to look upwards. It is in this moment, when standing upright and seeing the brighter side of things, that we look down at our chubby toes and think, "These tools are mine." and we begin to imagine the possibilities.

Granted, everyone thinks differently, and we may not all see our feet as tools... Unless you're a chimpanzee, in which case I applaud your reading abilities and would like to have coffee with you. Or a banana shake. Some of us never realize what tools we have in our arsenal, we merely lie there, drooling on ourselves and whimper until someone coddles us and assumes we shat ourselves. This, dear reader, is not the existence I choose. (Especially the part about soiling myself.). I choose, not by default, to stand and to see if my tattooed feet can carry me to where I want to be and what I want to do. Alright, world. I'm standing. Now what? If you try to begin running full force towards your destination, you will without a doubt find your muscles aren't ready and your balance is off. Your arms may or may not protect your sweet, chubby cheeks from the dog toys on the floor as you face plant three steps after you take off. Chill out. Take a deep breath, focus on balancing, ignore the TV and the vacuum cleaner, and just take one step. "One step at a time" is one of the best pieces of advice offered and one of the most ignored and underappreciated at the same time.

The heights charm us, but the steps do not; with the mountain in our view we love to walk the plains.-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Babies are the perfect analogy for anyone trying to make a change in their life. It's hard. It's new. It's a risk. It definitely isn't something someone can do for you. If I could wish anything for those who are looking for that "Dare to Be Great" situation, it is to not have a wishbone where your backbone should be. Babies get up off their cute little asses, climb on shit they shouldn't, and literally push themselves to their limits. Adults look like pansies next to babies! Yes, there is that element of danger, but as we grow and learn, we are able to make intelligent judgement calls (doesn't mean all adults choose to exercise this ability...) and yet we find ourselves "playing it safe" more and more... Or, as I like to call it, "playing it scared". What a mediocre existence.

If you are wanting to change your life, find yourself sitting at the same desk staring at the same reports and doing the same shit, and you want to change it: Do it. Scared? Start with one step. If you really need to ease into it, read my last blog entry about daring yourself and start shaking things up. If you think you are actually ready to start, follow these steps:

1. Make a complete list of things that excite you/make you happy.
2. Make a complete list of shit you hate in/about your life.
3. Keep List #1.
4. Destroy everything on list #2.
5. Destroy List #2.

Whew. Work is hard. Ok, so maaaaaaaybe there are a few things on List #2 that might be difficult to get rid of; like perhaps your job. Please refer to List #1 and find something you love and are excited about and figure out a way to make money doing it for a living. There is absolutely nothing more incredible than feeling excited to go to work because you love it so much. You'll work harder, do a better job, be happier, have better sex, sleep better, and look better because of it. Trust me, I'm a scientist.

I am so confident in that last paragraph that I will even issue a dare:

Post your lists on this blog post (or email them to me) and I will help you figure out ways to be happier, even if only the first step.

Yes, I know, things aren't always black and white... Shit gets complicated. That does not mean that you are stuck! I have a friend who is unhappy in her marriage, and she wants to leave her husband, but cannot seem to do so. I will leave her details private, regardless of her anonymity, I want to respect her. However, every time we speak, I cannot help but battle fiercely the urge to hand her my sword and encourage her to fight this inner war. She isn't ready. She must first walk, before she slays a dragon. So I told her to find her balance, look at her feet, and take one step. She has made her lists. She is focusing on List #1 and slowly dismantling List #2. I proceeded with this process in November of 2010, and have never been happier. List #2 (R.I.P.) is long gone and my List #1 is bright and shiny. I was waddling around my proverbial living room for a year before I reached up, opened the front door, and stepped outside onto the cool, freshly cut grass and allowed myself to be enveloped by the world. You have to have the will to take that first step before you can do anything.

xx.a

double dare yourself: lose your potential

Everyone who grew up in the states has been dared to do something by their peers, older brother, or a schoolyard bully at some point in their lives.  Whether it was to kiss a girl on a warm, Spring afternoon or to touch your tongue to an icy, metal pole in the dead of winter, we have all been there and all felt the exhilaration torpedo up our spine and bolt down into our finger tips as we weigh the pros and cons of our situation.  It is that very magic that lies within the thrill of "What if?" that causes synapses in our brain to fire and our eyes to sparkle with possibilities. 

Some relish in this sensation, allowing the tingles to spread and empower them.  However, some fall victim to fear, trepidation and the inability to cope with the unknown.  Those who live in fear, act out of fear.  These fearful people are the people who never leave their home town, fight change, and tend to focus on human drama as opposed to humanity and beauty.  Those that cannot embrace adventure miss out on the very essence of life.  Admittedly, extreme sports and adrenaline rushes aren't for everyone, but these are not the defining factors of 'adventure'.  Adventure can be something as simple as stepping outside of your comfort zone: trying a new restaurant, choosing a new vacation spot, or even changing careers. 

So, if we do not allow ourselves to act out of fear- denying ourselves new experiences, ignoring inner desires, and allowing opportunity after opportunity to pass- then we must therefore choose (not by default) to act out of love.  This very act is a feat to be commended.  Now, this may not make perfect sense, but, as usual, my dear readers, I as that you have an open mind.  If you choose to act out of love in regards to adventure, then you are showing this strange, strange world that you do indeed love yourself and want to better yourself.  Never been to France?  Voila: Culture infused vacation... Double whammy.  Need further convincing?  Fair enough....

Around the time I established 'Year of the Yes' (YOTY), I started challenging myself, on occasion, to see if I had the desire and/or discipline to tackle certain tasks.  Exhibit A: Start a blog.  Bam.  Question: Whaaatchya reeeaaaadin'? It has been over a year and its heartbeat is stronger than ever (a big hug and kiss to every single on of you!) and the FBI hasn't squished me like a bug.  Yet.  Exhibit B: I live in Ecuador.  Yeah.  In July of 2011, I slapped down a credit card and said, "YOTY.  I dare me to see this through.  I will get certified and I will move abroad."  Check and check.  By the grace of the universe, and my catlike reflexes, I am still alive, still employed, and doing better than ever.  It takes constant effort and devotion to wanting to be happy and wanting to be better.

Not everything has to be a massive endeavor.  As I wrote this bad boy I challenged myself to memorize how to correctly spell 'endeavor'.  Turns out I already knew and just wasn't confident.  Success.  Some smaller challenges I have presented myself include, but are not limited to:

• writing every single day for a week
• not drinking alcohol for a week (usually in preparation for a week of drinking)
• completing an entire to-do list
• making a new friend
• finish a book in one week
• one random act of kindness per day for a month
• live on a set budget for a month

I am proud to say that I have a pretty solid success rate when it comes to my self-imposed dares, though I have no intention of settling for said level of success.  I have every intention of striving for more and better.  I dare myself to.

It is important, friends, to remember not to come down on yourself should you not destroy your to-do list in a single afternoon or cannot recall the past tense conjugation for "I went" (me fui).  Relax.  Life is supposed to be fun.  Remember fun?  It is that thing we had back in the day when we played barefoot in the streets until the streetlights came on and we drank from the hose when we were thirsty.  (NOTE: Parents of young children: CALM DOWN.  Your child will not die if he stubs his big toe or if she eats a bug.  It's protein.)  Well, amigos, I suggest you start having some fun again, for Pete's sake.  Seriously, Pete wants you to.  He facebooked me.  I am pretty sure he tweeted it as well, however I refuse to get a Twitter, so I will leave that one a mystery. 

Challenge yourself.  Having a hard time brainstorming some awesome double dares?  Allow me.

• Find a hilarious photo that doesn't involve cats and post in on your wall on fb.  Repeat every day for a week.  Then stop.  No, seriously, one week will suffice. 
• Try a new lunch or dinner spot every day for a week.
• Start being nicer.  A lot nicer.  Even to idiots.  You'll feel better, I promise. 
• Make a list of things to clean out, then do it.  Car, wallet, junk drawer... 
• Donate a bunch of old clothes to charity.  No, you don't need 27 puzzles and, no, nobody likes that olive green sweater you always wear. 
• Give the dog a bath.  He's cuter when he doesn't smell like kibbles, bits, and shits. 
• Start learning the language you have always wanted to.  Free apps, people... Zero excuses. 

There is a child in all of us- even you- and you can play off that child in order to better yourself.  Not feeling inspired?  Pick a new goal.  Still nothing?  Pull the ultimate trump card: Triple Dog Dare yourself.  Oh, snap. Nineties reference aside, I am making a serious argument: "I be you..." always entices.  Reward yourself if you make a goal into a reality.  Run 6 miles straight?  Congrats, you earned a massage!  Clean the house and both cars?  You've won a massive piece of chocolate cheesecake!  Promotion at work you finally asked for?  Johnny, show her those new pair of shoes!  (Excited, aren't you? Sucker.)  It, like most Hollywood stars, goes both ways.  Didn't stick to your Double Dare Diet?  Extra laps and sit ups, babe.  Didn't maintain your budget?  Yard work on Saturday.  Didn't study for finals, dude?  Thou shalt host family dinner and listen to Uncle Cletus play his nose whistle.  Eww.

We are all creatures of reward and punishment, be it paternalism (can't speed... cops will catch me...) or masochism (no cake... pants won't fit me...).  Some people respond more to avoiding conflict or punishment.  Some folks lust after the goods that make sacrifice a little easier.  I find, first off, that the more honest I am with you, my internet companions, the more accountable I hold myself.  Let's be honest, I don't want to feel like a dick.  So, in an effort to avoid being knighted with "Dickdom", I will level with you: I respond to both.  (Is anyone surprised?  No?  Yeah.)  Sometimes I gotta jiggle that fat to inspire passing on dessert, and sometimes I don't give half a damn.  Sometimes I reward myself with a vanilla cappuccino and a double-feature movie when I have had a productive and/or healthy week. 

Honestly, friends, it is whatever invigorates us.  Do not let your actions- or inaction- bring bring you to a point where you need not to be invigorated, but resurrected.  Newsflash: That's a tough party trick.  Ask Jesus.

You are awesome.  Whether you know it or not, you are, and the worst possession a person can have when they die is potential.  So, tell your potential to take a long walk off a short bridge.  Eat up that potential for breakfast.  You'll be amazed at all the accomplishments you'll manhandle over the next few months and all the potential you'll shed.  Your potential is weighing you down like the fat on the contestants of The Biggest Loser.  Don't make me strap on my sweatbands and make you cry on a treadmill... I'll do it. 

I dare you to lose your potential, one effort at a time.  Or ten at a time.  Whatever works for you.  Even if you have to start by daring yourself to dare yourself... Double damn do it.

I dare you.

xx.a