artsy fartsy: gum on your shoe and a high five

Two people standing in front of a piece of art will see very different things more often than not.  

When I stand in front of a Clark Takashima original from The Dream Series in the gallery I work at on the North Shore of Oahu, I see the water for what I feel it really is.  Others see strands of hair, deities, magic, or even just a  simple wave.  This piece, entitled "Vibrational Planes", has so many hidden elements.  The ohm symbols, the orb of life, the manifestation of the implied peace with the universe... It is difficult to look at this piece and be bored or uninspired.  

The same can be said for most of the occurrences in the universe and our daily lives.  When I step in gum, I simply scrape it off and throw it away, and I assume it was the universe keeping me from stepping off the curb into a speeding bus or allowing me the few moments I needed to wait to run into an old friend.  Hell, sometimes it is just stepping in gum and there is nothing significant to it at the time... Until the butterfly effect hits.  

Others may step in gum, and burst into tears, as it is officially the worst day ever.  Ever.  How does one get into a mental and/or spiritual place in which the simple act of an annoying tidbit can break their spirit?  One word: Perspective.  You cannot allow for yourself to find the negative attributes of the day or a single action break you.  Yes, we all deserve a day where we snuggle up on the couch, eat junk food, and watch five seasons of How I Met Your Mother on Netflix.  Conversely, we also deserve days where we pick ourselves up out of the rubble, slap on a smile, and find the brighter side. 

Any time I have a rough day, I try and focus on the blessings and brighter moments in an effort to not let myself slide back into the quicksand.  And, yes, dear reader, it is indeed quicksand.  Negativity, self-pity, and shitty days will keep on sucking you in.  Everyone is sick to death of the  person on facebook that has Armageddon in their lives all week, every week.  So, you stepped in gum.  That sucks.  At least you have money for shoes, legs and feet to put them on, no debilitating disease preventing you from walking, and you're in a safe enough place in the world where you can walk outside without car bombs threatening your safety and life.  

Was that a bit dramatic?  Perhaps.  However, so is stating that you hate your life because you're in a boring meeting.  Guess what, kiddo:  You have a job!  Boom.  Lawyered.  

You cannot appreciate the sun without the rain, the warmth without the cold, and a person until you have truly missed them.  

Moving to Hawaii showed me how much I missed the warmth, but it also made me miss those crisp, cool days in Quito over the last year.  One slightly overcast afternoon, I was sitting at Rumfire in Waikiki, my home away from home on the island, and listened to the waves while I sipped an ice cold Kona beer and listened to a few girls (transplants from southern California and Florida) bitch about the weather being "gross, ugly, and lame".  Seriously?  Seriously.  If it is sunshine and no clouds, it's too hot.  If it's raining, it's a drag.  If it's overcast, it's ugly.  

Perspective, people.  

You live in Oahu, Hawaii where people save their entire lives to go visit just once and you have lost sight of the beauty that surrounds you.  You are living someone else's dream... How dare you take that for granted?  If we all stopped complaining about stupid shit and looked at the positives, I think we would all have bigger smiles, fuller pockets, and warmer hearts. 

Now, go high five someone.

xx.a

in to me see

Intimacy. 
In to me see. 

Intimacy is the foremost ignored aspect of a relationship... and the most important.  Most people refer to intimacy in regards to the physical closeness: kissing, touching, sex, etc.  For me, and for many others who choose a path of growth and self-betterment, it is almost completely emotional.  

We all have our baggage from our childhoods, our past relationships, friends who have wronged us, and our own mistakes (for those that truly own them).  It is how we carry that baggage that determines our success in our present and future relationships.  There are countless other analogies and metaphors for baggage and finding someone whose baggage "matches yours" or "is willing to carry some from time to time"... That's wonderful for those that it inspires, but for me, it is more about realizing what you carry with you and consolidating.  

When you are backpacking through the world, you can only bring with you what you can carry on your back and shoulders.  You don't need ten pairs of jeans and high heels for each color scheme.  You need the basics, the things that will get you through the rain and snow, the things that will shade you from the scorching sun, and the things that will remind you where you came from.  The same is true for relationships.  I, personally, have been a victim (and I do not use that term loosely) of every sort of abuse and I have had to learn over the last thirteen years what to bring with me, and what to leave on the table as I move on to the next place.  

The lesson I learned when I was cheated on by my boyfriend- with my best friend, no less- was to evaluate who my friends are, why they are my friends (Are they friends with me to gain something?  Are there ulterior motives?  Do their core values match mine?) and whether or not we are bringing out the best in each other.  That is the baggage I choose to bring with me: experience.  The baggage I chose to leave behind: distrust, anger, cynicism, and fear.   

It is very easy for people to get caught up in being the victim and create a pool of pity they are too afraid to climb out of.  Newsflash: You will eventually drown.  

With all this baggage, any person will begin to feel like Atlas, and their relationships will suffer.  How can you gaze into your partner's eyes and be completely honest and open when you looking for the easiest exit?  How can you lovingly embrace the person you want to spend your life with when your arms are full of baggage?  How can you hold hands and walk down the path when you have countless walls that you either built, or were constructed during one of your wars, hindering?  

Intimacy is not an option.  For a successful relationship of any sort, one must be open to change and willing to take down those walls... Even if it is brick by brick.  Some walls can be bulldozed in a short matter of time, and some will take ages.  It is a matter of that person in your life, the one standing on the other side of your wall, being worth the effort it takes to destroy those walls. That person will help you.  That person will accept you as you are.  That person will love you unconditionally.  

Without intimacy, your relationship with your family is nothing but obligation.  
Without intimacy, your relationship with your mate is nothing but friends with benefits.
Without intimacy, your relationship with your friend is nothing but social networking. 
Without intimacy, your relationship with yourself is nothing but an empty existence. 

Don't allow the beautiful things in your life to slip away because you can't reach them over your baggage.  Don't let that person run from you because you are throwing your baggage at them.  Life is too short- guilty of a cliche and too passionate to care- and you have spent the majority of your life learning how to love yourself... You don't have that kind of time to convince somebody else.  The same goes for them.  Tear down your walls, dump the baggage, and quit being a little bitch.  You have more to lose than you think... and regrets are the heaviest of baggage. Intimacy is the only thing that will help you on your journey.  The choice is yours. 

In life, you have three choices: Give up, give in, or give it all you've got. 

Don't blind yourself so you cannot see into your partner.

xx.a

back, back to cali, cali

Quito, my city...

Surprise! I snuck back into the states a few months early to surprise my folks... Sneaky bastard, I am. Seven incredible months after I first touched down in Quito, I am looking back having learned an insane amount of lessons, found sides of me that I didn't know existed, and saw places in the world most people have never heard of. I have met people who will forever be in my heart, as well as a few I'd like to give a swift kick in the ass. I learned a language on 3 different levels, learned to defend myself and express myself, and learned that sometimes words aren't the anchor that keeps us from drifting...

Falling in love in South America

I spent the last seven months evolving, growing, teaching, learning, dancing, playing, laughing, crying, speaking, listening, hoping, falling, soaring, hurting, healing, traveling, drinking, experiencing, and- most importantly- doing. I have been 'doing' for seven glorious months.

I think that the two major aspects that affected my living in Quito, Ecuador were simple, yet vital cosas (things): the people and the travel. Yes, I am aware that does not seem to be a shocking revelation, however, come along on this magic carpet ride with me. (Wait, what's the Latin American equivalent of a magic carpet? The Ecovía?)

The people. I can't even begin... (Don't cry... Don't cry... Don't cry...)

The travel.

I somehow managed on a teacher's salary in Latin America to explore a solid portion of Ecuador, as well as visit Colombia and Perú. I devoured countless bowls of ceviche in a hammock while staring at the endless beaches of Montañita, Ecuador on New Years Eve. I danced alongside the locals while drinking ice cold beer and wearing a feathery mask during the Carnaval parade in Barranquilla, Colombia. I celebrated my 28th birthday with six lovely ladies, barefoot in the sand and drink in hand in Mompiche, Ecuador. I finally manifested the tattoo I have been wanting for the better part of a decade, with the assistance of an Argentinian artist and an open mind.  Most recently, I trekked the 54 hours by bus down to Cuzco, Perú and conquered a four day jungle trek and watched the sun rise from the highest point in Machu Picchu. I love my life.

New tattoo

I focused on making a life for myself, and I feel as though a made quite the sweet one in Quito.  There are so many things I miss already, and it has only been just over a week... 

I Miss...

The views

$2 lunches

Escaping into the language

People who made it special

Mountains

Green environment

Street art 

Salsa dancing

Sense of adventure

Absolute freedom

I Don't Miss...

Gringo tax

Stares

Pollution

Lying taxistas

Everything closed at night

Sundays

Public urination

Whining

Shit DVDs 

Kids that stare while I eat

Electric showers

La Basilica, Quito, Ecuador

After a rough start at the Quito airport, I sunk down into my 22B seat and painted a small smile on my face as i bid the elderly woman in 22A "buenos dias". After a half dozen uniformed workers slowly paced the aisle, counting and recounting us while they eyeballed our every move, we finally took off. I took advantage of the missing Sra. Gracia in 22C and slid over into the aisle seat. My complete lack of sleep from the night before charmed me into the previously denied slumber I had attempted in the airport and I was only awoken by my own shivering. Seriously, I couldn't be that bad, could it? I assure you, faithful reader, it was. Even 22C had shifted to my 22B and explained in very proper Spanish that it was just too damn cold on her side. I helped her adjust her air just in time for a hot breakfast to come sweeping across my tray table and my insides to be warmed with some half-decent coffee. Then, it hits me: BOOM. I'm gone.

Cue waterworks.

I had cried when I received an overwhelming goodbye from some locals and bar regulars the night we left for Perú; I felt so blessed to have a group consisting of Ecuadorian youth and retired Kiwis hugging and kissing me goodbye with such zeal. I also cried when I my friend and boss, Kevin- a handsome Irishman who owns a Vietnamese restaurant in Ecuador- told me I'd become his little sister and we would soon see each other again in this great world of ours. I cried when I said goodbye to Jason- acquaintance turned friend turned can't imagine my life without him- at the airport, knowing I'd be back but still aching. However, these tears were different: they were not tears of exhaustion, longing, fear, sorrow, or disappointment. These years were that of realization. I had made a LIFE and it was a damn good one. I was not ready to leave this place, but I knew it was time.

Montañita, Ecuador - NYE 2011

"Milk and sugar, please..." I answered the blonde haired, blue eyed flight attendant in English. The English words left a strange taste in my mouth. I had grown accustomed to the way "leche y azúcar" rolled around my head and my tongue. I took a bite of fruit from my tray: melón. No more batidos at breakfast made from whatever fresh fruit they decide you want to drink. I sipped my coffee: café. No more instant craptacular coffee shoveled into cups with endless sugar to mask the taste. (Note: Ecuador and it's surrounding sisters grow and export incredible coffee, but try profit margin is too large to serve it at most restaurants. Only higher end businesses and restaurants maintain a natural coffee bean based brew.) Maybe that's not such a bad change...

The kicker was thinking about my mom and the look on her face when I walk through that door. Even writing those words brought the stinging sensation to my baby blues and flushed my face. She's done so much for me over the years, I can give her this one little gift of coming home early and doing "our things" together: Watching "So You Think You Can Dance" wine in hand every week, shopping for nothing in particular followed up by Mexican food on a patio somewhere, Sunday coffee and Bailey's while snuggling with our cocker spaniels Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels. (Yep, you read that right.)

28th Birthday, Mompiche, Ecuador

Call it 'Reverse Culture Shock' or call it readjusting... I will no longer be deprived of the things I had once been accustomed to. I am no longer accustomed to those things, and so having them will be strange. Speaking English and being clearly understood everywhere, having hot running water regularly, being able to flush toilet paper, stores and restaurants being open passed dark and on Sundays, and not fearing for my safety for every second. Seriously. I summed it up about four months ago by saying, "In the states, I can walk outside my door without looking both ways first, at night, barefoot, with a beer in one hand and my iPhone in the other and sit on my grass alone without a care in the world. In Ecuador, you don't even say the word 'iPhone' without worrying someone is going to hold you up for it." Thinking about my parents' home it seems like a luxury hotel. I have stayed in some nice places while living in Quito, but having a dryer downstairs and no bars on the windows is incredible. Having grass to share with the neighborhood kids is a gift straight from Heaven.

Cartagena, Colombia - Carnaval 2012

Please do not mistake Quito for South Central Los Angeles, for its beauty is ever challenging my creative eye and it's culture kept me afloat without boredom for over half a year. I once wrote of my love for Quito, it's dichotomy only matched by what it taught me, and I am already planning my return. It is just so very different from the 27 years I spent living and traveling this world of ours.

I know my tears have been tears of love.

Love for Quito.

Love for Ecuador.

Love for the lessons I learned.

Love for the places I have seen.

Love for the person I have become.

Love for the person I was when I landed there.

Love for knowing love.

Love for the people I have met.

The people.

Rachel and her remarkable wisdom for her age, her many faces we all adore, her insightful outlook, and her undeniable inner and outer beauty.

Kevin and his undying charm, infinite kindness, street and common smarts, and the fact that he without a doubt saved me.

Jason and his brilliant wit, impossibly large heart, incredible positivity, ability to bring out the best in every single person he touches, and inspiring me to be a better person daily.

G Spot Nick and his huge smile, kind heart, never ending friendship, and remarkable ability to carve out a niche in your heart and stay there forever. (G Spot is his restaurant, for those who were wondering...)

Ian and his undeniable warmth, endless support, never failing sense of humor, optimism beyond naivety, and desire to grow: none of which are over shadowed by his ridiculously poor taste in NFL teams.

Andrea and her love of teaching, ability to find joy when her friends are happy, free spirit, and lack of fear of the unknown.

Drew and his fantastic dichotomy, ability to cause me to think deeper and harder, unconditional support when I needed it most, and complete selflessness.

Katie and her deep love affair with cooking, contagious laugh, solid sense of hope, ability to laugh at herself, and ability to call it what it is.

Juan David and his endless love and devotion to his family, passion for music, his love of teaching and playing tennis, charming sense of humor, and his trust in God.

Puma Family - Machu Picchu - 2012

There are countless more; some for the blink of an eye, some who will never read this blog, and some who I will know for life. Even though there are words- and I thank you for indulging me this lengthy entry- I cannot manage to describe how fortunate I am to have been where I was, doing what I was doing, and who I was doing it with. I am grateful beyond my own comprehension. I am blessed beyond what I even remotely deserve. I hope without recourse that I can somehow give back to those who gave to me.

30,000 feet above the Gulf of Mexico, where I once wrote of French-Canadian women and Ecuadorian men, I wrote of a changed life and a changed person. I am a year older, an organ lighter, 2000 pictures heavier, more experienced, more aware, and all the happier. I stepped off of United Flight 1641 at LAX for the first time in 7 indescribable months and walked through my parents' front door to my mother's surprise. My sister, being my accomplice, agreed to Skype my mom in an effort to secure her location and consciousness for my late arrival. Her surprised face and endless hug was more than reward and everything I hoped it would be.

Don't worry, Quito, I will be back... Very soon. 

Thank you to all of you who gave me a part of you. 

Please know you will always have a part of me.

xx.a

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.