Como el Rio

I'm searching for a place to start explaining the past few days. And for the first time, maybe ever, my head is blank.









Somewhere in between trying to read Mario Vargas Llosa and the metallic tinge of our spanish tutor's cell phone, and the general sensory affront on all possible stimulus that is Lima, I'm jarringly reminded of the critical nature of seatbelts.



In a loud, heartstopping moment, our little DaeWoo Tico mangles itself into the back of a black SUV in the inner 'lanes' (trust me I use the term loosely) of the Ovalo Guittarez.

We'd been at a cafe studying Spanish with some friends after a long day.

The car rattles, crunches and lurches. Its no more than a tin can on wheels. A woman climbs out of the front of the SUV, gesturing loudly while inspecting the damage. Scores of car horns erupt from the circle.

The cabby is swearing...though i'm sure I don't understand the severity of his expletives, loudly, to counter the car horns. Kike's phone is still screetching Latin soul. In the front seat, Teresa is shaken, but ok. We're all ok. Physically.

The taxation on all sensory fronts is too much for my gringa stomach, and it will not let go of itself. Amid the unbelievable chaos there is a strange pool of calm. I'm operating on a minimum of sleep; rest is cherished for all its scarcity.

Everything must be relearned here. Even and especially things we thought we already knew. We could waste our time struggling upstream, but the reality of the current will carry us where it will. Perhaps its best to save our strength for the ocean.

What is odd is that the car accident is not the foremost thing on our minds. Even in the midst of it. That is just another minor hiccup in the flow of life here. The major problem is that the state of Oregon needs to evaluate Teresa. And i'm struggling to understand a system that seems over all our heads. Teresa's treatments will be interupted as she needs to continue to receive state funding. The bureaucracy, more than the traffic even, has staggered us.

Our only options are expensive to our budget, our time, and our resolve.

No phone numbers are exchanged, no insurance, no liscence plates, no police reports. The car is sputtering again, ever more noisily away, with no regard for the past. As though this too, is routine.

From somewhere I can hear Simon and Garfunkel:

And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time
And the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives



We have no idea how to pace ourselves for this.