The Peruvian Project

Productivity

2010-06-07T22:19:00.000-07:00

I am on a crusade against procrastination! I decide Sunday that I will be productive. I will get myself organized and ready for move number two this year. To that end, I find myself in the garage, perusing through boxes of my own artifacts, deciding which need to get sorted through first.

On top of a tower of Rubbermaid tubs, unbeknownst to me, is a can of paint. Green, “celery sage” to be exact. Thank you Eddie Bauer. As I shift a box to determine its contents, the garage slips into time warp as the paint can tumbles, in slow motion, end over end, on an agonizing trajectory towards the cement slab of floor. I reach, struggle, but my fingers are just seconds too slow. The butt end of the can contacts first, and suddenly the garage rejoins real time, as an explosion of celery sage bursts open, the lid flying, spattering my luggage, dripping down my hair and permanently redecorating my favorite pair of running shorts. It sounds like a gunshot, the mess is unreal.

Here is where it gets really good however: Apparently I made some sort of outburst in the expletive arena, though I can’t precisely recall, because my roommate came running just in time to see the paint pooling on the garage floor beneath my feet, and the tie-dyed spectacle the garage had taken. I cannot stop laughing. My roommate is not amused.

The look on her face is sheer terror, and I find out moments later why:

The landlady arrives in less than half an hour to show the house to its new potential renters.

Stalled Out

2010-06-06T16:10:00.000-07:00

I love the way Portland smells during spring rain. Even in the busiest moment the nectar scents of summer’s advent can persuade the most productive membranes into a daydream.

Daydreaming has been a favorite pasttime of mine lately, see, I was lucky to have a brief window, a meager almost two years where I thought I had my life in order. What’s that saying, ‘as soon as you think you are where you want to be, you’re not there anymore.”

As soon as I thought that, it was gone. The universe has ways of throwing curve balls you’ll never expect, and heaters you could never negotiate. I like to think I’m becoming comfortable with the uncertainty, but even that strategy will somehow tease the tenacity right out of you.

I always lusted after the grand adventures, Indiana Jones, Robinson Crusoe, Ulysees, the things I dreamt of at night were always the stuff of legend, epic voyages of exploration. I got my wish, but in no way is it the sort of adventure I had spent my young years acting out in the backyard. Mine I suppose are exploits of a more introspective nature, of finding the bravery of a kind I never knew existed within me. Finding the courage to corral a life out of control on a pell mell trajectory.

I'm beginning to see that a big part of my journey is learning how to get out of my own way. (And realizing how complicated that can really be.) Realizing I've been on hiatus from writing, any serious writing anyway, for almost a year. It gets stopped up and comes spilling out at inopportune times reminding me that this is a calling I can not neglect.

Starry Starry Night

2009-12-30T10:34:00.000-08:00

Headlights are the only stars I’ll see tonight. A reminder that December’s cloudy early dark is more bitter than the caustic chill of winter. The latter part of this year has been marked by loss; for my family, immediate, extended, and that of my close friends. Winter has brought another sharp reminder of this tenuous arrangement we call life and the constant, vicious state of vulnerability it exists in. The myriad of ways our lives can be thrown into mythic proportions of grief, by the vast ebonies of close, early night seem almost as innumerable as the hours unchecked by the flighty hue of day.

I watched them pack away the things that had belonged to my grandmother. Why I stayed I’ll never comprehend, perhaps the same way people can’t seem to look away from a horrific traffic accident. Clothes musty from too much time forgotten in the closet, the smell of her polluted by the drafty dirge of time. Jewelry doled out to distant relatives that I would see hanging from necks where they did not belong. Rings on fingers that weren’t hers. I couldn’t let them get rid of her bathrobe. The sight of the thing elicits such vivid memories of everything she had been. So it sits above my dryer, as forgotten and unused as the things that were packed into boxes to be given away to people who have no comprehension of what they once meant. Its better that way, that they end up in the hands of people who know the things as precisely that, inanimate objects, the way I could never classify them ever again.

Two weeks into my first experience as a student teacher I got the news that one of the most special people in my life had died. While not entirely unexpected, Gram had been very ill for a very long time, I found I was not nearly as prepared for the finality of the idea as I had thought. In all reality, it was a fortunate event that quelled years of suffering.

That thought did nothing to assuage the strange and empty feeling I woke up with realizing again and again that this was a world without her in it.

Gram-less as it was however, the world went on, and I went to my placement the next day and found myself eager to engage with the second graders, and leave the sorrow behind for a few hours. The following week I attended the service and after an emotionally charged and draining day filled with family, condolences and mini cocktail sandwiches, I was again glad to return to the routines of the second grade. On recess duty that next day I received many hugs from the class before they ran off to join kickball and basketball games.

What caught me completely off guard was one little girl who tugged my coat sleeve gently. She looked up at me with dewy brown eyes and said slowly, “I’m sorry someone died.” My heart stuttered in my chest as she quickly hugged me and ran off across the playground. Willing myself to breathe deeply, the bells rang and it was time to go inside. After recess I was grading papers. The assignments I read instructed students to relate an event from their summer.

Between pages of camping and trips to national parks, I was forced to fight back tears again as I came to the little girl’s paper. She had lost her grandmother in July I discovered, and in the eloquence of a seven year old expressed that she still missed her.

Harthager's Ghost

2009-05-22T17:39:00.000-07:00

A Volkswagen Vanagon, blue and white, model year 1976 paused at a stop light next to me while I was out on a jog. Now, you may be considering why this of any other seemingly ordinary events might bear such significance as to be recorded here today.

Let me begin with a conversation I had with my brother about this very same vehicle not too long ago. No, let me begin even before that, with the origin of this automobile in my life:

This car, see, is the vehicle that bore me any location that was more than walkable or bike-able distance from my home for the better part of my childhood. To Seattle, Portland, even occasionally on long hot summer days to California, all five kids packed in, parents too, with water bottles pressed against red cheeks in the rising heat of summer driving through Redding and Yreka, through the produce checkpoint, holding out to rest stops for water fights and finally on to Sacramento.

Most importantly of all though, this Vanagon took us to perhaps the most enchanting place I have yet encountered on this earthly coil. Priest lake. Our dog Biscuit knew, instinctively, where we were bound when that sliding door opened for her in early august. With four feet of liftoff, she bounded in, only halting when colliding with the brown pleather bench seat, her tail flailing so enthusiastically the whole time it echoed off the dull metal of the floor boards.

My life has felt pretty fragmented since I came back from Peru. Even after securing an apartment and garnering some employment, my life is still in many boxes, most of which reside in my childhood home just outside Spokane, Washington. To add insult to injury, my parents have just closed on a new residence, and the Benton drive place, with my 24 years of life history, will be empty by May 22nd. Its been on the market for months, surely, with the economy the way it is, I thought, the universe would see fit to keep it in my life for at least a little while longer. Until I could pack up and reconcile the things of my youth. The yearbooks, trinkets, notes from my fourth grade soccer buddy Toby, and on and on. The treasures of us from a time we ourselves have a hard time recalling.

But back to Priest lake for a moment, I can't go back there. To Kalispel island, suspended like an inky emerald thumb print in the glossy surface of the deep deliberate lake. It is a place defiant of description, for its both its beauty and its sorrow. Silent and swift in the early morning, the Sleepy Jeanne, our sailboat, carried us there. Its the place I first experienced death as a child, the place I spent summers in the earth, learning it, becoming it. Biscuit had dragged a half-decomposed deer carcass out of the steep hilly interior of the island, down to the beach she tugged it, triumphant. I was horrified.

My brothers and I would snorkel around the entire thing one day, rafting on a windsurfing board, perplexed and humbled by the things we discovered; water snakes, minnows, strange dark swirling things in the pooling shadows of the wake. I know these things as vividly as if it had been a day ago, and yet, the distance between my persons would make it seem a lifetime. Its almost uncomfortable, Kalispel, the way it nestles down inside of you, haunting and ethereal. Like the things you confront with it are beyond your understanding. As a human, I think I have a deep seated desire to understand, and so I often surround myself in the illusions of things I think I understand. This place though, it will never let you. It is a place defiant of time. I can't go back there.

There came a day in our household when the the Sweigert family and the VW Vanagon would part ways. My Dad assured us more sentimentally attached members of the family that it had gone to a good home. Whether they would appreciate the way the heating system smelled of maple syrup, as we had, I could not help but wonder. A new car appeared in our lives, and it was thrilling for a while, but I think we all miss the VW, just a little.

Rumor surfaced several years after that the new owners of the VW had moved to Oregon. My brother, he swears he's seen it grunting around the streets of Southeast Portland. He can tell it by the dents in the bumper we each of us knows all too well.

Zebras

2009-03-15T10:37:00.001-07:00

I'm drinking coffee out of zebra. No joke. My friend Tara found these safari themed mugs at the world market and one day, the four housemates each had a different animal. This was several years ago now, but as I sip out of this awkwardly amazing coffee container, I get brought back to the glory days of our college lives. My point here is that as I sip out of the zebra, I'm staring out at the rain from my very own apartment. That is something I have never been able to say before.

Its mine. And it feels strange and decadent.

I've managed to get most things back together again after returning. There was a point I thought, for sure, I would not be able to pull it off. To get my feet under me again. And its been a grueling, spirit breaking experience. By now I'm so used to getting rejected for jobs that I can guess exactly what the email says before I read it. I did find one though, a job. And it pays the bills...barely. Its hard not to feel behind. As friends and I get back in touch, they have good jobs, careers, engagement rings, 401ks. I have a Honda with a hole in it and very little idea what I should do with my life.

I'm on my own timeline though. I have to remind myself. It feels good, the opportunity, the vastness of choice I face each morning to not feel defeated, but determined. Determined to chase down whatever awaits, and create it into something unabashedly respectable and beautiful.

Pieces

2009-01-01T20:48:00.000-08:00

This post is overdue. I know myself to be a bit of a procrastinator, but this, i'm afraid, has gotten out of hand.

I wasn't ready. Are we ever really? Ready to face the fact that three very long flights and one very long day returned me home. HOME. I've never been so grateful to see Portland city lights twinkling in the distance, and to finally breathe the air i missed. It was raining. In true Portland style. This city always seems to know how to rain like it does in classic movies.

By the tempered reality of the new year though, the fact that i'm not ready is heaving itself over my shoulders. The fact that home is a place that dosen't exist for me anymore, that will temper even the most skilled of imaginers. You can't live in the sheer bliss of homecoming joy forever. But i've given it a pretty good shot.

No one ever told me that coming home could very easily be the most challenging part of the journey. The part that means rebuilding everything. The part that leaves you flustered, floundering for the pieces of your life you know should be around here somewhere. Like searching for your favorite pair of old shoes buried by a crowded closet. And hoping that when you find them, they still fit.

What is even more funny (or is it ironic? I'm not sure) is that i can't even tell you what it is i learned. What it is inside me that forever changed. I wouldn't know how. And when i speak of this experience there will forever be a secret that i have no choice but to keep.

I know its true, i know that part of me loved every minute of Peru, and another part of me that never stopped being afraid. I know that i came home, but that day, the evening i landed and the following day exist in this foggy, placid dream. Shrouded by the reality of not being able to put it behind me. Searching for closure, roaming the highways of the Pacific Northwest, hoping someday my mind will make it right. And maybe one day i'll have a place to put my stuff that isn't the trunk of the battle scarred old Civic.

Lima Lung

2008-11-24T07:33:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest challenges here is to make your own quiet. To find the spots, the moments amid the chaos where there is a little pocket of peace you can keep all to yourself. Its not easy. You won't find them quickly. Like a scavenger hunt in the dark, between the construction clamor, the noisy women in the street trying to sell you a Peruvian hairless dog, the honk happy cabbies, and the streams of police, the quiet is elusive.

We've finally landed in the apartment that will be home, and the nesting has commenced. I went on a jog but the air is still strange and hard on the lungs. We've coined an endearing nickname for it, just to make it more familiar.

On the 19th floor it seems almost cosmopolitan: we have a balcony. We can see the ocean, and the hotel where Bush is staying for the APEC. We watched him on tv sipping a pisco sour and posing for pictures in an alpaca tunic. He looked excited about the pisco, not so much the tunic. We can also see the American battleship anchored in Lima harbor...just in case?

Security is overwhelming, police, two, three, sometimes four uniformed Peruvian officers loiter on every corner of every major intersection. Roads are barricaded off and cross too close and your bags and person may be subject to compulsory search. The place is, for the first time, swarming with english speakers, some with discreet microphones tucked in their ears, and some proudly broadcasting their native land. I'm still wondering what the battleship is for.

Sometimes you have to make your own quiet: No, i will not purchase your incredibly homely looking hairless dog, even if it is very hot to the touch, and his name is Obama (my real objection is that he won't fit in my carry-on). Yes, i can attune my ears to the placid bird calls, and not the sirens. No, i will not look at you because you make strange hissing noises in my direction. I will sit on the bench in Parque Kennedy and eat my banana, still scavenging some quiet for myself, even if its only in my head.

Hotel Stefanos

2008-11-18T20:44:00.000-08:00

Our first real taste of Lima sunshine set the mood for our move into the hotel for the week. Impressive what a little bit of UV can do to lift the spirit. With the sky in a shocking lack of gray, Diego was ready for us as we crossed to another interesting bit of Miraflores.

We also recieved the heartening news that our scammer may have been apprehended. We were not the first victims, but it appears we may have been the last.

Typing blindly on a Spanish keyboard...I hope this makes sense.

Needles, Haystacks, Hotels, APEC

2008-11-17T14:33:00.001-08:00

Morale has hit a troubling new low.

Not only have we been introduced to our first experiences of severe gastric distress, it seems that we are set to be hotel hopping for the next week, as some one took the deposit and first month's rent for the apartment and split the city.

It ordinarily wouldn't be too much of a problem, but for the 21 country summit meetings, APEC, set to commence in the city in a few days. Accomodations are at a premium which could make our situation very difficult over the next few days.

It seems as though, once again, Cesar has managed to get us into a hotel for a few nights, a feat in itself considering. We will have a place to go, but with spirits just a little bit crushed as we face yet another harsh reality.

La Rosa Nautica

2008-11-16T10:56:00.001-08:00

Lima is a study in extremes.

High, low, and seemingly nowhere in between. From the perfectly intoxicating ambiance of La Rosa Nautica for Teresa's birthday, to yet again being filled with nerves about the potential of our new apartment having been nothing more than a scam. November 18th we will have no place to live if we do not hear back from our future landlord, who has curiously disappeared off the radar over the week.

At night, when the sky is dark, you can squint away the smog, and the lights glisten in dewy evening shades, its very nearly pretty. From the restraunt over the water we were afforded a welcome escape from the noise of the city, and hearing the ocean waves over dinner, the hectic seemed to melt away just a little. It helped us get through the next very busy days.

Cesar came to town again, and we welcomed our friend who had come for some business and also to help us make arrangements at the airport. Tuesday was Diego's birthday, our cabby, and we celebrated lunch with him at a hole-in-the wall cevicheria on the beach in the neighboring district of Chorillos.

Cesar also showed us to one of the highlights of Lima's tourist destinations:

The water fountains in downtown Lima made for a diverting night and we returned with slightly elevated spirits.

Como el Rio

2008-11-08T10:02:00.001-08:00

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.

Learning Lima, Piece by Piece

2008-11-05T20:16:00.000-08:00

There is an ambulance outside our apartment, stuck in traffic. The siren runs through its ear-bleeding cycle as honking cars make no attempts to yield. The chaos is no more than a pane away.

The museum today is not what I have pictured. In slummy Pueblo Libre, across from what once was likely a nice park, lies the Larca museum of archaeology and anthropology, home of the most complete collection on the continent.

Crowds of school kids in all-to-familiar plaid skirts and scratchy cardigans skitter around in a frantic facade of organization.

Its staggering, the interior feels like an Isabelle Allende novel. The antiquity is immense and exciting. There is however, a shocking lack of mummies. I'll be honest, I was hoping for at least one.

(left: The museum courtyard)

Back amid the relative quiet of our apartment on Javier Prado Oeste, apartment shopping is underway and hopefully we've got several good leads. I feel the seconds tick by here too, in the murky backwaters of my brain. But they are slow, languid ticks to counter the ceaseless stream of traffic and car alarms just feet outside. We've got to be out by November 18th.

Pause for Effect

2008-11-03T07:02:00.000-08:00

Luz is a pocket-sized Peruvian creature with bobbing, pin tight black curls and buttery Incan features. She's been treating Teresa more and more lately and on this Saturday afternoon, the city is eerily motionless. Traffic is sparse, the horns distant: today marks the Day of the Dead. Any shopping, as we had thought, will have to wait for another day. The streets are empty and the cabs hard to come by.

There's a distinct vacation-like feel to the clinic today too, like the friday afternoon before a three day weekend. You can tell, even english speaking ears, that not much is getting done. Luz is kind, but her bedside manner needs some work.

I'm already far too annoyed that both she and Nathan halt treatment to answer their cell phones, which are always in their front scrub pockets, hands still covered in the green iguana ointment (yes, iguana...and no, i'm not asking any more questions about it).

I'll assume for now that this too is a cultural adjustment to make, just like the constant staring. Its still hard to get over feeling the person on the other end of Nathan's phone, with whom he is having a very personal conversation, is more important than the patient who he is scheduled to treat. Most of me still thinks its downright rude.

My irritations are truncated quickly when the clinic floor begins to roil and rumble under our feet. Luz's head snaps up from the massage table: she holds up a slender hand as though we are not already silent and stiff. The hand shakes back and forth, the walls shivering as pottery plates glide over the sheetrock. Nathan appears around the curtain. "Terremoto," he says looking around. Of course today i've forgotten the dictionary, but thanks to Coach Bob, the concern in Nathan's voice, and remembering we're positioned over a subduction zone, i'm pretty confidant terremoto must mean earthquake.

Its our first Lima shakedown, and it probably won't be the last. The 4.5 hiccup along the Peru-Chile trench registers on Reuters that night. You don't get mountains like the Andes without having to pay a little geologic price tag now and again I guess. The fluid tremors settle out and when its clear its over, Nathan erupts in high pitched laugh, hitting several octaves my ears are not prepared for, even from school girls.

On the way home, cemetaries brim with flowers, and the only thing that crowds the streets is a still, haunted emptiness.

Halloween at the Cubano

2008-11-02T04:22:00.000-08:00

With a full day of freedom ahead of us Friday, no treatments and no obligations, we looked forward to a day of exploring. We were ready to leave the apartment around 4:30 in the afternoon after some sleeping in, stretching, a much needed set of cardio for Katrina and I, and showers for all of us. We were off, as Erin says, like a herd of turtles.

The first venture on foot from the new apartment is promising, we pass a tourist information center, and make mental plans to visit later. The upscale alpaca shops are plentiful here too, and the women are kind as we peruse the craftsmanship. Pressing on, we grab a taxi for 'Pizza Street' a pedestrian avenue in cobblestone filled with restraunts and bars. Just outside the street, I try on shoes and have yet another BWA moment. (Big, White, and Awkward-not much different from the states mind you, just more obvious). I ask if the shoes come in any other sizes, as i've packed mostly summer footwear and somewhere the Peruvian weather gods are getting a good chuckle over my ignorance. (Memo for next time: Summer in the southern hemisphere does NOT mean summer in Lima...not yet at least.) The petite street vendors shrug shoulders and raise eyebrows. I never liked shopping anyways.

Strolling down the crowded avenue, its Halloween here as well, and the attire is itself a spectacle. Amid many skeletal 'day of the dead' ensembles there are also small little ones in synthetic spiderman onesies. After a Peruvian supper, we decide we could celebrate with another Pisco Sour and maybe some dessert. Inside the Cuban bar, skilled, fluid dancers are making it look easy as salsa music plays loudly overhead. One of many things that catches my eye inside the black lit club however is a lone older gentleman at a table near us. With a large pitcher of Cusquena in front of him, forgoeing the glass entirely, I can't help imagining he's a famous British author on a chain smoking South American bender. Just after we discover Manuel is actually an Argentinian doctor, its time to leave as Katrina is getting hounded for her phone number. Conveniently, she dosen't really have one.

With so many little kids out so late on this candy charged holiday, my mind is wondering what my little nephews have sported this evening.

San Isidro

2008-10-30T21:02:00.000-07:00

For a moment we can pause and take a deeper breath. The empty feeling of leaving Las Dalias is still hard to shake, but we are glad to know we have a place to rest for three whole weeks. Its spartan, but it works. The big relief was successfully connecting to the internet. For a few days, we had no telephone and no internet, and the isolated feeling that surrounds me constantly here intensified exponentially at the thought of not being able to reach out to anyone, over any medium.

We must thank Cesar again, as he showed us to our first ceviche shack in the district of Barranco to take our minds off things for a moment. Zarach's looks unimpressive, but the food was incredible, and though we were all a little concerned about the aftermath of our first experience with the ceviche, it did not disappoint, and our stomachs are still, i'm happy to report, doing just fine.

We also tried our first Pisco Sours, and its something I could easily make a habit of here. Cesar laughs as my face turns a little red: the drink is the pisco liquor, lime, simple syrup, egg white and ice, and tastes something like a very perfect, smooth, earthy margarita. Diego, our friend and cabby introduced us to "leche tigre," also known as panther milk. We took timid tastes of the white chunky stuff before he reveals its nothing more than blended ceviche. Sighs of relief are audible, as we still harbor concern for our fragile American digestion.

Our first night in the new apartment in San Isidro is just a little bit cold. Cesar has headed for the bus station, but left us with some bootlegged American dvds for entertainment, and probably familiarity just as much. He's thoughtful beyond reason and we are lucky to call him a friend.

The apartment is mostly stone and tile, and we hear our voices echoing around the place while wishing we'd packed furry slippers (Its supposed to be summer here soon!). The first meal here has helped liven the mood. We would have had wine, but for the lack of an opener. We'll warm it up with time.

Cesar

2008-10-27T21:43:00.000-07:00

Saturday in Miraflores brought two milestones:

Uno: My first jog . In every place i've ever lived or called home, the inagural jog from the place helps adjust my bearings and feel out my attitude about the area. Saturday, Miraflores happens to be just a bit less hectic than usual. I headed out from 561 Ca. Las Dalias down towards the coast and the esplanade. The bay air is chewy, and I think an altogether novel experience for my fresh air priveledged lungs. The paved path follows the cliffed perimeter of Miraflores, and down below, surfers bob in time to the even sets. The sun breaks every now and then, and the water turns the sort of shade of blue it maybe should be. Past 'Lover's Point,' its a large clay statue of a kiss and its stunning in its own clumsy terra-cotta way. I catch another jogger in my sights, and set a pace behind her for a while until I find my destination: a lighthouse on a sturdy jetty. Winding around it, wish I could somehow have brought my camera. My limbs feel awake again, and its marvelous. Sticky, but marvelous. There is a strange, sweet tinge to the air. Its time to turn back.

Dos: My first sip of coffee since very early last tuesday morning. It tastes amazing. We'd been too wary of Montezuma's Revenge to make coffee ourselves, as we've been warned against both the water and the milk, but for the Americano, its worth every sole, and the risk I run of severe gastric distress.

First glimpse of the ever popular paragliders Saturday also: very cool.

After Teresa's second treatment, which felt just a little bit more routine, we headed back to the 'Larcomar,' a touristy mall on the cliffs filled with expensive boutiques, designer alpaca wear, and of course, Starbucks. Celebrating Saturday night, dinner and our first cocktails are had at 'Mangos: Sabor Sin Limites.' Dessert is churros from the vendor in the open air market. The woman in the handbag shop smiles, she comments (i think) that churro is also how they refer to handsome men. "Churro?" I ask. "Si, churro...em...Delicious!" The laughter is refreshing. Some things don't need translation.

Sunday came, and with it the crunch to find a new place to stay. Wednesday is our deadline. The day is spent mosty in the apartment with 'El Comercio' digging through the 'classificados.' I sneak out around 4pm to procure energy boosting coffees for morale. Kat and I run out in the early evening for groceries for dinner...I'm taking very quickly to Vivanda as I'm cooking more and more.

Monday morning Cesar arrives early, and we are lucky (so lucky I can't even begin to describe) to have his help. Cesar is a freind of Kelcy's from a town to the north. He's come by a long bus ride to help us visit apartments. His english is good.

"You are a lifesaver," Teresa tells him.

"No, just a friend." Cesar replies.

I've read about the unparalled hospitality of the Peruvians, but not until now do I understand just how far it extends. We're crippled by the humbling feeling of thanks for his generosity. He takes us around the city with a cabby he trusts, always smiling. I don't think he knows just how much he has done for us. I very much hope its true that he had other business in the city and did not make the trip just for us.

He dosen't quite understand why three girls, gringas no less, would come here with no friends and no connections, and if he thinks we are crazy (as i suspect) he is probably at least a little bit right. Today was hard. Tensions and frustrations were close to the surface with less than 48 hours to find a place to stay.

In the early evening, we've found a place that will work for now. Even this small measure of success feels like a great accomplishment and is so welcome at this point. Enter Cesar again, who seems to have sensed, if not outright witnessed our anxiety, and he knows the perfect cure.

On the top floor of the "Hotel Las Americas," he's shown us to a great restaraunt with a sweeping view of at least three districts of Lima. In the elevator up, I have to force back tears, the urge is the strongest its been in this city so far: Here is Cesar, this morning a stranger and now a great friend, who has not only helped us find a place to live, but also helped us to reconnect the relationships that brought us here in the first place. A bottle of peppery Peruvian cabernet later and some Lomo Seltado (?sp) (traditional Peruvian dish) we can face the next day.

We are hermanos. Today, and everyday.

Where the Ocean Breeze Comes From

2008-10-24T21:11:00.000-07:00

Apart from waking up this morning and wondering where the hell I was, Friday has been a good day, and the adjusting is coming along.

There's still relentless anxiety, mostly about where our next living arrangement will come from, but for now, we had a good day (see photo: Katrina, Teresa and I visit the coastline for the first time)

And two trips to Vivanda later, we had dinner. It's still hard for me not be astonished by the sheer volume of people in such a small space. The noise is incessant: car horns, sirens, alarms, pigeons...strange parades at midnight with only three notes in the horn section...the never-ending movement of speeding cars and yelling people: the chaos is the culture.

Homesick levels so far seem to be moderate among us, though i'm not sure how much of it is subconsciously surreal still.

On our walk down to the promenade, we discovered perhaps the most cool eatery of all time:

Teresa wants to have dinner here on her birthday, and so far no one has objected.

More Miraflores:

Manos Que Curan

2008-10-23T21:38:00.000-07:00

(The three of us heading for our first real day in Miraflores-pardon the self-portrait)

I had a feeling from seeing the clinic building yesterday that it would not be as i've pictured. And its not.

We started today with high spirits, a credit for certain to a 12 hour solid night's sleep. Well earned. After getting ready, we head out for a little exploring before heading to the clinic appointment at 3pm. Its much easier to gain our bearings by the light of day. And today, it is brighter, I've even spotted the sun, which in itself is cause for celebration. Its quickly swallowed by a 'marine layer' however, which i'm certain is mostly pollution. You can smell it.

Lunch is found at a restraunt: the Mezze Cafe, a few blocks from the apartment on the way to the bank where we're headed to get the deposit dinero for Hugo. The girls that wait on us are almost too kind. We're still getting the hang of ordering food. Kat's meal looks the best, there's beef and veggies and rice. Its nice to have some real food. The waitresses help us call a cab, and after an exhausting episode trying to get into the cab, we're finally on the way to the clinic.

(Teresa and Katrina at Mezze Cafe)

We buzz in and a round, quiet peruvian woman comes to let us through the large wraught iron gates. Through another locking door on the inside of the structure is the waiting area. Its small, non descript. No signage, all in all very un-noticable. It smells strongly like a more organic Ben-Gay cream. We wait a few moments and a woman in blue scrubs and gleaming white shoes comes to greet us. 'Teresa?' We're excited. She shows us back to a treatment room in the back of the clinic. The place is small, hard to navigate via wheelchair. But we've made it.

Dr. Laura finally makes her appearance and there is palpable excitment and relief. Well, she speaks no english, but the relief is still there, only accompanied by my inherited spanish-english dictionary and Dad's copy of 201 Spanish Verbs- its come in VERY handy. Thanks Pop.

Her assistant is introduced and they start work on Teresa's feet and legs first. Applying a strongly scented green cream in what looks like recylced baby food jars, the smell grows more intense. Ben-Gay, most definately. Teresa manages to ask what is in the cream enough for Dr. Laura to understand: Plantas...animales...

Dr. Laura is warm, and I imagine from all the subsidiary laughing around the clinic, very funny as well. Tears are almost unavoidable, as we've finally gotten here. Its absolutely a triumph for these three travelers. Dr. Laura's assistant tries to ask if anything hurts as he massages behind her knee. I try to explain how Teresa has explained it to me: its painful, but it hurts so GOOD. Its not an easy exchange. There is a lot of gesturing on my behalf.

After about an hour and a half of rubbing the cream and massaging, its time to go. But first we get some directions: no showering for what we think is 24hrs, and before showering her, we must rub her with lemons. That part we are sure about. Lemons. Check. Dr. Laura hugs us goodbye and makes sure we'll see her again Saturday.

We're excited to run into Lino again outside the clinic, he mentions he's tried to call the apartment, but we've been out. Since the weather is nice, we ask if we could walk back to the apartment. He shows us the map and explains its about 12 blocks. I'm not sure what his idea of blocks is, but its nothing like mine, or Katrina's, or Teresa's. The walk is nearly too much for Teresa as the sidewalks are unimproved and the ride is terribly bumby and uncomfortable for her.

We make it back to the apartment only a little worse for the wear, but at least the long walk has afforded us a few glimpses of what promises to be a breathtaking coastline. I can't wait to see it by a clear sky. Rest is in order for Teresa, and its time for food again.

Katrina and I head for the Vivanda, a little more comfortable in our surroundings, and after wrangling with some unrecognizable packaging and some eggs that were not refigerated (still wondering about that...any thoughts on whether they're safe to eat? odd to just see eggs on the shelf.)

Back in the apartment to some familiar tunes, I'm making dinner...something i'm not especially good at but at which Katrina swears she is worse. We've got rice, carrots, asparagus, and zuchinni...its not much but after some boiling and some buttering, its not bad. Especially to have greens in our bellies again.

Landing

2008-10-22T21:59:00.000-07:00

How do I start explaining the last 24-36 hours...completely and totally surreal.

On the last phone call from Miami, my brother gave us some advice that is meaning more and more to me every moment:

Keep your heads up and your hearts open.

I know somehow he was imagining how much this first day in Lima was going to try to break our spirits. We are in another world. One where everything, even the simplest tasks, can become a major, day-altering challenge.

We got off the plane at 4am, 6am Lima time, my body having no concept of time whatsoever. Exhausted from a grueling 3 flight red eye trip, customs was unexpectedly uneventful, and complication free, we managed to cart our luggage and head for our fist glimpse of Calloa.

On the way, the small peruvian man holding the sign: Teresa Schoeder met us and helped us out to the taxi van. We struggled to get things to fit, and after some wheelchair adjustments, we discover that our 'english speaking' cabby is not, in fact, english speaking, even a little bit.

And so began what would be the first of many encounters with a frustrating and aggravating and totally at times, morally defeating language barrier. We try to explain that we'd like to see where the clinic is on the way to the apartment where we will stay so we can try to get our bearings. Its too much confusion. We go to the apartment. But there's a problem, it won't be cleaned and ready for us until 7pm. There's another apartment where we can stay until then. Relief! sort of...we wind around looking for it, and finally, we set foot inside. The smell reminds me of Mexico- damp and always just a little bit funky.

It already seems like a lifetime since we said our goodbyes at PDX. We test the internet connection, and in a morale boosting burst of technological wonderment, we contact our loved ones eager to convey our well-being.

Contact. It feels SO good, even over the cold impartiality of hardware.

After a nap thats not nearly long enough, we need water and food. The last 'meal' was stale tasting Pizza Hut in the terminal at Miami International. Forever ago now as much as my stomach is concerned. Without leaving the bags, we've got to get supplies, and someone must stay with Teresa.

We met an english speaking custodian, Orlando, in the lobby, who kindly offered his help. He told us he could go with us to the Vivanda, the supermarket. My stomach pivots when Katrina announces she is resolved to going with him to get us lunch. She's only gone twenty or so minutes, but as Teresa and I sit quietly waiting, every second drags. Its the first time on this trip time has seemed at all sluggish.

VICTORY! She returns with water (con gas, claro!) Ritz, some cheese, bananas, oranges, and to the intense relief of my caffeine-lacking headache, Pepsi. We are saved.

The next expedition brings us the same driver from the airport, bet we've managed to work the phone card, and procured what we hope will actually be an english speaking interpreter. His name is Lino, and he is an absolute miracle. While his english is not strong by any means, we know enough between the three of us to get us to the location of Manos Que Curan (the clinic), after, of course, a few more obstacles. I'm convinced navigating the streets of Miraflores is a hazard to one's health.

Once there we recieved some disheartening news, in front of a strange grey building set behing a car dealership on a busy Miraflores street, we learn that Dr. Laura is not in today, but that she will be there tomorow at 3pm. At least we know where the clinic is. In theory anyways. The driver takes us next to what I can only imagine as the Peruvian version of Best Buy and Lino helps us purchase a 'transformador' for Katrina's laptop so we don't fry our only means of communication to the outside world. We're also still hungry.

The restraunt that is easy to get to and on the way back to the apartment is, of course, McDonalds. We never eat there in the states, but leave it to three american girls to experience their fist South American meal from underneath the golden arches. Trust me, the irony is not lost on us.

The drive takes us two hours all told. Its $40 American. 120 soles. After the cabby leaves, Lino gives us his number and tells us he'll drive us anywhere for half that.

Back in the apartment, we strategize ways to test the transformer- we're not 100% sure we've purchased the right one. Enter the communication barrier once again, even with Lino and his big heart. With a lack of disposable appliances to test on, we phone Kelcy. He's a good freind from home and he's spent a lot of time in Peru. Actually reaching his ringtone after the flurry of pitchy spanish accents is yet another small sort of triumph. He affirms the voltage, and we charge the laptop.

Its almost time to make the move to what will hopefully be our accomodations for the week. We've packed up and gotten Teresa a shower, an activity Katrina and I are both incredibly anxious to be able to indulge in ourselves.

I'm on edge about bringing us and all of our belongings out into the dark of Miraflores, but a familiar cabby has shown up, i recognize him from earlier today somehow, and we're on our way. Its another expensive cab ride, but we arrive. There's a bubbly peruvian woman who takes us through the apartment, and then mentions the deposit. This is the first we've heard of it. $250 American. Cash only. Of course. We don't have it.

After I speak with someone on the phone who commands at least a few words of english, she arranges for us to drop it off tomorow with the door man 'Hugo,' and by her sign language, I assume he will have a mustache.

Finally having showered and sitting down to relax, Katrina has connected with her Mom, who we all adore, through Skype and it visibly bolsters morale. Later on, she videoconferences Kelcy and Josh back home, and it helps us beyond measure after such a trying day to see freindly faces who understand. Its going to be a good night's sleep. Finally.

Final Moments

2008-10-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

I can hear the seconds ticking away in the shallows of my thoughts.

Less than 12 hours

I know that tonight actual sleeping will be laughable. I said goodbye to the newlyweds who plied us with wedding lasagna and left over carrot cake. My small little nephew petted me as I kissed him goodbye and waved through the glass as the car pulled away. There were tears in my brothers eyes, and mine as well.

Its been an emotion few days.

Just last night we toasted his marriage and enjoyed ourselves through a history-making wedding and reception. It seems unreal that in such short order I'll be leaving all that behind me. In the early morning we'll be on a plane, and there is a sort of placid finality about this realization: that all of our efforts and aggravations over the past few months will be made obsolete in the wake of jet fuel and too many goodbyes. There will be nothing more we can do to prepare ourselves. No matter of worry measures anymore, as there remains only what we do, and what we do not.

The last point of contact is tomorrow evening in Miami, via Philadelphia, before we make the long night stretch of flight into Lima. And from then, there but for the grace of god, go we.

The Calm Before the Storm

2008-10-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

Its a beautiful Portland fall Friday, and the countdown to departure has officially begun:

10 days.

My roomate and soon to be travel buddy has started packing, and the apartment looks more depressing than normal. The beiges are more beige without the trappings of what has been our home for a while. True to form, I seem to be putting it off as long as possible, though i'm not sure why because in all honestly, i've spent most of my time throughout the past several months trying to contrive any reason possible to not be in our apartment. I work late, I hang around the park after jogs, I crash at freinds' houses. My stuff lives there, but i barely do. My stuff...how much of it has ended up owning me at this point i'm not quite sure.

I'll be glad to part ways with that neutral toned monstrosity. Our neighbor's dog vomitted in the breezeway two weeks ago, and it wasn't until it finally rained that it started to go away at all. There are things I will not miss about it at all.

I suppose it makes sense to start recording this journey before we even come close to stepping on a plane, since the emotional journey, i think for all of us, has started so much earlier. From incessant running and uneasy stomachs to early morning conversations with the people closest to me, the journey is underway. I'm finding that running no longer quells the anxiety, and instead of ending a jog with burning quads and a clear head, i stutter to a halt, short of breath for the knot that refuses to release my gut. I know i've decided correctly; my heart is right. My head is just taking its own sweet time coming around. It's not used to this feeling, and maybe thats what tells me it is right.

Since this is the first blog in our journey, i should provide some backstory: her name is Teresa, and she's the reason i'm procrastinating the packing of my apartment. She was seriously injured in a snowboarding accident three years ago that left her mostly paralyzed. She has the potential to recover though, and she's tried just about everything. What she hasn't been able to try however, is a time honored practice in Lima, Peru. Which is where we're going. The idea is to get her to her first few months of treatment at Manos Que Curan and we'll know whether or not she will recover fully. After looking over her records, they've given her a 70-100% shot at recovery. And if it were me in the wheelchair, those are odds i would cross the globe for too.

The other reason i'm procrastinating is the lovely miss Katrina. We graduated together, and we've been close since, our lives converging in ways neither of us could ever have seen coming. She's the reason i'm going along on this crazy adventure as Teresa is a family freind of hers. She had been petitioning me to come along to help her and Teresa long before i was actually entertaining the idea, and one early morning driving back from a weekend in Spokane i sent the text message that, for me, started everything:

'I'm in. Lima here we come.'

And we're coming... but its been an emotional, jarring process. There's been paperwork, training classes, endless frustrations over itineraries, fingerprinting, heated discussions, and least favorite of all, making like human pincushions at the Portland Travel Clinic. Tucked up off of 23rd, in a picturesque office filled with photos of giraffes, Kat and i got pumped full of yellow fever, typhoid, and a myriad of other precautionary vaccines. They were fresh out of the rabies vaccine (apparently there's a world wide shortage), which made things cheaper, though i think we've both made mental notes to be on look out for dogs and bats. We also came away with prescriptions for malaria meds and the ever anticipated TD.

I think i've started to deal with the fact that i am very afraid. And i'm sure i have no idea yet what there is to be fearful of. Is it the seven-year-olds with razor blades we've heard stories about? Or perhaps more likely the loneliness that will well up when i spend my first holidays away from the six people who make up my heart and feeling isolated in ways i can't imagine?