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.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Monday, November 24, 2008
Lima Lung
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Hotel Stefanos
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.
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.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Needles, Haystacks, Hotels, APEC
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.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
La Rosa Nautica
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:
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Learning Lima, Piece by Piece
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.
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.
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