Behavior - fresh, native, copious

The center of the inca empire and now the focal point of the so-called Gringo Trail through Peru, Cuzco is treating me well, following my 40-some kilometer hike through the hills to Macchu Picchu. My legs are strong and my eyes mostly open, and I find myself surrounded by friends in a now not-so-strange land...

To the narrative.
Picked up on January 20 in front of the Cathedral in the Main Plaza after waiting for a half hour at 630am, I attempt to introduce myself to my tour group:

The Canadians (Prince Edward Island Contingent): James, and Joey. Nice fellas, all. A brief anecdote. Having some pillow talk between our tents at the last campsite (of three), Jeff mentions that a friend of theirs would have really enjoyed the day´s hike. James responds, "you know who would have really enjoyed walking up this mountain? Christopher Reeve." ouch. Great guys, though, and I´ve been hanging out with them for a couple days here in Cuzco, staying at the same hostal as them, the Loki Hostal, with an amazing view over the city and an in-house bar. More on this later.

The Canadians (Jewish Montreal Contingent): Orin, Eric Abdoo, and Rob. Mindless banter between these three sapped much of the spiritual vibe from the journey, and with each of Orin´s "you know"s at the end of every other sentence, Joey and I marked a metaphorical notch onto the board of "most annoying habits ever". Eric, a properties manager, was a nice guy and more than tolerable on his own, but with Orin (hes in shipping) and Rob, the trio were an unstoppable train, hauling Seinfeld quotes and unfinished sentences by the truckload.

The Brit: Don Johnston - yes, almost like the best looking man in a white blazer ever - a 6 foot 6 inch British wisecracker. Bad teeth and all. A triangular smile and sunglass tan like something out of a cartoon. Horrible spanish, and remarkably undignified, for a brit. A spectacular tent-mate, who awoke after my second night with "a loaded bowel".

The Frenchman: Jean, from Bordeaux, though from a different generation (30-something), a fine companion, who I had met at my first hostal in Miraflores my second day in the country.

The Irish: Steven and Lisa. Incredibly nice folks, both hotel managers from County Galway. Sadly forced to turn back after Lisa came down with some altitude sickness on day 2, they perservered and met us at the finish line at Macchu Piccu- a happy reunion.

The details of the trip are largely unimportant. Hauling 30-some pounds up and down Inca-constructed staircases at altitude was entirely worthwhile, rewarding, and exhausting. Admittedly, the trail wasn´t exactly "roughing it", as I ate better in our mess-tent than I have since I´ve been in South America, as Wilmer, the cook, whipped up some spectacular meals in the "kitchen tent" along the trail. It was all I could do not to gain weight. Wondering what Wilmer could do with a proper gourmet kitchen, we decided he´d probably pitch a tent in it.

Suffice it to say that the spiritual experience I was looking for isn´t something that you can look for. A long, strenuous climb was rewarded with the euphoria of a spectacular sweaty sunrise and a great view of Maccu Picchu, and I felt as though I´d accomplished something. I was content, but descending down into the ruins as Incas did hundreds of years ago, I found myself wondering how to find the proper balance between soaking in the experience of the now and tearing my thoughts away from what is My Life in general, at home. What should I be pondering at Macchu Picchu? Big things, small things, loves. llamas. I flowed with it, i´m fairly sure, though I´m not entirely sure what that means.

While the Inca trail was beautiful and somehow liberating, at the same time the economic divide between the peruvian porters and the white hikers stared me right in the face. This is a modern manifestation of the colonial oppression of a few centuries back. These short, Quechua-speaking porters haul fifty pounds of gear on their backs, running past us to set up the next camp or the next meal, earning (I am told) about 10 dollars a day. A decent wage, apparently, for a Peruvian, but objectively, I think, not far removed from slavery. Traveling in developing nations forces one to confront face to face that sort of divide that easily escapes consideration in my daily life. How much guilt is necessary? How much is healthy? Big questions... There was a protest today in the main plaza, Cuzqueños upset that they, the locals, are forced to pay to enter the town´s museums like any average gringo. One of the booty-shaking clubs in which I have done requisite booty-shaking, Mama Africa´s, I think has a policy that they do not let locals into the club. This infuriates me. You?

The sky is entirely different (amazing stars along the trip), though the time zone is the same, and today, as my body chemistry fights an uphill battle back to normalcy following two debaucherous nights of rum-consumption and booty shaking, I sit and reflect. These gentlemen from Canada, a fine crew. The theme of their trip, they tell me, is a quote that often crosses my mind. "I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life." Fitzgerald hits it right on the head sometimes. This jaunt through South America has been incredible, but the people along the way still make this trip - and this life. Both the ups and the downs...

I´ve passed the past two evenings with James, Jeff, and Joey and with a group of gorgeous Argentine chicas who we met along the Inca trial - José(fina), Nanín, Belú, Flor, and Luli. I think they seem to have a good read on things, an outgoing bunch who, I think, enjoy making others feel comfortable. How I am somehow lucky enough to be bar-hopping with Argentine bombshells I´ll never really know, but I guess in these situations one doesn´t ask questions. I´m content to refill my glass with Ron limón and sprite, continue the drinking games, and dance until my legs are tired and my self-consciousness erased (or perhaps that´s my dignity...) Curious how I would never go to a dance club at home, but find myself mashed up against sweaty moving bodies with some frequency in foreign nations. I guess I won´t have to see most of these people ever again.
I do hope to see those Canadians in the future, however. James and Jeff are headed to law school in Halifax next fall, and we have already clinked glasses, promising visits to our respective adopted cities of legal study. Tomorrow morning I return to the Urubama river, where I´ll stay at a lodge for two days of white water rafting with those Canadian gents, who now must abandon their holier-than-thou liberal talk as Bush´s croney Harper moves into a new place in Ottowa.

Today, my lunch costed 4.5 soles - about a dollar fifty - for soup, homemade bread, tea, a salad, a plate of Spaghetti with vegetables, and a curious liquidy cinnamony dessert. I bought a nondescript ballpoint pen for 5 soles. Disproportionality rules in Peru.

Tonight to down a 2 dollar bottle of wine and celebrate Australia Day (My Aussie roommate Adrian notes that it marks the day the first English Fleet arrived in Australia) with various Australians at the Hostal, many of whom made it a point to "get pissed" before noon this morning.

Circles: At Macchu Picchu, I ran into my friend Christina from UofM, entirely randomly. I couldn´t believe it. That night, I had dinner with Ryan and Jin, who were in Cuzco for the night. Today, I spent two hours in the plaza with my Argentinian friends from the Isla del Sol, Mariana and Damien. Ran into them by chance. This little traveler´s world seems smaller and smaller every day.

Content, though a blog entry written in seven different segments shows clear signs of that very same choppy composition. Like the traveler´s life. Stop. and Go.

hit heavy on the border line

About to depart for four days onto a spiritual journey, Ipod, clean socks, and underwear readied, I continue to blog about town. Cuzco.

(For those of you who think this traveling the world thing is all fun and games, please read.)About an hour ago I found myself in a rough spot. Working on 14 hours on a bus from La Paz, Bolivia - got up at 6am - up into Cuzco, Peru with nothing to eat, hoping my backpack was still under the bus, about 2 dollars in my pocket, no idea where I was to sleep tonight or whether I would in fact begin the Inca Trail tomorrow as I had planned, I figured that everything would just work out ok. I did have my passport on me, and, granted, I had 2 dollars more than I might have had if, um, I hadn´t had. those dollars.. um. And I had eaten some bread for breakfast, and a couple cookies when i crossed the border. So I had my wits about me.

I sprang into action upon pulling into the Terminal Terrestrial, contacted my Inca Trail guide, Walter, bargained my way into a fine hotel room, and found myself a fine chicken sandwich, (positively bursting with vegetable matter), for roughly one american dollar, leaving me change to buy a banana anda Strawberry Yogurt Drink. Things are working out in Cuzco, I say. And its not even raining! how can this be!

I was unable to leave Bolivia yesterday to do a border closure, but was pleased to stay in La Paz with Ryan and Jin, passing away one very soaking wet day. Before I awoke at 9am, I believe it was not raining. Afterwords, it was persistent. We went to see King Kong (with subtitles), a ridiculous movie with ridiculously long action scenes and absurdly extended "touching" moments between a 25 foot tall ape and an attractive yet slightly awkward former alley-theater vaudviller. Ryan liked the brontosaurus landslide and the Kong vs. not-one-not-two-but THREE T-Rex´s fight. I just couldn´t extend my disbelief enough to appreciate 15 minutes of nonstop roaring. I forgot I was in a spanish speaking country. no subtitles were needed for the roars and screeches.

I did hang out with some Al Pacas today as I viewed some snow-capped peeks, so the trip up wasn´t all bad. Though I didn´t think at the time about the Al-Paca BBQ I had eaten for dinner last night and how that might affect my interactions with those particular ruminants. (ruminants? are they? mom?) The first 8 hours or so of the trip were trouble from my navel down, as either the AlPaca or the Cow Heart with Peanut Sauce was wreaking some havoc on my LI. Is it kosher to abbreviate lower intestine? What about digestion-talk in a blog?

I will save the profound travel thoughts for the mountains (ah! but there were many today!), to roll around in my head for a few rainy nights and days and perhaps spill out into cyberspace upon my return to this century.

Los Angeles Pollería made me that chicken sandwich. There is a Los Angeles Pollería waiting for all of us, somewhere. Believe.

Coca and Fate.

Internet is Cheap in La Paz. Everything is Cheap in La Paz. Today, at the flea market, I bought some soap (I left my soap in Lima.. that's how many days ago? eew.), some argyle socks, a belt buckle, a knit hat, and a badass chorizo sandwich for 50 bolivianos total, which is about 7 dollars.

I last left off in Puno, as I recall. Well, the morning I left, at 630am, while eating my 75 cent breakfast (egg sandwich, Maté de Coca) , a man ran into the cafeteria out of breath and was seized by some security guards and hostal personnel. Apparently he was a thief. Ididn'tt flinch for some reason.. good breakfast entertainment. Picked up at 7am, I left the Hostal Urus to take the bus across the border to Copacabana, on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca. I gave up my seat so couple could sit next to each other, and ended up next to a chatty Irishman named Gav, who I actually saw staying at my Hostal in La Paz last night.
The border crossing was a little hairy. ThePeruviann border guard told me I needed my immigration paper from when I entered in Lima, which was in my backpack in the bottom of the bus, which was quickly ascending the hill to cross over into Bolivia. I sprinted up the hill after the bus, wondering if anyone was about to shoot a man running over the border waving his arms, and caught the bus after it had crossed under the arch that signified the actual border (see picture). I wasn't even sure where my backpack was, as somebody else had put it under the bus for me. The bus folks weren't too happy, but I got my paper and was able to get through immigration on both sides with no problem. The Bolivian guards didn´t even look at my passport picture, they just stamped in the book and gave me a piece of paper. So much for security.

Arriving in the rain in Copacabana, I spent the extra 50 cents (about $2.75 for the night) for a room on the top floor that opened on to a patio with a sweet view. Alojamiento Aroma, it was called, a little ironically, as the bathrooms could have smelled sweeter. I napped until some partying Argentinians move in next door and took care of business: food - the best meal in town, stuffed lake trout with rice, veggies, bread, and papas fritas, for about 3.50, a ticket to the isla del sol the next day, batteries, etc. Right before sunset I climbed a big hill just north of town that looked out all over the lake. awe-inspiring. When I got to the top, some dude asked me for some of my water, and I told him I had just climbed the hill (it really was steep and tall), and he was the one that was thirsty! He was kidding, turns out. Those Bolivians! Anyway, I rocked out a little harmonica as it got dark and made my way back into town, to sleep as soon as the power fortuitously went out at 11pm, shutting my still-partying Argentinian neighbors, from whose room some pretty heavy clouds of smoke exited (along with fits of laughter) as I walked to the bathroom.

8:30 am oSundayay, I took the overloaded boat Amazonas for the 2 hour trip to the north of Isla del Sol. Inca legend says the first man came out of Titicaca there.. I was skeptical at first, as it rained the whole way there, and the island seemed rather dreary, but it turned out to be spectacular. I made some Jewish Argentinian friends on the way over, speaking mostly witEzekielal (Zeke, he said - and he could pronounce the Z properly! mosSpanishsh speakers call me 'Sack') about politics, school, etc. I thought I'd seen the last of them until one of them came to the hostal I had already chosen as my lodging - Hostal San Francisco, owned by the very soft-spoken elderly Francisco and operated by someone who must have been his daughtegranddaughtereniecece, Lili. I was in a room with three beds by myself, and said they could put a couple crazy Argentinians in there with me. And thus began my tenuous affair with Julieta and Liliana, the Porteñas (that's what they call folks from Buenos Aires) that Fate kept throwing at me. Lets call them L and J from now on.

Nice girls, both, I´d noticed them on the boat over. Julieta studies drama, Liliana international relations. I didn´t talk to them about my semi Jew-ness - wasn´t sure if that´d be a selling point. Anyway, we were friends immediately, as I was hanging my underwear all over the place. -I wasn´t even that irritated by Liliana´s yelling in her sleep "yes, thats how it is!", "No, he´s already left!" Curious.

Anyhow, I lunched with some of the boys from the Hebraic Association - who were very picky about their food, Dañiel, Johnathan, Zeke, and some other guy. I ate some overpriced spaghetti and soup and set off for a hike through the ruins. I had washed my clothes in a bin lent my by Lili from the hostal, and put them out to dry in the afternoon sun (it rains, but always clears up!). A spectacular hike, during which I certainly saw more burros than gringos, out to some ruins that date back over a thousand years. There have been people here for a long time, since before Lake Titicaca was a lake, turns out. (we know this thanks in part to Cousteau´s exploration). Anyhow, I found myself far from home and with no raincoat when the winds and rain came early, something like th Edmund Fitzgeraldnd , but without the death. or the boat. ok, not much like it. but kind of. unprepared, I was, lets say. I was cold and wet when I got back to the hostal, and my weren'ts sure werent dry.

That night, I went for dinner by myself to a ´restaurant´ near the boat docks. I was the only one in this room in some family´s back yard, and served bywasn´taitress who wasn´t as tall as I was sitting down. I asked and she told me her name was Rosa, and she was great. All the kids on the island were incredibly cutholahey all said holo, buecuriosityh such curiousity and wonder. Especially when I walked down the road playing some harp. I wondered if there was some conspiracy to send all the cute voices to one little island at the top of the world. I mean we have cute ones in the U.S., but there was something special about these grubby little hands, square faces, and rosy cheeks that really made me feel welcome. Anyhow, back to dinner. Rosa served me a great meal, and I set to journaling and sketching until some more Argentinians came in. I spent the next couple hours with two couples, Damien and Angela, Celeste (celeste is spanish for a light blue) and Javier Delfino (I know his last name as we discovered it was the same as Carlos Delfino, the Piston reserve whose bobblehead is currently Taking up Space in my room at home.) They were a trip. Very nice folks, and irritated with the loudness of other Argentinians that seemed to be everywhere.

I crashed...
interlude for Dreamlog -
(warning - if you had any part in my conception, this might be awkward for you.)

I was going to be a truck driver, so I had this big semi parked out in front of my house. Some blonde girl, my girlfriend - not a person in real life - said she wanted to park it at the bottom of the driveway. I told her she couldn´t, but she went ahead and did it anyway, crashing into my neighbor´s house. I told her I didn´t want to tell her ´I told you so´, as she jumped on my back piggy-back style and said she loved me. I saw myself and her (face obscured) on my back in the reflection on my dad´s jeep, and I didn´t look happy.
Next, I´m doing some fairly explicit foolin around with some person in some random house, which I guess is mine, when I hear my parents pull in the driveway. I put on some girls jeans and go out to say hello, see how their trip was. We walk in together, to see this girl wearing my dads bathrobe vacuuming the carpet in front of the fireplace. hmm. I guess this was a ´sex dream´, of sorts.

...and awoke the next morning to yet another torrential downpour (so much for re-hanging up my clothes), and set out along the coastal trail to the south of the island. Some incredible views. Pictures, you know, just don´t do these things justice. My companions along the trail were the following
first, a young boy named Nuño, who chatted with me until we reached his house
then, a huge cow, for about 10 minutes
next, an old lady and her herd of sheep
then, a baby pig along the beach
then, I came upon a campesino named Sebastian, who showed me where he lived and told me to stop be some time. He also informed me that the boat I was planning on taking didn´t actually leave at 130 when I thought, rather at 4, so I should take my time.
then, Sebastian introduced me to his friend Sergio, probably 10 or so. Sergio and I walked about a half mile, sharing the cookies I´d brought in case of starvation until he had to turn off.

I arrived at the southern end of the island looking for a boat. Some locals offered me a ride, which I should have taken, because it would have been an adventure and I would have arrived earlier, but at the time I wasn´t so sure about getting in a boat with some random folks. And, Fate wouldn´t have thrown those two Argentinian girls at me again. I was glad to wait it out for a couple hours, as the views from the South of the island were incredible. I had exactly enough money to buy one egg sandwich and one passage back to the mainland, totalling 20 bolivianos, about $2.50. I chatted with some Australians who were traveling for a year (!) and read a little as I looked out over the water. Awesome.

About the Island - the people were amazing, they all spoke very softly, and it seemed like they all would have welcomed you into their family in a second, if you treated them with due respect. The kids were incredible, as I´ve said. Tranquilo on the island, everything at a slow pace, soft. They live without TV, without internet - though I´m sure technology has invaded a few select households, and seem to be entirely content with their lives of work and leisure, and even with the tourism that is the islands main industry. I thought they might all view me with disdain, but they really treated me like a friend, especially when they found I spoke spanish.

I saw L and J at the south port of the island, said hello and goodbye. The trip back on the boat was long and tiresome, and I still had to secure passage to La Paz. I found a little Microbus, bought a ticket, and saw L and J briefly while I was checking some internet. The bus was leaving town, when it stopped for a minute to let huffing and puffing L and J onto the bus, into the vacant seats in my row. hmmm... After an hour or so, we had to get off the bus so that the bus could be put on a barge and pulled across a straight. We had to pay an extra boliviano to take a little boat across. jeez. We made La Paz about 940pm or so, and I split a cab with L and J down to the center of town, saying goodbye with a kiss on the cheek for the last time. I think.

I´m currently staying at the Hostal Maya here in La Paz, where Ryan and Jin are supposed to be arriving tonight. I was supposed to leave tomorrow morning (damn my planning, booking the Inca trail the 20th, friday, and a bus from La Paz to Cuzco the 18th. Waaaay to rushed). However, no busses are allowed to cross the border tomorrow, so I´m stuck. At first, I thought, "what luck! Now I have a good excuse to postpone my Inca trail and stay in bolivia!", but they won´t let my postpone my Inca trail start date, friday, so now I´m forced to take a bus the 12 hours on thursday, go to bed, and get up at 5 the next morning for a 4 day hike. Not exactly ideal. And this is the only thing I´ve paid real money for! fer chrissake!

Interestingly the song that was playing in the travel agency when I got this bad news was Bonny Tyler, "Total Eclipse of the Heart", which was the favorite song of two Frenchmen who lived with me in Spain. It also reminds me of the time I was in Planned Parenthood´s Teen Troup in high school, and we did a wierd interpretive dance to that song, in which one person was surrounded by the others, each one wearing a sign denoting a particular drug. Then a friend would pull the person out from the clutches of the drugs. I requested to be crack, I recall. Go Big or Go Home.

Right, now I must wait it out, but i will get to spend a day with a couple of friendly faces - if I am able to find Ryan and Jin in this big city - and at least I´ve got clean clothes (the ones I ´washed´in my shampoo on the island finally dried last night, and the rest I paid about 1 dollar to have cleaned at the hostal) and an updated blog.

Es el Compartir.

Somewhat recuperated from the altitude sickness- mostly due to the coca tea, I tell myself - I find myself with a new problem, one I´ve come across before. My face is a shade of red reminiscent of the Kool Aid man (fun fact,Kool-Aid Man debuted in 1975 under the name of 'Pitcher Man'.) . The air is thin up here in the summer, and out on the lake this morning the spf15 just wasnt enough. Despite this obstacle, i continue to blog, retroactively.

My first full day in south america, i saw the remains of perhaps the most cold blooded perpetrator of genocide in history, observed my first south-american style political riot/rally,was conned into buying a random cabron a couple big beers, was offered a threesome, and went home with a bartenders brother.

From the beginning, I got up - late - to breakfast and head into the center of town. still tired, as i didnt sleep much before the long trip, spending my last night in america with some friends - and some forties...(an aside, i felt something like Arlo Guthrie in Alices Restaurant, when he has to go into the draft office. he says something like "i got good an drunk the night before, so i was sure to be looking and feelin my very best the next mornin..") .. So I went down to dirty central lima to check out the cathedral, where i understood nothing from the "english speaking" guide (the spanish tour didnt leave for an hour...) but was interested to learn that they had mistaken Francisco Pizarros remains for some other random dude up until about 1985 or so, and the convent of San Francisco, where they have this really frightening crypt with thousands of bones all lined up in artistic fashion. morbid.

On my way home, thinking of a run, I began talking to a tattoo artist in the street, who called himself Christian. We ended up grabbing a couple of beers and a Pisco Sour, which is the national drink, a liquor that they mix with sour mix, egg whites, and lemon. turns out, he had no money, and after explaining to the waiter that this dude was trying to rip me off and telling "christian" that he was a lyer and a cheat, i reluctantly paid the 8 bucks for his three drinks and bid adeiu. whatever. it was an interesting experience.

Returning home, I napped until around 1130 pm, and returned the the same bar as the night before, planning on a drink and some more sleep. Next thing I know, Im hangin out with the first americans i met, Mack and (oh I forget her name...) from San Diego, who quit their jobs to travel for 3 months in SA. The peruvian girls next to me took a liking, and despite my intention to mind my own business with my book, forced their numbers on me once we had had some relatively suggestive conversation in spanish. One seemed skanky, the other wasn´t so much, but she could have been less trashy. I wont call, but interesting nonetheless.
The couple sitting next to me when I arrived vanished for roughly 30 minutes into the bathroom area while I was having some tapas. I wondered if they felt cramped, until my new bartender friend Neto explained to me later that the Tasca Bar had a special upstairs room for horny patrons. uh-huh.
I came back when the bar closed to go party with Neto and Mery, the busty bartender from the previous night (yes, the size of the girls breasts are certainly incidental to the story. but i thought they deserved mention, and it might make this ridiculously long entry somewhat more interesting for my male colleagues, and hopefully not paint me as a shovanist gringo asshole in front of any female who may come across this-train´s blog) , and ended up going to her apartment with her brother, Etner(sp?), who was visiting from Amazonas, a two day car ride away. An incredible apartment, as she is the live-in caretaker for what must be a wealthy businessman from California, a guy named Bill. I taught some English (mery has begun studying ´La Británica´) and went to bed. late... I was actually very touched, as I asked if lots of dudes from the bar find their way to party at this amazing apartment. Mery replied that she thought I was good person, and as a bartender her powers of perception might be pretty keen. I was the first gringo there apart from the owner, and that to teach some english and do some hangin out.

Next day, I sat on the balcony - a sweet view over Miraflores - and tought the alphabet and numbers through 30, and I think I actually helped. Used a lot of what I´d learned in spanish linguistics. I never thought i´d enjoy teaching English, but it was actually fun and satisfying..

My main activity for the day was a run along the cliffs above the beach, and then along the beach, checking out the surfers (and the surfers´ girls... my.) Thus began the redding of my face. That night, I had beers with Neto and Etner in another classy burb of Lima called Barrancas. Again, more profound than you´d expect from just-mets, but thats the way I like it, and thats the way its been happening lately. No wasted time. These two come from some humble country beginnings, and really show a spirit that I don´t come across too often in the U.S. - genuine appreciation for what one has, especially family, friends (la amistad), and the country itself, la tierra. We shared a couple of pitchers of not-so-good but typical Peruvian beer, Cuzqueño, from Cuzco, and Neto clinked glasses just about every sip, talking about how destiny had led the three of us to that bar. I mentioned that after a couple of beers I also tend to turn into a philosopher, and a a friend. From there, Neto remarked "No es la cerveza, es el compartir.", meaning that it wasnt the cerveza that made the difference, it was sharing it. He said in his town, a group sits around a table and shares only one glass, refilling from a pitcher as it is collectively drained. true sharing. Neto wanted to practice his english on me - it was decent, he is in school to be in tourism, his french is excellent. He would be in the united states at this very moment, but the U.S. consulate refused to give him a Visa, despite his already having organized the trip, for language study, to the west coast. But he wasn´t bothered; supposes it wasn´t written - it wasn´t in the plan for him. And he wouldn´t have had those beers with us.. Either way, I sure am lucky to have an American Passport... Walked back along the cliff to Miraflores, a nap, and more comradery.

Next day, thursday the 12th, I checked out and wrote my first traveler´s blog. I wonder if anyone read it. I will, someday. So don´t feel bad if you didn´t.

Next, travel to Puno, and the onset of altitude sickness. I have stopped seeing the spots, and this morning was well enough to take a boat out onto the Lake to visit the Islas de los Urus, a group of floating Islands that the Urus people have been building for a few hundred years, initially to get away from the Incas and other warring tribes. Pretty incredible, they make the islands, most around 40-50 meters across, out of reeds, and add more reeds on top every couple of months to stay above water. Each island lasts about 8 years, then they build a new one, always anchored with eucolyptus trunks. Everything is made out of the reeds, the island, the houses, clothing - they even eat it. you peel it like a banana, and it tastes kind of like lettuce, but wetter. One thing I found incredible - they have solar panels on the islands! for light, as candles are not especially safe given that the entire island is made of ultra-flammable reeds (or at least, they are flammable when it is not the wet season. Now they are spongy wet.) I passed the time with a couple of nice Irish girls, Avril and Rene(?).

Returning to land, I visited a mirador, something like the statue of christ in Rio, only not as spectacular, a view i shared with a couple of mangy dogs and a handful of Maní, something like cpeanuts. then I took a cab for a dollar the few kilometers to the naval museum (by taxi, in this case, I mean a man peddling a bicicle with a covered seat in the front). The museum was worth the trip, an iron-hulled boat which was shipped to titicaca from england in the 1880s. 550 tons of ship parts via boat around tierra del fuego, to Chile or peru, and then by burro up the 15,000 feet of elevation and hundreds of kilometers to the lake. then they put it all together. I have this crazy vision of burros loaded with huge pieces of iron, and comical boat pieces like the captain´s wheel and portholes and anchors...

Yet another nap, a cheap dinner (all meals are cheap) and to internét. this lengthy blog may or may not set precedent. i hope not.

songs heard covered in jazz form over dinner - "if you really want to hurt me.. if you really want to make me cry", Phil Collins´ "Hold On", "Like a Virgin", "Patience", "With orWithout You"...

No es la cerveza...

A first country-hopping blog entry, with fatigued eyes and something of an encouraged soul.

I'm madly typing these lines at the Flying Dog Backpacker's Hostal, in Miraflores (translation look! flowers!), a nice somewhat touristy suburb of Lima. Central Lima is pretty dirty and not so interesting, but Miraflores sits on a cliff about 70 meters above the beach, where there are a ton of sunbathers and surfers. I've been at this hostal three nights, two whole days in South America.

Night number one, I got in about 1am and immediately went next door for a cold beer before some hardcore sleeping, and met some really interesting people, jumping into remarkably profound conversation with a Peruvian student named Elia, about what it means to be a 'ser humano', which translates into 'to be human'. The spanish term has always seemed to me to cover a lot more ground, as it includes the verb. Seems like 'being' human is somehow different than simply being 'a human', in two separate terms. Perhaps that doesn't make sense. (My English communication skills are already deteriorating, but my spanish has quickly returned, I actually am quite fluent talking about most anything, only getting tripped up on not-so-pedestrian vocab words, which I then have to talk my way around. E.g. Freckles are "those sort of spots that appear on your skin or arms, sometimes when it is sunny.") Anyhow, it was encouraging to get right off the plane and jump into it, real people with interesting things to say. It helped that I sat down with my book, 'The Alchemist' in spanish - a great travelers' read about following your 'Personal History'. A fine conversation piece, and certain to bring out those profound transcendental and spiritual overtones that aren't always easy to get to while speaking to a stranger at a bar. I said goobye to my new bartending friends, Mery, a lovely and busty young bartender, Alexander, the 32 year old Peruvian with Carson Daly's face, and Niko (I think...), who made up the token minority (Japanese) behind the bar.

(I breaked here for some taxi-haggling, a flight over some rugged andean terrain down to a town called Juliaca, some more haggling, and a bus ride to Puno, a Peruvian city on Lake Titicaca.)

I do have a lot to say, but I netiher want to overwhelm myself nor my blog-readers. I must leave this blog hanging for the time being, as I really am seeing spots, experiencing some pretty intense bouts with altitude sickness, having come from the Pacific Ocean to Puno, at around 12500 feet. (for comparison, the highest peak in the continental U.S. is about 14,500ft. ) I just had some Alpaca steak, which was good while it was hot, but I had to break a fever for about 10 minutes in the middle of my meal, sweating as if I were jumping rope in a Sauna. I need to sip some Mate de Coca - some tea made from Coca leaves, from which I think they also produce something else - and hit the sack. I have some floating islands to visit tomorrow, and some serious blog updating to do. I have never seen rain like this. Gracias a Dios for waterproofing. hasta luego...

I drew a map of Canada...

I pretend to be bored while here at home, but as I sit and stare at the 'to do before leaving country' list, I realize its about time I stop manufacturing idleness and begin actually crossing things off the list. I did some of that today.

to the dreamlog: Last night's dream was remarkably vivid, perhaps thank to the anti-malarial medication, which I'm instructed to take the same day every week until I return - that's over seven months of small hassle, not to mention a couple hundred bucks. Will Travers called today, said I should hang around with some Malaria-infected folks to make the hassle worthwhile. I suggested that I just sit naked in jungle swamp.

But back to the dream: a prominent figure was an RV which someone had left unlocked. I took a small electronic remote control out of it, it felt like one of those three-headed electric razors, which reminds me of a great Onion article (should you be interested. I"ve done the research for you. http://www.theonion.com/content/node/33930. I'm a hopeless tangentialist). So this contraption had a button to shoot water out the front of it, and also a lock/unlock for the RV. Whenever I tried to lock , water would seep out of the upholstery in various parts of the RV, so I'd have to unlock to sop it up with my hand, then lock, more seeping, more sopping, etc. Frustrating, so I left a little standing water and walked down under this bridge/parking structure to the beach. I was backstage with members of the Grateful Dead and The Band, like some kind of roadie; next thing I know I'm in this very sterile looking room next to the delivery room where my mother is giving birth to my baby brother, who is somehow 12 years younger than me. I walk down a hallway to get into the delivery room on the left hand side, and must walk past windows looking into the room before I can enter through the door. I see the back of my dad's head and body. As I walk closer to the door, it feels like rubber bands are attached to my feet, so the closer to the door I get the harder it is to step forward. I give up and walk backwards down the hallway as the baby is born. I step through a door on the right side of the hallway, which opens into a fabulous food-network kitchen with shiny copper pots and herbs hanging over a nicely tiled island with stainless steel appliances. My mom is already in there, and I note that she looks really thin for having just given birth, especially given that she is wearing horizontal stripes - neon green and black. She asks me to giver her a hand cleaning some blood off of the island. .. There was also some kind of anxiety about facebook messages, but I think I tried to forget that part as soon as I woke up, horrified that the facebook had made its way that deep into my psyche.

So one poignant moment today. Running, as is often the case. I strapped on the tights and a reflective vest as the sun went down and ran downtown, by the marina, and stopped on a grassy outcrop at fords park to do some calisthetics (yep.) in the snow while I looked out across the bay. I was hopping around and gazing out towards the green light at the end of the point with my Ipod on random. At once, the song changes to Mozart's Eine kleine nachtmusik, the first movement - you all would know the tune, and I look to my left to see two swans about 15 feet from me, just swimming on by. I felt somehow like I couldn't keep on doing lunges or whatever random shit I was into; I had to just stand there and watch the two swans mosey on out into the middle of the bay towards the green light. As the song ended, my Ipod cut out, leaving only the drone of some nearby dock machinery. huh.
Running away, my Ipod returned to life, and I wondered if somewhere there had been a video camera pointed on me, since that was one of those movie movements. I couldn't decide if me standing there in the snow with the swans would display while the credits roll or at the very beginning, as part of the intro. It was definitely some kind of terminus, I felt. Though right now is the first time I actually thought or used the word 'terminus.'

Rene called during composition. Seems some people want to chat vocally before I leave the country. What a nice thought.

now - "I have legalized robbery, called it belief..." I love a random function.

sore shoulders and dream holders

So a first online journal. What to say. Will people read this? Will I read this? Someone is reading this. they must be.

And so.. leaving for South America this monday thats on its way here. two shots in each arm have me feeling immunized but overwhelmed; I feel like I've done well with most goodbyes thus far - some seemed final, some like see-ya-laters, but all satisfactory. This holiday break has been relatively stress-free, though not as relaxing as I'd envisioned, and its almost all passed already. Much like the last six months or so. How did I get here?

This last week has had its share of highs and lows, thankfully I've been able to sit across the table or in a car or on a couch with a lot of Good Ones, people from Way Back When or sometime after, people who make me feel pretty lucky to have them around. Knowing I've got a home with family and friends - spread out, but Always There - makes it pretty easy to leave the country for six months. I'll refrain from quoting Forever Young, mostly because that'd be lame, but I'll mention it because I can't write anything without a Dylan reference. (or perhaps I was sneaking in a Rod Stewart shout-out. You decide) But I have had a series of poignant moments, little bits of profound finding their way into the boredom and the whiskey and the melting snow.

Ran about 7-8 miles yesterday down Lake Shore Drive, looking out over the water; seriously warm. My Ipod lasted a good 40 minutes (usually the old girl only makes it about 20 minutes outside in the wintertime cold). Last run I just went ahead and grabbed my old Sony Walkman, easily 4 times the size of the Ipod, and choose the Dumb and Dumber soundtrack from a dazzling array of cassettes - Joan Osborne, Ace of Base, Meatloaf even. the Blue Oyster Cult. and the classic NKOTB Christmas album. Dumb and Dumber was perfect - Mary Moon (shes an intellectual), a little Shaggy, Butthole Surfers, Hurdy Gurdy Man. A Classic. But back to the yesterday; Somehow the endorphins released while I run make for some really exultant moments - my mood swings with whatever music comes over the headphones a lot more readily than if I'm just sitting around. So I'm thinking about a few things - the tops of mountains, my mom referring to my dad as a 'hunk', scarves, steaks, shakes, etc. But mostly these Good Folks that keep making an impression on me, and I'm smiling so big. Like, well, a Kid at Christmas.

I've decided not to edit this journal. and probably will not in the future either. Thanks for reading (if you are); Subsequent updates will be much more entertaining and well-thought out. Right now I've got little snips of several infectious diseases running around inside as well as a national championship football game on behind me. Then there is the malaria drug that may make me go crazy - or at least have very vivid dreams. A huge cheese wheel on a cardboard slab given me by my grandfather figured prominently in last nights dreamery. tonight, with chemical stimulation, I can't imagine! Anyhow, more to come from the continent below..... (a trail of periods.)