Hundred Degree Heat and a 4.5 Year Hiatus

As I sat in the bus, surrounded by people I can only describe as “my peeps”, I smiled. The sun beat down and the hot breeze rippled through the slightly-scorched threes, and I just thought, “Yeah. I…want to.” 

I thought back to all of the other solo travels I had attempted - all the missed connections, the “survival food”, the anxious moments, and the moments that made me glad I was alive; and how on so many of those travels, I had reveled in recounting those experiences. How I would see an entertaining exchange between the 2-year-old and her Dad in the row in front of me and chuckle as I thought about how I would describe that moment later for all of you. 

Or maybe, I am starting to realize as I lie here by myself, sprawled across a king size bed in Vegas, I did it for myself. Maybe writing about those scary moments, those jaw-dropping views, those fleeting feelings I wanted to catch and hold onto forever - maybe that was my way of processing all of the overwhelming experiences that solo travel is sure to throw at you; one, after another, after another…after another.

Regardless of the reason, I realize from my vantage point of McCarren International Airport from the 27th floor of the Excalibur Resort Hotel, that I love writing. And I am ready to try again - after a very brief, 4.5 year hiatus. 

I also realize the no one blogs anymore. But when have I ever been one to do what everyone else does? The thought of doing this has been exciting me for the last hour - most of which was spent waiting to check in. Please keep in mind that the only thing I have eaten in the last 9.5 hours is Gatorade and Fritos (the lunch of champions, my friends!).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m not sure if anyone wonders WHY I end up somewhere or another anymore - some of you have probably just accepted that any given week I might be somewhere different than the week before. Some of you haven’t known me long enough to realize that for years, traveling was my life. But regardless of all of that: I am in Las Vegas. For no particular reason.

Blurry view from my window, thanks to my dinosaur phone.

The thought process leading up to this 24.5-hour stop was as follows: June 27, approximately 8pm I land in Vegas for a 3-hour layover. Not long enough to leave the airport but long enough to realize that this is a one-of-a-kind place. July 2, desperately searching for reasonable flights from Mexico City back to Seattle. Nothing; nothing; nothing; a lot of nothing with layovers in Las Angeles, or - you guessed it - Las Vegas! Now… if I’m going to be stopping in Vegas anyway, why not make it worth my while?! 

So here I am. 

Still not convinced it was worth my while, but at least I am crossing state #44 off my list. 

Maybe it’s the heat (100+), maybe it’s the hunger, or maybe I am just out of practice, but the details of the trip have already started to escape me. There are snapshots…

• Repeatedly asking for directions around the CDMX airport and receiving contradictory information.
• Sitting with G, drinking coffee and discussing the logistics of our families’ international travel for an upcoming wedding. (Surprise! It’s ours…)
• Getting stopped in security and having my emergency, pocket corkscrew confiscated. (It’s ok tho, I guess, cause there’s no minibar in my room anyway.)
• Trying to board the plane while a very confused family of 5 attempted to wander up and down the aisle trying to find seats. (Have you ever seen 5 people try to wander up and down an airplane aisle together WHILE others are still boarding?!)
• That overwhelming feeling of smug delight realizing that on an ALMOST full flight, I had a window seat and the middle seat was - wait for it - - - EMPTY! (OMG YES)
• IS THAT THE FREAKING GRAND CANYON?!?!? 
• Sitting on the tarmac for half an hour waiting for a gate, listening to phones going off like crazy. 
• Breezing through customs but being asked multiple times if I had any food or drink. (Just Gatorade and Fritos, guys. Chill.)
• Catching a minute to charge my dead phone, catch up on work, and figure out the local bus schedule. 
• Missing the local bus by 52 seconds. 
• And being secretly relieved that I got to sit in the airport (air conditioning) for a few extra minutes - 40 to be exact. (There’s something about sitting in an airport, not having anywhere to be, that has always been incredibly cathartic for me. I remember so many airports… just, sitting, waiting, watching. Knowing that I was not late for anything, I had nothing to rush for, I had nothing at all to do but wait and watch.)
• But 32 minutes later I went to go look for the bus, and there it was with no driver, doors closed, a little, concrete waiting bench. That bench seemed like a nice idea after 10 hours of airports and anxiety. I’d been sitting on it for about 32 seconds when I started to feel like my ass was melting into the concrete. But I was committed. I sat and waited for the driver. And then he showed up; after what seemed like 30 minutes of excruciating, unfortunately NOT fat-melting heat radiating up from that bench through my entire torso (it was only 3 minutes).
• Driving past a McDonalds and wondering, "Was that the one where Chris McCandless worked??" (Spoiler, no. That was edited in the movie...)
  
• And then there was that moment, sitting at the bus station, watching the burning wind dance through the pale green trees. That moment when I remember that writing has also always been cathartic. 

So here I am. Writing. 

And also gearing myself to go back out into a world full of very vacationing people, sparkling, spinning, screaming slot machines, and hundred degree heat. (Mostly because I am hungry.)

Milwaukee Wanderings, Part 1: Musings of an Escapee

All I knew was that I had to get away. 

From what? 

Who knows. 

But somehow my cozy, quirky studio and happily hectic job had become a maze that I simply had to escape. And somehow Milwaukee seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel. Or at least a skylight. 

I jumped in my car, a list of possible Thing To Do In Milwaukee in my head, Dierks Bentley in my stereo, a bag of raisinets in my front seat, and a burning need to see something new in my heart.

It was dark and the wind coming off the lake made it incredibly cold by the time I got there. And on top of it all, the burning in my heart had turned into an anxious knot in my stomach.

Anxiety? About traveling? About exploring?!

What in the world is going on. 

This is what I do! 

So I did the thing that any sane wanderer would do: checked into my first AirBnB ever, munched on string cheese, and looked over my options for tomorrow's exploring. All while watching reruns of an old familiar Netflix show. The anxiety eased as I fell into a restless sleep in the rustic 4-poster bed.

(How is it that I was so excited, and it somehow turned to anxiety? About Milwaukee. Please...)

Sunday came bright, cold, and beautiful. And I did something I haven't done in too many years to count. 

I went to a church service. 

No, not because it was Easter. Not because I thought I would hear anything new. Not because I wanted to indulge in nostalgia. But because, as I always do when exploring new territories, I wanted to observe what a large portion of the natives do on a regular basis. And the building was impressive. 

Normally I go see the local churches on Thursday afternoons or Saturday mornings when I have the place to myself. There's something haunting about empty cathedrals. 

I'm not sure which is more haunting tho: an empty church or a church full of people who look empty inside. But that's none of my business - I was just there to observe. 

But the service ended and the brisk wind, artisan coffee, and unusual art were calling. 

Oh, and did I mention the lake?

The colors. The wind. The waves. The views. The brave souls enjoying all of that in 30-degree weather.

Exploring the North Point Lighthouse, I couldn't help but wonder what Milwaukee was like back in the 20s. And before. When did people sail on Lake Michigan? And what were they doing out there? And the people who stayed on the shore, were they always so painfully oblivious to the rest of the world as the idyllic lion-guarded lighthouse felt that sunny day? Was this feeling of being in a time lapse the way it had always felt, or was the lighthouse somehow trapped in a timeless moment that left an observer feeling lost in the past while being simultaneously lost in the present?

A quick look back at the lake broke the spell, however. The wind woke the wanderer from any kind of profound and nonsensical musings.

And the path led back to reality. 

...but with one more quick stop.

Suspended there between a frozen sky and a bravely thawing ground, several thoughts cascaded over my balancing brain.

What had I been anxious about last night?

Why had I created a life that made me want to escape? And how could I go back...

What had everyone else in that church been seeing and hearing?

The bundled up strangers walking by - why were they smiling at me?

I hadn't done anything on my Milwaukee To Do list.

It is so much easier to be where I am when I am alone, and un-distracted.

But I missed a tiny part of my Madison life. 

Weird.

Anyway!

When I come back, I should probably go to the public history museum, to answer some of those questions the lion and the lighthouse had inspired earlier.

Oh, I guess I'm coming back?

Why had I needed to escape, and how could I go back?

But the questions kept coming, and the clock kept ticking, and I put all the questions on hold as I meandered slowly back to the studio and the work and the stable life I had tried so hard to escape.

No amount of walking, driving, raisinets, or Dierks Bentley could answer those questions. 

And I wonder if a second trip will yield answers or only fuel the quandaries. 

Day 10,010-ish: When You Stop Wandering

Facebook memories proved quite helpful today, in a way.

It reminded me that two years ago today, I was spending my last day in Charleston, South Carolina, where I had moved directly after graduating college. A placed too humid to be called home. And one year ago today, I was spending my last day in Belem, a place I had stayed longer than any other place in several years; also a place too humid to call home.

And here I am today.

Cuddled up on the couch with a niece and nephew.

We spent the day watching Lego and Barbie videos. Playing 'feet in face', under the 'tent' that was my blanket. Cuddled up laughing about static-y hair and Disney songs. Taking walks, taking turns running, chasing, carrying, following, complaining, laughing, hugging, and watching for cars before crossing the street. Eating cheese curds and ice cream. And trying to figure out who could eat the most of what.

It's like I've hit pause on my life. My real life. My running, exploring, adventurous life. Only to discover that there is an alternate reality in the pause, in the stay, in the stable.

And I still don't know if I like it because yes, it does seem a bit boring, in a way.

Day 10,001-ish: Morning Commute

I'm not sure what you do on your drive into work. Or when it is, or even where it is.

But I'll tell you one thing: I do not love leaving my house at 7:07 - meaning I have to wake up at 6:06 - just to get to work around 7:27.

NOT MY CUP OF TEA.

It's actually quite boring once I wake up enough to appreciate the morning commute in its full regalia. So boring, in fact, that I am going ahead and writing this post half way through the day, sure that nothing that follows could possible bore me quite so much.

Let me tell you about it.

First, the sun is just barely coming up, so it's shining right in my eyes. Like, so directly into my eyes that it's impossible to see all the pink and yellow and purple surrounding it. Silly sunrise.

Second, all along my road are SUVs and vans and other evidences of family life, and wouldn't you know it? There's the school bus. So many little coats and hoods. I am assuming their are children inside, but I really have no proof of that. There are big coats too, and I assume those are parents, and they are far more boring, so far more relevant to this entry.

Third, the traffic. I was so bored this morning, that I took the time to imagine what the traffic looks like from above. Do you think we look like ants all in a row? Or more like spiders because we move so fast? Or maybe we look like praying mantises because we are all so bored.

Forth, there are always people running around when I'm driving to work. Now, I don't pretend to know their reasons, but I can only surmise that they must have the worst - or else most boring - lives, to feel the incessant need to run when there is nothing chasing them, and no prize at the end. Running I believe is the epitome of boredom.

But I have to stop now, because when I got to work, life became so vibrantly interesting, that it no longer fits the theme of this series.

My Boring Life, Day 10,000

Sometimes I look back at my blog stats and realize a trend: the times that I have the most "hits" tend to be some of the hardest times in my life. And all that time in between - was that just my boring life?

Well, call me crazy, but I am going to try something.

I am going to start writing about My Boring Life.


Starting with today, because why not.


Today we start with...

The DMV.

Do I even need to say anything else? Seriously.

I did manage to see some interesting things tho, and have at least two amusing interactions.

1. They set up a mirror next to the backdrop for the photos. Presumably they pretend to care that people don't necessarily WANT their I.D. photos to look like mug shots. Who knew. 
2. At least 5 (obviously different) ethnicities represented in a group of ~30.
3. 3 different languages being spoken.
4. Nervous teenagers trying to convince bored driving instructors why they deserve to be legally allowed to manage instruments of death. 
5. A little girl running around talking to everyone except me. She just stared at me, shaking her phone screen protector til it made a weird rattling noise. Until I shook a paper at her and she asked me, "Why are you shaking that paper at me?" Not one to be disarmed from my typical sass by a 3-year-old, I replied, "Why are you shaking your thing at me?" She looked at me, scowled, grinned, looked around like she got caught, and ran away.
6. All the bored-looking tellers/clerks. How do they not literally die of boredom every single day?
7. An old man trying to graciously figure out a self-service renewal machine. Poor guy..
8. My teller getting the idea to eat powdered donuts before and act crazy during his next review. Do I make anyone else feel like doing cocaine, or is it just him??

There you have it. My Boring Life. Day more-or-less 10,000.

In other news, no one did cocaine in the making of this blog post, and I am now a legal resident of the State of Wisconsin.

Yay?

The Familiar Puzzle Undone

There has been a puzzle sitting undone on my coffee table for almost a month.

Normally, a 1000-piece puzzle would take me a week to finish. Normally the colors separate themselves before my eyes – the shades become clear, the shadows compliment beautifully. Normally the shapes stand out on their own – the corners pointing themselves to their destination and the curves winding their way into their partner pieces. Normally the patterns seem to draw lines across the whole and through my mind – edges forming natural borders and each individual piece forming a distinct part of that easily-recognizable and easily-creatable whole.

Normally.

Yet somehow, this time, the puzzle sits; the colors blend, the shapes meld, the patterns swirl slowly into an ambiguous clutter of cardboard and empty spaces.

It has been a long time since I have been in once place for so long.

My days used to stand out – each one strong and colorful – replete with new face, new foods, new feelings, and new places. My thoughts used to flow simply from one to the next, pointing themselves along the lines of each new subway track, flickering hopefully and colorfully with the landing lights at each new airport. My feelings used to curve palpably from highs to lows and back again – uninhibited, each forming an easily-recognizable part of the Whole that was me.

But nothing is “normal” anymore.

I see new faces every day. But each day leads seamlessly into the next with the same coworkers, the same neighbors, the same bus drivers, and even the same bus passengers.

My thoughts now flow on countless levels – each project, person, and now-familiar place creating deeper and deeper furrows into my aching mind.

My feeling struggle ceaselessly against the rising tide of a life that is become so familiar that it forces me to dig deeper in order to go where I have never been before.

And I wonder – how is it that so many people have only ever lived this life?

The slow suffocation of familiarity that calls me to work ever harder to find the thrill of the New that kept me alive as each colorful piece fell into its own curves. Would I never feel the slow ache of the Old, had I never felt the explosive rapture of the New?

So I think to myself that perhaps those who have learned to love the faces of their familiar lives, are the wise ones afterall.

But the puzzle remains undone - full of palpable empty spaces.

Writing About Writing: When the Words are Lost

The last three months have been a glorious torture.

I want to write. I NEED to write.

But for the first time in my life I am overwhelmed by the immense impossibility of expressing what is inside. I come home from work, full of thoughts, fears, hopes, experiences, and like that twelve-year-old child unable to wield a paint brush to her own satisfaction, I stare at my fingers as they lie numb on the keyboard. I NEED to express all of what is inside – if I keep it there, it will destroy me. But the words won’t come.

I start to write, it feels like sweet release. But then.

The thoughts tangle. The feelings drown out the words. Like long strands of colorful thread that I cannot seem to isolate, my words become knotted and undistinguishable. A thought here, a feeling there. An anecdote that leads only to a loose end and a profound realization that turns back into the chaos with no resolution.

Writing for me was always the art form that allowed me to makes sense of everything. I could never seem to say all that I needed through painting, and drawing only seemed to stunt the progression of my thoughts. Music made me cry because I felt so much, and expressed so little. And dancing was simply never enough.

But writing!

With the words flowing from my heart through the filters of my questions, musings, and surprising conclusions, I captured the world! My mind cleared, my heart stilled, and the world became knowable; expressible.

And now, as I sit staring blankly at a vacant screen, my mind and heart raging but my fingers still, I wonder if I will have the stamina to push through this unexpectedly severe and profoundly painful setback. The colors and threads blur and run together forming a swirl of grey. A threatening cloud.

What if my last and most sacred form of self-expression is simply – gone?

Letting the Words Escape

The Journey Back

It’s been a couple years since I really wrote anything.

No journaling. It’s better to let those feeling come and go than to memorialize them for future me to re-feel.

No personal emails, letter, cards, or even postcards. What could I possibly have to say?

No blogging. (But you knew that.) No revealing myself. No letting the inside out.

Writing for me is a uniquely personal art. Whether it’s a birthday card, an academic essay, or a blog post, I ruminate creatively for some time before attempting to let the words escape, capturing them forever in words as black and white as they are colorful. The words I write are the gifts I give to any reader who should stumble upon them, a product of my thoughts, experiences, beliefs, and heart.

And when that heart was broken, overwhelmed with a pain that no words can begin to describe, I fell silent. I felt silenced. I felt unworthy to open my mouth - to pick up my pen – scared that those words I used to love sharing would be poisoned. Haunted by the knowledge that anything pouring from my heart would be blackened, evoking a response of suffocating loss that, unbeknown to the unsuspecting reader, echoed the very depths of my broken person.

So I stayed silent.

For two years.

Learning the internal lessons of unprecedented loss.

And learning to once again deem my words worthy of expression – even those words tinged with brokenness. Because who among us is not at least a bit broken?

Crossing the Summit

Now the words have slowly begun to return.

And with them came the fear. The fear that no one would accept them. The fear that I had lost my skills. The fear that I would never succeed in their proper expression. The fear that no one would notice.

The fear that someone would.

See, I told myself I was waiting until I found the right subject, the right medium, the right audience. Should I update my personal blog or my travel blog? Serious or amusing? English or Spanish? Should I write for my friends or try to gain an internet following?

But all of those questions served to cover up my real fear. My fear that if I wrote, no matter the topic, venue, or reader, I would shine through. Me. In all my brokenness. And that people would see.

Me.

See me. My life, my fears, my inconsistencies, my dreams, my failures, my heart, my loss.

Me.

And the fear is legitimate. When I write, I write with my heart. If people want to see, they will see. Everything.

But I am done being afraid of that.

Where the Journey Leads

Who knows?

What I know is that I am ready to start writing again. About me.

No more separating my personal and travel blogs. Traveling is an integral part of who I am, and who I am defines my traveling, so from now on, I will write from my heart. Whether the topic is work, culture, dinner, family, or mountains, I will write my words, and you will be able to find them here.

Where the Journey Starts

With gratitude.

My heart is overwhelmed with gratitude for all the people who have followed my wanderings this far, and I cannot wait to continue the journey with you all! Also, for all the experiences I have been able to gather – not everyone has the chance to really live, and you all know I’m taking my chance and running with it. And finally, I am so grateful for all of those who continuously give me hope by their kindness, honesty, and patience.

This seems like a fitting way to start. Maybe my heart isn’t so black after all.

Backpacking: A Practical - and Humorous - Definition

The first time I heard the term "backpacking," I thought it referred to mountain men roughing it down the Pacific Crest Trail with a backpack the size of a medium-size adult complete with a tent, gallons of sun screen and insect repellent, dehyrdrated meat substitutes, and enough water for a week.

It dawned on me a bit further down the road that my assumed definition was a bit off.

And that I had actually been backpacking for years without realizing it. 

(Talk about an ego boost! I felt pretty cool for a few minutes.)

When you think of backpacking, what mental image do you get? Are you in my camp, with the unshaven mountainmen and their weathered packs, or do you see a sunburned college freshman on summer break trying to hitchhike across Europe with their 45L Osprey and Chacos?

Or maybe your mental image is a rag-tag group from the US, Chile, Uruguay, and Holland carrying enough boxed wine for a weekend... Or maybe that's this image.

A relatively new term, "backpacker" and "backpacking" are not in official dictionaries yet, but thankfully Urban Dictionary and Google have some wisdom to share.


Backpacking: "Traveling around with your backpack on your back." 
Backpacker: "A person who travels or hikes carrying their belonging in a backpack."


As it turns out, I've been "backpacking" since I was about 12: all those family road trips, college weekend getaways, spontaneous visits to the parents'... And it had nothing to do with dehydrated biscuits or sunburned hitchhiking. (Or boxed wine, unfortunately. Thanks for everything, Chile and your cheap, delicious wine!)

After a few months of using the label proudly, however, I started feeling that this definition of backpacking really does not do justice to my form of traveling. Because for serial backpackers, it's not just a method of carrying our stuff - or lack thereof.

It's an ideology - a lifestyle. 

Last week, as I prepared for a panel discussion of backpacking - in which the panel consisted of me, myself, and I - I asked me and myself how we should define "backpacking." (Myself responded by asked me and I the same question again, but in Portuguese..) How could I sum up my entire lifestyle and the ideology that inspires it in a few simple words? (Words I know in Portuguese, no less..)

After much self-examination, typing and erasing, I came up with the following definition:

"Going to new places and spontaneously doing new things that scare you, knowing that the excitement, experience, and knowledge you are gaining are worth any potential discomfort, risk, and sacrifice. With your stuff in a backpack, naturally."

(A terrible translation would go something like... Indo por outros lados, fazendo coisas novas espontaneamente que te deixa com medo, com certeza que a empolgação, experiencia e conhecimento que você ganha valem tudo o desconforto, risco e sacrificio. Levando as coisas na mochila.." Portuguese-speaking readers, please forgive my feeble attempts!)

Where did I get that? Let's take it phrase by phrase.


"Going new places..."

The whole reason we backpack is to explore. You can backpack in the same place your entire life if you like, but the goal is generally to step out of the ordinary and into the new.

If you get lucky - or step far enough out of your ordinary - you might encounter an enchanted place where the Andes come alive - where the wind sings you to sleep, the clouds wrap you in icy warmth, the rocks watch over you at night, and the grass wakes you...wispering the heart-wrenching stories of centuries of Incan lives, lived and lost.

"...spontaneously doing new things..."

Backpacks leave your hands free.

I mainly take advantage of this to scroll through cheap-flight apps and practice whichever language Doulingo suggests for the day.

But seriously.

Although for many of us, our backpacks weigh more than we do, take half a day to pack and 15 minutes to situate so we can walk without collapsing, (I may or may not be speaking from personal experience here...) the idea is that we can be ready for anything and everything in little time and with minimal effort or planning.

Hands-free traveling FTW!

"...that scare you..."

This is a bit of a niche in the backpacking community. It is entirely possible to backpack without ever attempting anything that scares you.

But the beauty of being ready to leave at a moment's notice is that you can do anything you want and never see any of the witnesses again. You think I'm being sarcastic? The things no one you will ever meet have seen would tell you I am entirely serious right now.

The perfect time to try things you never had the courage to try before.

Guess who was scared as sh!t to get up there and try to sing Adele?

"...knowing that the excitement, experience, and knowledge you are gaining..."

There is no thrill like knowing you are the first white person to ever attend an annual local event, there are no words for the love you feel when you show up in a new place and a total stranger hugs you simply because you are a fellow solo traveler, and there is no teacher like the real world - a world more real than you can possibly imagine rolling your cushy suitcase along the air-conditioned and stylishly decorated hallways of LAX or Incheon (International Airports).

It's not about the impression you leave, it's about the life you gain from each new experience, each new place.

"...are worth any potential discomfort, risk, and sacrifice..."

Abreviated list of potential discomforts, risks, and sacrifices:

• no bed to call your own
• mosquitos
• not liking the local food
• travelers' diarrhea (It's as bad as it sounds.)
• public restrooms (Not even going to get into it.)
• missing important events at home
• running out of money
• going the wrong direction on a bus/metro line
• subsequently being more lost than you even knew was possible
• not having WiFi to get you unlost
• inability to communicate with the people around you (to get unlost, or for any other purpose)
• terrible internet connections
• being sick in a hostel (the worst, THE WORST)
• oppressive heat
• unusual and over-powering smells
• misunderstandings with people you left behind
• meeting soul friends ... and saying goodbye the next day
• giant cockroaches (seriously, Brasil?!)
• dehydration - because who knows what water you can drink safely?

I bet you can't guess how I know about those things...

It's an oddly bittersweet experience to leave someone behind, and leave a giant piece of your heart with them.

"With your stuff in a backpack, naturally."

About 6 years ago I was sitting in a dorm room with one of the coolest friends, and he said something that inspired me more than I could begin to realize in the moment: "By the time I graduate, I want to be able to fit all of my stuff into this trunk." (Queue motion at the black, hard plastic, sticker-covered trunk set up as a dinner table between us.)

My exact thought: "Impossible."

For me, anyway. 

(Time has yet to tell if it is possible for him. Also, if you're reading this...you know who you are. Thank you. So much. Love always!)

But I was wrong. 

Anything is possible.

Because here I am, my life in my giant blue backpack, risking all of that discomfort and making all of those sacrifices, because, well... Who hasn't dreamt of giving it all up to meet soul friends, to hear the Andes' stories, and to see the sun sink into the Pacific waves only to rise from the Atlantic swells?

Viva Andahuaylillas

The sun was hot on my back as we sat and discussed the world’s problems and possible solutions. The plaza was nearly empty except for us. Every few minutes a child would run through late to school, or a motortaxi would buzz by in a loud but lazy fashion. I’d walked through that plaza countless times by day and night, it was always tranquil and beautiful with a dignity that only centuries of history and life can bring.

When I walked through with my friends we greeted everyone we saw - police officers, shop owners, children. My “cara de gringa” shone out from the crown and people watched us everywhere we went wondering “Who is she? Why is she here? And who brought her here - is he Peruvian? A tour guide?” But they never ask me. They smile shyly and respond quietly to my greetings.

When I walk through alone they stare even harder, and sometimes they whistle.

But today is different.

Today as the Andean sun beat down on my shoulders I realized that I was not alone. That across the plaza, centered around the church and a few vendors selling their artisanal products, there were a couple vans full of white people. They walked slowly from their vans, boldly labeled “Servicio Turistico,” to the church, back to their vans to fish sunscreen or cameras out of their backpacks, and then on to the vendors to haggle their way to the cheapest price possible.

Did they even know that half way across the Plaza, we were sitting, observing? Did it cross their minds that their was more to the scene than the church and the vendors? Did they even consider the fact that they were the only people in cars, the only people in that corner of the square, and that they only saw 100 square feet of our marvelous little pueblo?

Did they wonder what else is here?

As my sun burned cara de gringa watched them wander their 100 square feet like little rats in a cage, I felt overwhelmed with two emotions. Sadness and gratitude.

Sad for the tourists who would never really see Andahuaylillas. Sad for the residents who would never get any of the money that the tourists had paid to come to their town and see their church. Sad for the tourists who think they are getting to know the Peru that I am still barely discovering after months of slow and steady exploration. Sad for the residents who think that all gringos do is come, take pictures, pay the tour agency, underpay the artisans, and leave.

But grateful.

Grateful that out of the all gringos, I was the one sitting away and observing. I was the one who knew what the plaza looks like under a full moon. The one who knows where the police station is and where to find gelatinas and fried chicken. The one who they all stare at because I’m not at the church taking pictures.

Grateful that with time, they have slowly begun to accept that I am here. Grateful for those who shake my hand and welcome me to their town, their lives. Grateful for the respect and dignity I am learning from them. Grateful for the beautiful sunrises and breathtaking stars that I experience every day in their little slice of paradise.

Grateful for the comfortable room I have that has a window facing east so every morning I am treated to the sun shining warmly on my face. Grateful, even, for the shower that only has cold water, and the bathroom that is a hole in the ground. Grateful for the crooked ladder and the noisy, smelly chickens who live below me.

Grateful for the chance to learn Quechua in exchange for teaching English. Grateful for the opportunity to exchange a few kilos of organic potatoes for fresh fried chicken. Grateful for the kitchen I can use to make tea in the morning and cook dinner for my friends in the evening. Grateful for the fresh air, the picturesque mountains, the cold breeze, and the hot sunshine.

Grateful for the chance to live the adventure of a lifetime.

Beth's Handy-Dandy-Super-Secret-Money-Saving-Travel-Tips

From my friends at home it usually sounds something like this, "Ohh, that's nice - I wish I had the money to travel like you do!" And from my friends abroad, (who often have different standards for what is tactful or not) "Wow, you must be rich to travel like that!"

Either way, I hear it all the time: allusions to what my consistent traveling must indicate about my financial state.

Without going into detail about my bank account or income, I'll just say up front - I am not "rich" by very many people's terms.

When people make comments like those, I'm always tempted to go off about how nearly everyone in the US is "rich", or about how people could travel more if they were willing to give up unlimited data or weekly shopping trips. I also have to swallow my comments about how it's not as easy or romantic as it looks, how I spend less money traveling than most people do on their monthly phone bills, how staying in a HOSTEL is different than staying in a HOTEL, etc., etc., etc.

Instead of going off on any of those rants - I'll save those for another post *wink* - I decided to let you in on Beth's handy-dandy-super-secret-money-saving-tips.

My philosophy of money-saving is this: Saving money inherently means that we pinch pennies and make sacrifices - what you spend on, and what you forfeit is your prerogative, but here are a few general guidelines I've traditionally followed while at home to prepare for my next adventure.

1) Coffee/Alcohol
I'm not a big drinker unless I'm working out and the drink is water, so this one isn't so hard for me.
I don't believe it's a good idea to entirely cut out things that give us innocent pleasure, so I still buy myself the occasional beer or latte - my drinks of choice - but try to limit myself to one or two per week.
It's a simple, effective way to save a small amount every month.

2) Clothing: Secondhand (almost) everything
We all know that our clothing can make a very important first impression. It can make us feel confident and attractive, comfortable or uncomfortable, out-of-place, or any number of positive or negative emotions, so it's important to pay attention to what you buy.
That being said, most of us buy way more clothing than we actually wear, and most of us also spend a good chunk of our paychecks on those un-used clothes.
So my solution is to buy secondhand. And only buy what I know I need. I take my time, look through every rack, try on everything that interests me, I buy an entire season's wardobe for $40-$70.

3) Food/Eating out: Just Don't It
Food is amazing - very few people love to eat more than I do, I promise!
Eating out, however, not so much my thing. It's good, but it's not great; and usually, for the price of a nice meal at a mid-range restaurant, you could buy and make all your meals for the entire day - or if you're into PB&J, an entire week.
I don't starve myself, but I realize that saving $25 per week by not eating out more than once or twice, allows me to try a couple, or maybe a dozen, new plates or pastries wherever my next destination may be.

4) Library/Redbox vs. Netflix
Having fast WiFi and limitless entertainment is almost a staple of life for most people here in the US. But for me, it was one of those things I decided to sacrifce - but not entirely! I just marched right down to the Public Library, showed some proof of residence and had an entire world of instruction, entertainment, and history opened to me.
And for those times when the present came calling, Redbox it was! $1 per night? I can swing that once a week.

5) Driving vs. Walking
Yes, until a month ago, I had a car. And I used it when I needed to. But that wasn't every day. I purposefully lived within a mile of where I spent most of my time, and walked.
Not only did I save a tremendous amount of money on car maintenance and gas, I got plenty of exercise and fresh air every day and never had to feel guilty or pressured to buy a gym membership.

6) Phone & Connectivity (US and abroad)
It's important to stay connected, for me, for my family, friends, followers, etc. That being said, I found a very cheap way of doing it... It's called Republic Wireless, and this is not an ad.
What I'm saying is that I paid $200 2 years ago for my first smart phone, an Otterbox case, charger and everything else. Since then I've been paying ~$12 per month while in the US, and ~$5 while abroad.
Is it the most advanced phone ever? No. Do I get cell reception when I'm hiking in the deserts of southern Peru? Well, if I have WiFi, then yes. Does it perform the most vital functions of a phone while allowing me to pay less than %20 of what many people pay? Absolutely.

7) Entertainment
It doesn't have to consume your whole paycheck!
Like eating? Buy some fresh ingrediants and learn to cook amazing things!
Like exercising? But a set of weights, work out with YouTube, go hiking, biking, walking, jogging...DANCE.
Like reading? LI.BRA.RY.
Like art? Pen and ink. Paper and pencil.
Like alcohol? Yeah...you're SOL.

*coughs*

But seriously, instead of saying you don't have the money, determine what you spend more on than you really need, and sacrifice a little pleasure now, for some life-changing fun later!

Exploring in Our Own Backyard

For nearly 20 years we've been driving past Edgar Evins State Park, so when my brother suggested going camping there last weekend, I thought, "Why not?"

 It was fun and while driving the miles into the park to the campground, we passed a sign that said "Trail Head."

 So when it came time find a hiking spot, Sam and I knew right where to go.

 It was even more beautiful than we imagined: 

...green water, purple flowers, blue skies...

 ...rock sculptures...

 ...bridges to nowhere...

 And then we branched out, got off the beaten path and climbed to the top of the hill.

 The view from the top was well worth the climb.

 Even to the smallest details.

...although it seems like someone before us had thought this was the perfect place for a snack...

 The feet just wanted to take a moment to rest and ponder.

 I'll let you imagine what we were pondering - it was profound and complex, and...

 ...beautiful.

 Then on the way back, I took a few "odd shots" to show Sam how I see the world.

 It's a beautiful place.

 When we finally made it down to the water, we took a minute to observe and reflect and share our thoughts from the hike.

 Thoughts on letting go, moving on, letting ourselves be happy.

 Like I said, profound and complex and beautiful.

The Sacred Valley - in One Day

As this is my third stay in Cusco, I am sometimes tempted to think that I’ve seen and done it all. This is, of course, far from the truth. When Esther and PJ (sister and bro-in-law) decided to come visit me, I got the chance to explore several famous sites with them for the first time - including a day in the Sacred Valley. We took our time and lots of pictures, and got to explore Ollantaytambo, the Salinas, Moray, Chinchero, and many miles of spectacular scenery in between. 

The day started in Cusco where we took a combi (one of PJ's bucket list titems!) from Puento Rosario. As it was a holiday, seats weren’t easy to find, but we were soon on our way out of the city toward the steep hillsides and incredible views of the Sacred Valley. Upon our arrival in Urubamba, my friend told me, “Stay here – I’m going to go find you a taxi, but if they see you with me, they’ll start at a higher price.” Thanks to Raúl, we were soon comfortably situated in a reasonably-priced taxi that we would use the rest of the day.  

As we made our way along the road to Ollantaytambo our driver pointed out a mountain in the shape of a frog (we thought it looked like an octopus, but either way it was interesting), and answered our many questions regarding directions, weather, traditions, and the current holiday (Day of the Living, or All Saints Day as we know it in the US). He explained the story behind a particularly noticeable shrine: decades earlier there had been a string of particularly lethal accidents on that curve, and the local people believed that the earth was drawing the blood of the victims. They accordingly set up a special shrine to counterbalance the bad energy coming from the earth, and had subsequently seen a drop in the mortality rate. I couldn’t get a picture, but I’ll never forget the matter-of-fact manner in which our driver-friend explained the story. 

We made it to the ancient fortress in a drizzle of fog, had a small snack, decided where to meet our taxi, and then had to make the ever-confusing decision regarding which Tourist Ticket we should buy. We all decided to go for the 70 sole, 2-day, Sacred Valley ticket which includes Ollantaytambo, Moray, Chinchero, and Pisac. As we began the climb up thru the ruins of the citadel of Ollantaytambo, the rain started and continued for half an hour - just enough to clear the site and leave us alone, but gently enough to not cause real discomfort. We continued exploring, found what we decided to call the “Back Door of Ollantaytambo,” a few solitary cows, and a lot of different kinds of stairs. As we wandered around the ruins we couldn’t help but feel that strength and grandeur of the structure and the people who had built and inhabited it.  

I stayed to explore while Es and PJ wenr to enjoy the quaint town of Ollantaytambo where they decided to try chicha morada and - no surprise at all here - loved it. We met at the taxi and as we made our way to our next stop, the Salinas, we got to see the famous hotel pods on the side of the sheer cliff the rises next to the road to Ollantaytambo. 

By the time we reached the Salinas, the sun had come out, giving the salt flats the tremendous shimmery effect that can only be experience in person. While exploring the paths that wind throughout the flats over the entire mountainside, we got to listen in to a tour guide explain how they controlled the water flow. Turns out that they use small rocks to block the channels of water, and in this way refill flats that have evaporated sufficiently, and block off full ones. The time we spent in the Salinas left us impressed by its truly unique and singular charm. 

By this time it was getting toward early afternoon and I realized that although we had been snacking all along the way, our driver hadn’t eaten anything… He accordingly gratefully accepted my offering of the dried foods I’d bought from the friendly lady above the flats, and we were on our way again. Next stop: Moray. 

As we stepped out of the taxi and walked toward the edge of the ridge, the warm sunny air was disturbed by an incredibly chilly wind. We donned our jackets, and took off along the path that led down into the circular terraces. At one point the path split and we took the road that led to a miniature version of the famous site behind us. As Americans, we are used to railing everywhere, signs that say “Do not touch,” and any number of other prohibitive measures – the openness of this site impressed us. As we wandered back toward the main attraction, we encountered more of the stairs built into the wall that we had first found in Ollantaytambo..and a sign that said “DO NOT PASS.” Nothing as small as a wooden sign was going to stop me from climbing down those stairs one terrace at a time. I only had two more to go when the security guard at the top started yelling at me. Oh well – it was worth a try… As my sister and I climbed back thru each microclimate, we marveled at how quiet and still the place was, almost as if the energy of the plants that had once grown in each terrace was still emanating – overpowering decades of human presence. 

By the time we got back to the car, it was late afternoon and we were ready to hurry to our last stop: Chinchero. Fortunately our wonderful driver-friend knew a shortcut. Though I’ve never been on a road quite like this one, we made it into the town in good time, and our first stop was a road-side stand where we bought choclo and queso, one for each of us and one for our patient, hungry driver. 

The sun was starting to set as we climbed up into the ruins of Chinchero. Unlike the rambling fortress of Ollantaytambo and the organic circles of Moray, Chichero is severely symmetrical. The straight rock terraces build up from the valley floor, where children and llamas play, to the Catholic church built on top of the ruins, and there is ample space in between for families to picnic and friends to play football (that’s soccer for you American readers…). The last horizontal rays of the setting sun and the children playing in the ruins of an ancient civilization gave the whole place a sensation of ancient life.  

When we finally got back to the car for last time, we were all tired and ready to get home. The day had been long and fulfilling, but it was time for dinner and some relaxation before bed. After all, we still had Pisac to visit the next day…!