The Salar

I took a trip to the Salar de Uyuni this weekend–the largest salt flat in the world. It is a 4,000+ sq. mile expanse of white.  It looks like a thin layer of snow… made out of salt. Kind of like you’re standing on the moon. A big, flat, white, optical-illusion-y moon.

 

We made it to the Salar from Cochabamba by 4-hr bus to Oruro, then a 7-hour, totally bitchin’ train to Uyuni. We traveled along the altiplano of Bolivia, which is a dry wild west of a place that randomly includes a huge lagoon full of pink flamingos. The train was fantastic. My Polish travel companion mentioned that it was nicer than in Poland and I had to agree. The tickets were cheap and it ran so smoothly. And you knew when it was coming and it was on time and you had a seat and… man, it felt great to be riding one again.

Me and Steve about to board the train from Oruro to Uyuni

I’d heard a great deal about how the altitude of La Paz will get ya, but I wasn’t really expecting it in Uyuni. Turns out, the pueblo and the flats are at an elevation of 16,500 ft. That’s face-tingling, short-breath, headache elevation. And as it happens, I am one of those people who don’t take to it very well. So despite buying a huge bag of coca immediately in Oruro and consuming a good deal of it on the train, taking altitude medicine and a lot of water, I still felt pretty weird most of the trip. Alas, it was worth it. Because I got to see things like this:

piles of salt in the Salar

Incahuari Island in the middle of the Salar. It’s covered in coral and massive scary cactus.

Me, next to the massive scary cactus

fun with optical-illusion and the Japanese guys who were on our tour

“Eyes of the Salar”

Notes on returning to Cbba after the Salar:

-Haven’t written about daily life here as most days I spend a lot of time treading water.  I listen to a lot of folk music, am awaiting word on grad school, and am still trying to learn Spanish.

-Spanish is going really well.  I feel confident doing whatever I need to do in town, and have fluid conversations all day long with locals.  Today, for the first time in a big group class I spoke up. The subject was Dia de los Muertos, and similar traditions in our countries.  I ended up weirdly arguing with a Polish priest about how halloween wasn’t evil.  Afterword, a professor said I’d done well, which was a much-needed confidence builder.  I was confused at what he was talking about until I got home a read this crazy shit: Halloween is Evil, says Church in Poland

-I came to the conclusion that perhaps my pent-up anger living here regarding machisimo culture, rabid dogs on every corner, and a general uneasiness has perhaps manifested itself in giving me a spunkier personality.  Debating in Spanish is FUN.

-Anyway, I have 3 weeks or so left here and then I’m going to Peru and Chile.  Where I plan to visit Triz, cafe-sit, train-ride, beach-lay, explore and listen to music like this.   I am determined to find romantic South America.

Hace 7 semanas: Cbba

Will the uncomfortable over-take the good of being abroad?

I am beginning to think I got spoiled on Eastern Europe. Man, I hate admitting it, I hate writing it, but I’ve been thinking it since I got here. I am not sure if Cochabamba has quite lived up to my romantic notion of South America. I have been living the fast life here lately but this week has been the departure of several friends and the onset of an unidentifiable Bolivian bug. Therefore, I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself, and would like to address a few issues that I don’t think are uncommon. I’m not sure if there is a pretty, simple solution to any of these wicked feelings either. It’s like how there was never an answer to dealing with traumatizing aspects of East Africa, there’s not really an answer to feeling awkward–other than time.

Time, unfortunately I don’t have a lot of here. And perhaps that is the key to all of this. If you want to get to know a place and stop bitching about not being able to flush the toilet paper, you should probably stay more than a few months.

#1 Lack of Control
Always an issue when abroad, especially when living with locals. I remember having this problem in Poland. But Poland was sooooo romantic. So it didn’t matter that much. But I came up with the mantra “always wear good shoes and bring water” because you neeeever know how long it will take when you go somewhere, or what sort of conditions you’ll be in. I mean this in terms of both grocery-store outtings and hikes in the woods. One should treat both outtings in the same manner when going with locals. Seriously. This has started making me crazy, mainly just in my daily life. My people here are so damn nice though I just can’t complain, I don’t want to offend anyone or make anyone else feel uncomfortable. So I will just sulk here, complaining to my mother via Skype.

#2 Machismo
Lord have mercy, those assholes who cat-call me on a daily basis while I walk to Spanish class… ugh, it’s such a small thing, but it’s such an annoying, power-struggle, fucked-up thing. Really, are you that lame that you have to make a foreigner feel more uncomfortable so that you can feel more manly EVERY FUCKING DAY? Way worse than in Nairobi, when usually it was just “Muzungo, what’s up.” (“Whitey” also annoyed me a lot.) No, it’s not a compliment. Don’t talk to me on the street, asshole. Except Dona Zupierta, the lady who sells me candy in front of the pharmacy. She’s cool.
#3 I can’t think like normal here
It takes so much of an effort to feel normal here. All of my energy goes into keeping my brain on some sort of equilibrium, between learning a new language, living with a host family, and trying to plan for the future. I don’t have much left for creativity. Instead I opt to hang out with local characters and friends from the institute because I can’t really stand staying home. Ah, this is always the problem with living abroad. The balance between work and fun, between a comfortable home life and having enough friends to not go crazy. Although frankly, this is a problem in life in general. Here though it’s amplified, like everything. The good result of this though is that…

#4 The Siestas are pretty bitchin’
Geeze, lazy South America, por favor! The siestas are sooo good. I love laying around here listening to Johanna Newsome and Nina Simone, not thinking about anything. They are necessary because…

#5 I am here to learn Spanish

And, let’s turn this blog in another direction. Spanish-learning is going really well. I absolutely hated it for the first 4 1/2 weeks or so, but then suddenly I could speak. And it’s easier to remember things. I need to study more, of course, and will once my headache goes away and I stop having the runs every few hours. But seriously, it’s the coolest thing ever. I am not afraid to go to the lab by myself to get my blood and other things tested, I’m not afraid to take a cab anywhere, I’m not afraid to travel in Peru and Chile in a month.

Because I realized I can leave within my 90-day visa. So, I’m backpacking in Peru and Chile in a month–and I am going to find what I am looking for on this continent. If it’s colonial-style architecture and my friend Triz and trains and little costal towns then so be it. I do and will continue to make the best of Cochabamba–the little plazas, the discotecas, and my Bolivian friends–but I need to see more of S.A. I’m not going to let the first scene of Bolivia in Butch Cassidy be my lasting impression.

I really really want to like it here. When I don’t, I kind of feel like I’ve failed. There’s a reason I came here. It was Spanish, but it was also to understand the people, the mentality, the whole… Bolivian thing. And, to have a good time. I think it could be possible if I lived here a longer time. But perhaps not. Maybe it’s because it all is too foreign.

I mean, I’m allowed to be shaken up, that’s okay.  It’s probably better.  Maybe if you don’t see the poverty, the daily struggles, it’s not worth going abroad.  You’re supposed to live as close to a local as you can, when you live with a family.  It is weird, and it will always be weird.  I need to accept the weird as normal and stop trying to feel “normal.”  Half the reason I go abroad is to be challenged like this.  I always chide the importance of travel on feeling insane, because then you can do some pretty important things if only it’s possible to let yourself.  There can’t be any real personal gain abroad without some rough times.

But why does it still always feel kind of fucked up and terrible in the moment?

I suppose it goes back to the romantic notion of travel. That you’re supposed to go abroad and find yourself or meet locals who change your world or whatever. Maybe it’s because I always knew this was a 4-month thing. Most of my other travels haven’t had an end-date.  Maybe it’s because this time I’ve got a few more reasons to go back to the US, involving a chico, sobrino and grad school.

Maybe it’s because Bolivia is really really different than the US, than Nairobi, than Poland. And I thought it would be more similar. I thought I’d seen the craziest of the crazy in the bush of South Sudan, along those mafia-riddled borders of Ukraine, in Nairobi. But there are a lot of ways to live. And not all of them will make you feel super comfortable.

But I guess that is okay. I never really felt comfortable in Nairobi either. But I sure as hell gained a lot from that experience. It wasn’t a failure, and this isn’t either. It’s just being abroad. And that in itself is good, for something. For people, for patience, for forcing yourself to suck it up. For laying in bed in the hot Bolivian sun after class, and thinking about what’s next.

Perhaps fried bananas for dinner.

Monos, motos and mosquitos

Tags

Chapari Bolivia, Villa Tunari Bolivia

Chapari, Bolivia

I paused for a moment among the lush green jungle plants and listened to the lomos chirp in the trees around us. Putting my hand on a vine entangled next to a tree I closed my eyes in exhaustion. My entire body was dripping with sweat and water from the waterfall I’d jumped through earlier in the hike through the monkey park. When I re-opened my eyes my vision was blurry and I felt the all-encompassing pressure of dehydration in the jungle of Bolivia.

It was the monkey who stole our water bottle. He then proceeded to take off the cap and drink the water. They were not timid monkeys in the park, we learned when one climbed up my professor’s back and sat on her shoulders for several minutes–and then stole her phone.

The little brown monkeys were trouble

The black ones were pretty cuddly though

A priest, a decon and my professor accompanied me to Villa Tunari, a tourist pueblo in Chapari, part of the Bolivian jungle just a few hours outside of Cochabamba. The sun was rising and our blood alcohol was still high when we left Cochabamba last Saturday morning and drove through misty mountains in the coca-growing region of Bolivia.

Donde están los cocaleros?

Chapari is stunningly different than Cochabamba, Santa Cruz and Toro Toro, the other places I’ve visited in Bolivia. It is how I pictured Bolivia: lush green misty mountains, little outdoor restaurants serving fried yuka, and big open trucks full of campesinos rolling down the highway, passing you as you hold on for dear life to the driver of a moto-taxi, sans helmet.

Moto-taxi to the monkey park

Ah, it was beautiful. And the humidity was as good for my skin as the mosquito bites were bad for it. As usual, Bolivia offered raw adventure at a possible high mortality rate. But the Singani kept us rolling, the yuka kept us fed and the Armadillo my professor ordered at lunch the first day kept us on our feet.

And best of all, I found my first white veranda.

Toro Toro: Parque Nacional

Tags

Parque Nacional Toro Toro, Sophie Vodvarka, Toro Toro Bolivia

Two weeks ago I had “Cochabamba Day” off from school.  I found out last minute about a trip from a few folks at the Institute–to Toro Toro, a national park in Potosi.  I heard there were dinosaur footprints and caves and lots of Bolivian nature.  That was pretty much the extent of my information.  The tour was organized by a Bolivian man who owns a hostel in Toro Toro. It was the best way to go about visiting Toro Toro,  because I sure would have second guessed myself if I knew what was coming.

Camino from Cochabama to Toro Toro

Day 1: After a beautiful and treacherous 5-hour drive along a narrow winding road over cliffs, we made it to Toro Toro, an incredibly cute little village with Spanish style roofs.

Hostel in Toro Toro

The first hike we went on in Toro Toro was in a beautiful national park which hosted small caves, cave paintings, caverns and huge rock formations.  The hike was incredible and we saw different scenery at very turn.  It was a fairly easy walk for an hour or so, until the real excitement came when we neared the edge of a large cavern.

Beautiful Toro Toro

A huge rock rose up to our left, and our guide Felix excitedly told us in Spanish that we were going to climb it.  ”But don’t worry, we’ve prepared something for you!” he said.  Ropes? We guessed.  Or perhaps a ladder of some kind?  We would have to climb straight up next to a cliff, after all.

Free-climbing rocks next to a cliff in Toro Toro

But to our surprise and terror, their preparation instead was a small log propped straight up. This was used a foot-hold as we free-climbed the rocks with the helpful hand of our 5′ extremely athletic Bolivian guide.  As we hugged the side of the cliff trying not to look down, the reality hit that there was no other option to return, and well, it seemed like all of the Bolivians were doing fine… so after a helpful hand from Diego, who propped himself half-way up the rock and some Spanish instructions yelled from Felix, I shimmied my way to the top, where Kathy, Bill and I took a celebratory photo.

That beautiful walk ended with just enough light to see the ground, but not enough for the 1-hour bus ride again over treacherous roads to be in the light.  Even the least religious must have been saying some sort of novena on that drive.

Felix the tour guide pauses on a large rock near dusk in Toro Toro

Day 2: We awoke refreshed–likely due to fear and adrenaline, the following day.  Saturday was caving day.  We had heard vague stories of the cave from others, which mostly entailed wearing clothes that you could get dirty, and to not bring anything with you.  I’ve never really been Spelunking (and always picture Calvin and Hobbes when saying the word) and never had a huge desire to do it, but you know, when in Bolivia…

Heading down into the cave

I wish I had a photo of this cave, it was absolutely stunning.  We walked down into a cavern and suddenly the mouth opened wide as if we were looking at a National Geographic cover.  It was so beautiful, so unbelievable to stand before.

In the cave with Ted and Kathy (photo from Kathy)

Our group was decked out in hard-hats with lights, which I had no idea would be so absolutely necessary.  As we entered we climbed around huge boulders, following Felix and another guide who wore typical Quechua sandals made of old tires, into the abyss.  It was relatively painless until we came to a section of the cave that was so small we had to crab-walk and then slide down a slippery rock to get through.  This was the beginning of an adrenaline-charged adventure which included rappelling down several extremely slippery rocks into the dark, army-crawling on our sides through insanely tight spaces and frankly, using every possible position our bodies could be put in to make it through the rocks.

Inside the cave (photo from Kathy)

The cave was one hell of a good time.  Since I had nothing to compare it to, I didn’t realize that most caves like that have many more safety precautions, like lights and platforms, set up.  It was certainly dangerous and absolutely would never be a tour in the States without many consent forms signed.  But everybody just took it in stride.  The Bolivians were unphased, and a couple from the tour from Israel/Australia spoke about how these types of experiences are actually safer because your body is working so hard to keep you safe.  There is no safety net, so you have to take care of yourself.  It was a stunning test of strength and willpower, and I’m very glad I had such an experience.

About to rappel off the rock (photo from Kathy)

That being said, I don’t plan on ever doing it again.

At the hostel we lazed around that afternoon, walked around the sweet village and at night, played cards with Bolivians and drank local booze until far too late.

Southern Spain or Italy you say? Nope, it’s the pueblo where time stands still: Toro Toro, Bolivia.

Alejandro and Sergio, the adorable children of Marco played with us too, kicking a soccer ball around the lobby and asking us cute things in Spanish.  I met some Norwegians who live in La Paz, and played a funny Spanglish drinking game with the Bolivians.  We slept soundly that night.

Sergio and Alejandro

Day 3: The swimming caverns and waterfalls!  Bur first, dinosaur footprints!  There are TONS of dinosaur footprints outside of Toro Toro.  Tons.  They are right next to the village, totally uncovered, just hanging out there for the public to see.  It was incredible.  We saw omnivores, herbivores, pteradyctl’s and lord knows what else (Bill maybe you can help me out on the names…) along a stretch of probably 300 meters.

Dinosaur footprints! Massive!

More dinosaur footprints!

After seeing the footprints, we hit the hills again, taking a long walk through flat rock formations until we reached the cavern of Toro Toro, which I imagine looks a bit like the Grand Canyon.  There are over 700 stone steps built into the canyon.  They are extremely steep and have no hand-rail, and at points I felt as if I was walking into an abyss, and had to yet again let the adrenaline take hold of my fear that I would soon die a very bloody death among rocks in Bolivia.

Among the Jakaranda trees at the top of the canyon.

Finally, we reached the heart of the canyon, my legs stopped shaking, and we made our way through the boulders to the waterfalls and natural swimming holes.

Natural swimming pools

Oh, the piscinas.  They were so lovely.  Getting there consisted in another free-climb down, but oh it was worth it.  It is hard to believe sometimes that places like that exist.  The waterfalls were basically waterslides, and the pools were deep and perfect to hang around in.

Waterfalls!

It was a lovely afternoon of playing like little children among the natural beauty.  The way back up was interesting, at one point I had to again free-climb a boulder and had one foot in the hands of a Bolivian, one hand coming from above from a Norwegian, another hand vaguely on a rock and the other foot searching for something flat.  But 700+ steps back up the only memories were of those natural pools and waterfalls.

Swimming with the Bolivians

Despite all of the near-death experiences, the weekend of Toro Toro has been by far the best part of Bolivia, and may very well be the real jewel of these four months here:  Weekends trips to the Amazon, to national parks and Jesuit Missions, and clubbing with priests and Bolivians.

Suspending fear and rappelling through the abyss.

Toro Toro!

Straight into Bolivia

Day one Santa Cruz

Hola, Bolivia.  Ah to write and think in English… I can feel my temples relax finally.  I’ve been on a constant high of adrenaline since arriving in Cochabamba on Friday, trying to remember those words I learned in high school and college.  Trying not to sound like a child in Spanish.  

My culture shock here has been “fuerte.”  I spent my first several days in Bolivia in Santa Cruz de la Sierra.  Santa Cruz is not so interesting, so I explored streets and lay at the swimming pool at the hostel, drinking Paceña most of the time.  There I deferred the the anxiety of a new, very different country.  But anxiety hit hard last weekend.  I wrote about it, but I’m not sure if I want to taint my first blog on Bolivia by describing how I cried so much my eyes were swollen for my first day of class.  I’ll just say this: no matter how many places I go, no matter how many times I do it, it still hurts like hell at the beginning. 

On Monday I discovered that being around people doing the same thing is very comforting.  Also, throwing myself into studying is comforting.  I did it so much this week that I totally lost it in my last class today, I just couldn’t think anymore about Ir, Pensar or Querer.  My classes are pretty scattered this week too, which really makes it difficult to feel like you’re progressing.

Cochabamba

School isn’t the most exciting aspect of Cochabamba though.  It is a stunning city.  I flew in Friday from Santa Cruz.  As we approached the airplane dipped over mountains colored red by the evening sun into the brown valley of Cochabamba.  The airport is near the small mountain where the largest statue of Jesus in the world stands, Cristo de Concordia.  It was the first time in 5 days I felt that singular feeling, of seeing a scene so incredible, so new and hopeful, that everything else is worth it.

After some altitude adjusting, Sunday I got to know my host sisters, Daniela and Cecilia (Dani y Cecy) while we walked through Cochabamba during Dia de Pederasta.  Dia de Pederasta happens every 3 months in Bolivia.  On this day no cars are allowed on the road.  It was the perfect way to see the city for the first time.  Everybody was out on the street, riding bikes, rollerskating, eating street food and listening to concerts.  The pollution is so bad in Cochabamba that they really need days like that.  My host sisters are 21 and 23 and are both really sweet girls, who remind me in a way of my friend Triz, a Peruvian girl who was my lifeline to sanity for three months in Nairobi. 

Yo, Dani y Joslyn

I am encultrated here, perhaps more so than ever before.  I live with a local woman, Ana Maria (called Anita by friends) and Cecy and Dani.  They are very warm, welcoming people.  I have spent most nights hanging out with them at the kitchen table, studying and talking, learning about each other’s lives as much as we can with my broken Spanish.  My bedroom is outside of the main house, and has a bathroom connected.  It is simple and good.  I have an electric shower again and this time I know how it works.

Cochabamba is like no place I’ve been.  I find similarities between it and Nairobi, but it is still very different.  Around 2am the first night I flew into Santa Cruz I noticed it immediately, the smell of exhaust and dirt.   It smelled like my memory of Nairobi.  I am getting used to it, but the street I live on is terribly polluted.  I walk on it 20 minutes each way to class everyday and just today I was beginning to worry about its effect on my lungs.

Although, according to our orientation at the language Institute there are plenty of other things to worry about here: common amoebas and diseases, rabid stray dogs (seriously, one on every corner) street kids and purse-snatchers.  Some bastard tried to snatch my purse today, right outside of the Institute.  I was getting something out of my purse on my right side.  He zoomed by fast on his motorcycle on my left side.  He didn’t get it but it scared the hell out of me since my passport was in it today because I had to go to immigration earlier and straighten out my visa.  The asshole just grabbed my stomach thank goodness.  I walked quickly back to my house imagining how many different ways I could beat the hell out of the next person who tried to do it with the solid plastic water bottle and lunch pail Anita gave me.  

Circa de mi barrio

Frankly though, I had no orientation before I went to Nairobi and that was far cry worse than here.  Actually I’m glad I didn’t have an orientation there.  I would have been afraid all the time there, like I sort of am here.  I hate being afraid of the streets.  I always miss Europe for its safety in those situations. 

I have gotten a small dose of Europe this week though.  After class the past few days other people at the Institute and I have been going into the city centre for coffee and drinks to relax.  There are stunning squares here, full of Spanish architecture, palm trees and cafes.  We went to a place called Cafe Paris the other day and just like at Shakespeare and Sons in Prague, an old well-dressed white-bearded man sat reading the newspaper, smoking a cigarette, drinking his red wine.  He was striking—when outside the cafe, Quechua and Aymara women in traditional clothing sell their handicrafts, food and fresh-squeezed orange juice and beggars lie in wait for a few Bolivianos. 

Cochabamba is something else. I will have an easy one home with Anita tonight. I have studied enough today. I need to take care of my blistered, dirty feet and fingernail polish situation.  Something about walking down dirt sidewalks makes me feel badass, but I miss comfortable strolling. 

Dirt sidewalks were not made for strolling.

New Orleans… land of beautiful queens

Tags

Frenchman, New Orleans, Paul Simon Graceland, Sophie Vodvarka, Spotted Cat

I went on my first big American road trip last week.  St. Louis, Memphis, Oxford, Tuscaloosa, New Orleans, and a few little Southern in-between towns.

I like the South, the big skies and Jambalaya and the funky jazz.  New Orleans is all-around cool, with an atmosphere I can only vaguely compare with a combination of Lviv’s architecture and Nairobi’s liveliness and mixed cultures.

Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral, New Orleans

Before making it to New Orleans I got to spend a few days on the road and in Tuscaloosa, where my road-trip buddy Quin will be attending grad school.  It puts Lincoln to shame as a “college town” but seems to have a few good bars, great barbecue, and a pretty little river with steamboats. The steamboats!  Ah, Huck and Finn. 

Bama Bell on the Black Warrior river

I hope I will hear that it’s not a bad place to live, despite its plantation-esq sorority houses being as large as the department buildings at the University of Alabama (should I judge a place on that?  Was I in a sorority? Do I care?) and many many yards sporting Roll Tide flags. But, despite my aversion to college football, I caved and bought a little Crimson Tide onesie for my new little nephew Peter. I know he’ll just look soooooo cute.

We also stopped in Memphis on the way to Oxford.  Beale Street, the drinking street akin to Bourbon in New Orleans, was pretty fun.  We drank purple Abita beers and ate fried food.  We had a creative native Memphis homeless man charmingly offer to give us a guide of Beale Street.

Those first few days of driving were lovely, through winding small highways and farm towns, listening to blues and jazz.  We had to stop at Graceland, for reasons I can’t explain, and because it was on the way.  Paying homage to Molly and buying a TCB pin is reason enough.  We didn’t make it inside, but I did get to see Elvis’s jets.  Elvis had jets?  What a weird place.

We all will be received in Graceland.

But then New Orleans… I have suddenly discovered what everyone is talking about when they talk about the food.  The only other place I’ve traveled where the food was truly one of the highlights was Spain.  I definitely value fresh, healthy, interesting food, but I’m really not a foodie.  New Orleans awakened something in me, made me feel all those lectures from Anthony Bourdain by heart about wasting your time eating anything less than fantastic. I was constantly shocked how fresh the seafood was, how flavourful the creole seasonings, the gumbo, the effoute and the jamblaya were.  It kept us afloat under the sea of daiquiris and Abita.

Sophie Lee at the Spotted Cat

Our first night in New Orleans we went out on the main street in our neighborhood, the Marigny, called Frenchman.  Ugh, the music on Frenchman.  It was all fantastic.  After seeing a sexy blues singer, Sophie Lee, and sampling all the types of Abita, we walked the streets full of bars and music and stopped at a place just inside the French Quarter.  We weren’t there long before a man wearing waiter’s attire entered and sat down next to me.  He asked where we were from, and asked if we’d eaten yet.  I said no, that we were looking for a restaurant.  He offered to bring us jambalaya from his restaurant, so I gave him money.  Oh ye of little faith Quin told me we’d been ripped off after 15 minutes had passed, but our man kept his word, and we got a huge steaming plate of Jambalaya delivered while sipping our beers. 

Later we went dancing along Frenchman to funky jazz, then went in search of another waiter we’d befriended earlier in the night.  We looked for the bar on foot and then took a bicycle cab with the 10^th extremely friendly person we’d met that hour.  We found him at a cool place called Mimi’s that had tapas on the menu (Spain!)  It seemed like a good bar for Nola locals.

The next day we took the free ferry across the river to Algiers and went to a very chill little wine and cheese place.  A little wine drunk, we wandered the French Quarter, which resulted in some very cute photos (see above) and more drinking in the street.  We hit up Bourbon St. Friday night, filled with hedonists and daiquiris.  It was a fun party street, but a bit too… kitchy?  Like, it was the place everybody had to go to tell everybody else how crazy and naked and drunk it was.  Anyway, I got to dance again and drink a bunch of fruity things and we ended the night sitting on one of the bar’s second story ironwork verandas, watching the chaos below. 

Bourbon St., approximately 3am

A weepy goodbye at Louis Armstrong International airport ended my trip to the South.  Lincoln is bleak in comparison to the colors of New Orleans.  However, I fly to Santa Cruz in about a week.  Molly is in India.  I look forward to international skype sessions, my letter of invitation to Bolivia arriving, and a new South American life.

We sailed away

4th of July was spent this year at Lake Cunningham in Omaha with this cute boy, his family and some of their friends who were visiting from the east coast. 

It was my first time on a sailboat, and it was absolutely lovely.  We sailed late afternoon into nightfall, and as we brought the ship into dock a huge pink moon appeared amist the fireworks.

I have found another favourite way to travel.  Move over African motorbikes and Eastern European trains, sailing may just be it. 

Oh, it was a funny funny little thing.

 

In the dust of the day

And so it goes, life is too much fun to have spawned much creativity lately.  Molly’s back, the weather’s fine, my lovely mother is off the narcotics she took for her hip replacement two weeks ago, and men abound.  I have no complaints. 

This is a pretty song: The Sprout and the Bean

This is a pretty poem:

A man with a box walked up to a woman with a boy, gave the box to the boy, said, “Don’t drop it for a change,” and kissed the woman, sucking up her rosebud from her mud-color. It bloomed. He said, “Let’s go.” They went, with technicolor haloes of the usual around them. Why? Because: They come from a star, live by its light, and burn with it here in the dark outside of the department store. (Dugan)

And I look forward to a quiet weekend.

Hot Spanish Hemingway

Tags

Castilla la Mancha, Hemingway in Spain, Madrid, The Sun Also Rises

Favorite tapas bar in Madrid

This Saturday I woke up next to my old roommate Beth in Omaha after one of our party-weekend visits.  She had plans from early-morning on, and I didn’t want to go back to Lincoln just yet, so I went to Blue Line Coffee in Omaha to sit outside in the newly arrived muggy Nebraska heat with the copy of The Sun Also Rises I’d lent Beth months ago.  I had bought it at Shakespeare and Sons, my favorite bookstore/cafe/bar in Prague during my semester there.

As I sipped coffee in the sun, I began the book from the beginning, remembering when I too visited Spain, for a month in Summer 2009.  I saw Barca, Valencia, Granada, and several places in Castilla la Mancha, including Madrid and a village of 300 people where I stayed for 2 weeks with my friend Maria’s family.

Where’s Romero?

My favorite city was Madrid.  I spent two 4-day weekends there during my stay in the village. I stayed at a hostel near Tirso de Molina, where I met several characters.  But most of the time I was alone in Madrid.  I loved just walking around the city, taking in the architecture, the grand parks and the Prado, the men in panama hats and more than anything else, the cafe culture.

I spent every afternoon in the cafes, drinking beer from short glasses, reading and watching the people.  I read The Sun Also Rises again that summer.  I felt the romance of Spain in Madrid.

Castilla la Mancha

I felt it in the country too, in those hot rolling hills of the Sierra Nevada valley.  Many nights I lay awake on the top floor in Maria’s un-air-conditioned house, thinking about my daily broken Spanish conversations with Maria’s grandmother Cecilia, and her friends Puri and Nica.  I thought too about how isolated I felt.  It was the first long solo travel I ever did.  I quickly became well-acquainted to the feelings of loneliness and awkwardness that travel inevitably causes.

Of course, Hemingway didn’t really help in pulling me back into reality.  But sometimes when you’re tired of the effort of living it feels wonderful to pour yourself into fiction.  A fiction that’s only too familiar when its physicality surrounds you.

It will always be one of my favorite passages:

“‘Well I want to go to South America.’

‘Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn’t make any difference.  I’ve tried all that.  You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.  There’s nothing to that.’

‘But you’ve never been to South America.’”

Madrid

Polish daze and bicycles

Tags

Piekary, Poland, Stary Sacz Poland

Benedictine monastery near Piekary

Erik visited Lincoln last weekend.  We reminisced, we partied, we rode bikes.  The last time we rode bikes together was in Stary Sacz, Poland.  They were nun’s bikes, borrowed for us by our Polish friends who were helping us run an English summer camp.  It was a blissful two weeks in the rolling green hills near the Tatra Mountains.

The weekend visit reminded me how valuable all that traveling was. The hitchhiking, the couchsurfing, the days we went without sleeping, in the bowels of Eastern European clubs and on buses and trains.  I don’t know if it is a sign of being young or what, but our haphazard Baltics adventure and all those summer camps were just so pure, so authentic.  We really did it, we lived utterly by the seat-of-our-pants. 

This will be the first summer in 5 years that I will not go to Poland for an English summer camp.  I’ve celebrated so many 4^th of July’s there it seems entirely normal to be planning “America Day” skits and barbecues instead of going to baseball games in the States. 

Sometimes when the air blows through my windows or I find Polish beer at the liquor store, or someone from Eastern Europe comes into the clinic, I have a vague feeling that I’m there again.  The small way it smells or someone says their name just triggers something.  It makes me remember this friendly, beautiful country that charmed me from my very first night in the old Soviet bursa.

Those rolling hills around Tyniec, the way the light was soft nearly all the time.  The hilarious, lovely students and the wonderful friendships I made with the other volunteers.

There’s no place like Piekary.  The beginning of so many things.

Riding bikes in Lincoln with my Euro-travel buddy