'tis 5:00 somewhere!

I don't have any idea where offhand, but I really don't care. It's one of those days that I wish I had something much stronger than a bottle of chardonnay in my cabinet...

...and I don't even DRINK chardonnay, normally. I am a red w(h)iner.

*---*

Thursdays were always big party days. Even with morning classes on Fridays or, when in Ecuador and Japan, work responsibilities, that would not keep me nor any of my cohorts away from having The Time of Our Lives.

Why was this? Was it just too hard to wait until the final day of the week had actually arrived? Did we feel we merited a taste of the weekend a day early? As I was a pretty angelic child until I was within 6 months of being legal (which in my state was 21, not 18), I was a junior in college and just back from half a year in South America (where I was completely legal! And made sure I took full advantage of that fact), so most of my heavy coursework wrapped up on Thursdays--just a few things for my minors on Fridays.

In Japan the 宴会 enkai drinking party would begin rather promptly at 7:30, with a few sneaking sips of 酒 sake and carrying the telltale facial redness before the formal initiating 乾杯 kanpai blessing was given. First party: hot foods (天ぷら tempura, なべ nabe, perhaps some sort of 焼き肉 yakiniku barbecue meat or veggies depending on the restaurant) and often assortments of 寿司 sushi to help balance the 月桂冠 geikkeikan and キリン一番　Kirin Ichi-ban being served. Most, the weak at heart, never made it to the second party--カラオケ karaoke. The third party, for the strongest of souls, ended usually either with more 寿司 sushi or ラメン ramen and then we all stumbled home by about 3:30 or 4, to be ready to report to work by 7:30, just a few hours later to teach our class filled with forty (yes, forty. U.S. teachers cannot complain until the cut-off for students per class hits 40) young, inquisitive minds just dying to learn In-gu-ri-shu (um, that's English in Japanese English).

Of course, 誇張先生 kocho sensei The Principal got to sleep his 二日酔い futsukayoi hangover off in his office.

I don't miss the heavier party days, but it would be nice to have people with to sit on the porch and enjoy a glass of something with during these summer nights, to sit and laugh and try to solve the world's problems over a bottle of Malbec. Friends.

I do miss my friends. Everyone is pretty much on vacation now that it is summertime, and once all return, then fall and all of our hectic schedules begin again. My "vacation" technically ends today; self-employed, I give myself a month off each year when student business is the least, although I cheated a trite this year with an ex-student for summer school tutoring and working on my book a bit this week. But starting tomorrow, back to the grindstone.

I think I am ready.

So I raise my glass of (ew!) Beringer Chardonnay (no, I have absolutely nothing better on hand) and wish everyone a very happy End of July. May your day be one hell of a lot better than mine has been.

another sleepless night round 2

Windows are closed, air is on. It is hot. Steamy.

Claustrophobic? In the house? In my life? I feel trapped when I can't open my windows.

Worrying, wondering, wishing, waiting...will this lead to withering?

Stars surrender to Sun in another hour or so. Should I await its coming from my sleepless bed?

Or empty the dishwasher?

help!

Okay, so those who seem to know--who is evidently NOT me:

How on EARTH do you get a 12 inch tire tube into a 12 inch tire without puncturing a hole in the tube? I have done just that twice now and, with ripped up fingers and scars growing from the efforts, am starting to doubt that I can do anything by myself...especially something that was described to me to be a very simple procedure.

Please don't say "take it to the bike shop." I really, really feel strongly about doing things and learning to do things by myself. But times like this are when I feel really humbled by all that I clearly do not know.

who woulda thunk it?

Is Your Mama a Llama?

What a title! I had to check it out from the library today. A bit below my children's cognitive levels, it is still reading practice for La Princesita...

...and oh so fitting. If they only knew...!

green

Thunder rolls across the dark July summer afternoon sky, as hands are immersed in the heart of an avocado. The pulp of the first fruit overripe, it finds its way under fingernails; the firmer flesh of the second permits easy release from its black protective skin.

Scallions snipped, the sting in my eyes makes the rain come.

Salt, pepper, half a lemon's juice and some water. The fork blends the mole into a tasty texture and the storm passes.

Thunder rumbling from a distance, the garden calls. Smell the rain, the fresh, the green.

Wash hands in wet grass and I thus give back to Earth a bit of that selfishly taken for food. Then plunge hands back into the green, yet to reap more.

I revel in the earthy scent of humid freshness following a cleansing rain.

Removal of green from black now, the weeds snap unsatisfyingly from the roots. Those will return.

Sometimes with almost audible sighs, Earth releases her hold on roots; the entire plant resigns leaving mulch and soil behind with a shake.

The trained hand of human intruder swiftly retakes control of what is not hers to possess.

the first monarch

We have had Tiger Swallowtails, Cabbage, Baltimores, and various Skipper butterflies gracing my garden--but not one monarch until today!

Tickling my purple Butterfly Bush, taking in the sweet nectar was a solitary Monarch. Even a few passers-by stopped to admire the sight. My children were thrilled.

As was I.

The joy does, indeed, lie in the details.

the conversation and subsequent relief

Vegas was not all video poker, swimming, tequila and dancing.

My mother was also there.

No, no need to cue in Beethoven's Fifth. Not this time. There were a few moments that were uncomfortable because I knew that she wanted to talk to me and I am pretty much sick of being the only one to ever broach subjects so I just don't anymore unless I want to.

But those passed, mainly because there were four children under age 6.5 that wanted my or her attention, so "deep talking" moments were not really appropriate at those times.

One day, when out at the state park watching the peacocks running free and grabbing for our breakfast food, we were discussing the mating habits of these beautiful birds, uncertain as to whether they mate for life or not. La Princesita piped in: "Maybe the Mommy peacock and the Daddy peacock live together for a while then decide they don't want to be together anymore and then go live somewhere else."

I have been completely honest with her whenever she has asked questions, like why we don't sleep in the same room. That seems to be showing now.

The next morning there was a knock at the door that awoke me. I went to the door, thinking that Mom probably needed some help with something for some reason.

"Did I wake you?"
-No...yeah...um, it's okay. Do you need me?
"I would like to talk to you. Can you come down for a few minutes?"
-Sure, let me get dressed.

I closed my door and took a deep breath. Okay, here it comes. I promised myself I would have this talk with my mother this trip, because keeping this from her and constantly censuring myself is filling my life with too much stress. A few minutes later had me sitting next to her on her king-sized bed in her hotel room.

"I was hoping you would come to me and that I wouldn't have to come to you, but that hasn't happened, so I need to ask you. What is going on with you and your husband?"
Matter-of-factly, with no emotion at all, I said: -We've been living a domestic separation now for just about two years.
“I knew that. Even when your daughter spoke yesterday, that was pretty telltale. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Oh, how do I go into the myriad of reasons without bringing up the past I am trying so hard not to live in??

So, I talked of the disappointment factor, that I cannot handle disappointing the 175 people who came to the wedding, the huge thing I did not ever want (when the wedding is supposed to be all about the bride, anyway…right??!).

I did not say that it's my life and my mistake and not hers...therefore what's the point?

I talked of how she herself said, back when we lived in Sweden, ‘I give you two five years. That’s it.’ She denies, of course, ever having said that and many other really hurtful and cruel things. But my sister and I try to be understanding, knowing that she was still reeling after having been left a widow at 54 in the wake of the death of her husband, her lover, her best friend. It must be a pain so deep that I never want to know it.

Or perhaps I do…which would mean that I, too, got to share some years of my life with a person that profoundly special to me.

I talked of expectation, of the fact that she never divorced and, although she was not born yesterday, that besides her brother's divorces, has not really ever touched our family and I did not want to be the exception.

“But it takes two,” Mom countered.
With relief, I sighed. -Exactly. And I can’t do it anymore all by myself. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t tried hard enough. But no, I have given it my all. I have defended him to the end.

A lot was said, she feels hurt that I have lied to her for so long. My mother was never really approachable to me; I was very much my father’s daughter and have been quite lost in the lack of my daddy now for almost 9 years. That kind of relationship does not change overnight, but I am starting to realize that I can confide in her, that she is also a woman who has suffered much loss in her life and that she is not about to judge me for getting out of something that is making my life miserable but rather respect me for making the best decision I possibly can for the well-being of my children and myself.

In the end, she has offered to sell me her house, my childhood home back in Medford, Oregon. “Something has been making me hold onto this house, that is way too big for me to have on my own anymore. Maybe this is it.”
-I am not ready to make any huge decisions about where to go, Mom. But thank you, it adds another possibility to the equation that I had never before considered.

There would be work; I had been teaching at Southern Oregon and the chair was so impressed with me and my degrees that I was invited to stay on as a full professor--but had to leave to support my husband in Sweden. I could get back in easily as no bridges were burned; however, my dream of having my own business and using my own book would go down the drain. The local uni and community college have joined forces and offer a wealth of adult education classes at various locations and at great prices; the market in Southern Oregon is saturated.

Plusses: I would have a position that would give me benefits, and my children would attend the same schools I attended. I would Start Over…after having so wanted to get out of Medford when I was 18, it would be so ironic to end up living there as an adult.

The other big negative is that I would take the children from their father. He is a good man and does not deserve that. However, I don’t know how much longer we can share the same roof, even if separated by a floor.

He is gone for a few weeks investigating the oil spill in the Mississippi in New Orleans, which gives me some time here alone to think and clear my mind. Silence will have to be broken; we will have to talk and once again, I will be the one to initiate everything, fulfilling my role as ‘the bad guy’ once again.

All this aside I feel incredible relief now that my mother knows the truth of the situation. This has been yet another huge step toward doing what I need to do, and I feel a freedom of spirit I have not felt in quite some time.

So my questions now go out to those who have lived this process: Parental support, have you found, is constant or are guilt trips frequent? If your children were to come to you and announce they were divorcing, would you handle it in a different way than your parent(s) did? Or did you wait until parents had passed so as not to cause strife (a serious consideration I have made, and in consideration of my in-laws' health, I feel could be a valid consideration)? I feel I am taking a huge risk in letting my mother into my life because she has really given me great hell when I've tried to let her in before. I don't want to regret what I see now as a step forward.

tequila shots and line dancing

I will not line dance *ever* again after doing tequila shots.

I guess I just need to concentrate on the steps, and I found that tequila most certainly inhibits my ability to, um...concentrate.

My senior year college roomie and I got together for one night of fun in Vegas. We worked hard that year we lived together, back in 1993 and when all was said and done, we balanced the hard work by playing hard, too. Secrets we share are those only she and I will ever know. It was a refreshing reunion.

A workmate of hers met us at a locals-only bar in Vegas. Yeppers--I was charged more for entrance just because I produced an out-of-state ID. Should've brought my military dependent's ID. Oh, well. Her workmate would not even hear of me paying, not only to get in but also for drinks. And for shots.

And so it went.

Haven't done that since I was 20-something.

Nothing out of control, mind you. I have never been one much interested in drinking myself into oblivion (that is my control-freak nature), but a buzz is nice. So I get out there for the line dancing lessons, in the back row--yeah, I forgot that the back row turns into the FRONT ROW always at some point.

Duh.

Left, right, turn, stomp, shuffle...the steps were simple enough but it required concentration and memorization--plus some degree of familiarity with the general steps would have been nice. I am a salsa dancer, not a line dancer. So I held my head high, did what I could and moved my hips well.

Well enough to get some attention.

One man came over to our table, after Mr. Shot Buyer had left for the night (we weren't out too late!) and asked me out on the floor. At least I could somewhat follow, and he had me spinning and prancing all over the entire floor. Enough so that neighboring tables clapped when I sat down and another came over and commented that it was the first time he had ever seen anyone in flip-flops dance like that...and NOT lose her shoes.

I blushed...I think.

He took my roomie out, as she protested and said, "Yeah, well, don't expect me to do THAT" and then came back and spun me around the floor a few more times.

He liked my glasses. He wore glasses, too. A sign of wisdom, perhaps? Or just bad eyesight? I suggested wisdom as a function of age. I don't think he liked that suggestion. (I have been out of the game waaaaaay toooooooo long.)

There are few more things I truly enjoy doing than dancing. I really love to go out and dance, no matter what the music playing. It was fun and then, alas, it was time to go home.

Just nice to know I've still got some moves.

Hangover from the layover

I will get to the "hangover" part of the title in a future post...yeah, I had a little fun in Vegas!

*---*

With the sun shining so beautifully here along the Eastern Seaboard today, one would never guess that all flights back were at a complete standstill twelve hours ago.

Flying with children is An Experience. My children are good travelers. They don't require being hooked-up to various technological appliances (yet!), they are both quite content with their magic pens and crayons and, when threatened with their lives to never kick the seat in front of them, they actually obey. No spills, no tears, no throwing up. The transportation part of the trip worked out great...

...until we hit Chicago yesterday.

What was supposed to have been a 20 minute stay-on-the-plane, let-other-passengers-off-then-continue-on flight turned into a plane swap and a six hour delay due to severe storms and tornado warnings here.

So we had to wait. And wait. And wait. We did not know how long we were waiting, we just had to keep waiting for updates as to how much longer we would have to, well, wait.

Mama Llama traveling with two young monkeys dictates that nobody can potty by themselves; all the bags and everything must be picked up and dragged with when someone feels need, unless some very nice person notices the plight and offers assistance to watch bags while Mama Llama gets children, in timely fashion, to the nearest women's bathroom (always the one with long lines).

The oldest of six children, a recent high school graduate and whose family had also boarded in Las Vegas with us, came to the rescue, and thus a beautiful short-term acquaintanceship was born. My children adored those children, all quite mature for their ages due to having lost their father to cancer two years ago. They all played so well and made the two hour--no, wait, four--no, again delayed--six hour wait in Chicago so pleasant and bearable.

As we waited in line at the only gate open at 1 a.m. at this Major International Airport for the plane in front of us to deboard, unload luggage, reboard and leave, my children fell fast asleep and, with the carryons being all we had packed for this trip, this lovely family came yet again to my rescue in helping me rouse my children and get them and our bags into the terminal and out the door.

*---*

It is funny, I have so many times been on the assisting end and have never thought twice about helping out or at the very least offering aid to a fellow traveler whenever seeing need. It is almost a natural reflex; we are in the exact same position and with the exact same goal. However, to be on the receiving end of such grace and kindness created in me the understanding of how incredibly helpful such small gestures can be and the great thankfulness felt on the part of those being assisted.

Most importantly to remember, the gift of giving truly is a full circle.

Vegas, baby!

My little sister lives in Las Vegas with her burgeoning family; once of three, now of four.

It is high time the little monkeys and I be off to visit that side of the Continent and welcome, in person, the youngest member of the bloodline to Life on Earth.

In keeping with the idea of "need to entertain three children under 7 years old" (not counting the baby!) we will stay, the two families, at Treasure Island. My brother-in-law, in the hotel management business, also pulled some strings to get us a cabana for the day on Wednesday at the Mandalay Bay swim area, which sounds like a true 'splash' for the little ones.

On Friday we will transfer out to a less-expensive hotel far off the Strip and close to my sister's home, and my mother will fly in to spend the rest of our week with us. We will fly back to our home on the 23rd; a nice one-week get-away for Mama Llama and the kids together with Mama Llama's clan.

I've had a physically very painful week, then went and pushed myself too far yesterday just because I felt better (stupid llama) and ended up in bed for the rest of the day. Yes, as of Friday I am taking the prescription I got Thursday from my doctor, so I am doing pretty much all I can for myself. I feel better again today and will *slowly and restfully* get things together today for our noontime departure tomorrow.

I will not bring my laptop but my iPod, so I can view blogs and shortly comment if I have patience and WiFi to do so. It is possible, albeit doubtful, I will post here unless I just need to do so.

Have a lovely mid-July week!

word of the day

From Anu Garg's A.Word.A.Day:

callipygian

having well-shaped buttocks

That about made me spew my Mama Llama-bucks all over my keyboard this morning.

And on that note, I sign off for now. Not feeling too well this week, need to rest and revive. This is what Vacation does to me--makes me sick. Almost always.

at long last...pictures!

The puppies at La Casa del Gringo, with Geraldine.

The Maranga ruins of Ishma in Cieneguilla
where the spirits roam...

The Maranga people believed that the moon was their god. Here are twelve glyphs of the moon.

Some adobe covering the stony construction has broken away here, allowing a vision of what the Maranga people did to facilitate their glyphic communication and calendars.

Bird glyphs, perhaps that of the condor.

See? I was actually there!

The winding, single-lane rocky and dusty, cliff-hugging highway that takes you from Cieneguilla to Huarochirí offers magnificent views of the entrance to the Andean highlands.
Much farmland and apple orchards line the valley.
The Río Lurín gently carves through the valley that leads up to where the town of Antioquía is found.

The tiny pueblo of Antioquía is nestled in the Andes some 1500 meters above sea level (4,900 feet).The sky was a blue of the sierra, deep and radiant, and the sun shone with a brilliance and a force that made me realize how far up I had traveled from sea level.
One of the cutest babies I had ever seen. It was hard to get him to look over his mama's shoulder at me.




I loved the baño with the big blue tulip painted on the wall.

The ruins of Choquehuanca in Lima are beautifully illuminated at night.
The arch, Parque de la Amistad

Javier, the opportunist.

...ugh, sure looks like I had not, indeed, had a HOT shower in a week.

What is perhaps one of my favorites: "Respect yourself. IT IS PROHIBITED TO URINATE. Under penalty of fine. Respect others."

...which about sums it all up, does it not?

If you would like to see more, let me know and I will send you a link to my travel photo album online.

4. Javier, the opportunist

In El parque de la amistad, Friendship Park in the Surco district of Lima, I learned just how friendly the limeños can be.

There is a huge arch in the center of the park, covered in colorful mosaic tiles, around which wind a small river, a steam engine track and grassy areas you are not to step on as many little signs plainly state (No pisar el cesped).

School children from throughout the city visit this park, as do young lovers and perhaps the occasional tourist.

As for other gringos, I was the only I happened to see that day.

A trainful of fifth grade school children, all in uniforms, chugged by and waved, smiling.

I walked over to the Arch to take a look and try to get a picture. I noticed crosses on the top of both sides, and a police guard was standing nearby so I walked over, greeted him and asked a few questions about the arch.

I clearly had him stumped.

Instead, I was answered with, "You are French, ¿no?"

Why on Earth am I always asked that? Ecuador, Thailand, Japan...everyone thinks I'm French. "No, I am from the United States."

"But you speak Spanish so well." This conversation was, of course, in Spanish.

"Muchas gracias. Soy profesora de español."

"Ah, wow. You're a profa."

"Yes."

"Your eyes are green. So green."

I smiled. "Sometimes they change to blue. We United States girls can be that way."

His eyes grew very big. "Really?"

"Sure." I was ready to play a little with this cutie. I would place him at about mid 20's in age. A mere baby, really...ah, but oh so yummy.

"The arch opens at noon, in an hour."

"You can climb it?"

"Sure. How about I take you up there now."

So I followed him in, past the ticket booth and up the stairs. He insisted I go first. "Do you have children?"

"Yes, I have two, actually."

"YOU? No! Really? You do NOT look like it."

Okay, baby, keep it coming, I'm loving the attention. I did happen to be wearing my good jeans and my shorter t-shirt that showed that my jeans actually fit a bit too big at the hips and leaves my piko ring in plain view.

"Yep." Hmmm...didn't ask about my husband. Not that a wedding ring matters, but I always wear it when in South America.

"What's your name?" I told him mine. "And yours?"

"Javier."

Ajá. Just in the name so much was explained. I have known more than one very suave Javier in my life.

"You are so white. Your skin is beautiful."

I laughed. "In my country, it's summer and most would consider me tan now." Javier is extremely dark, a very beautiful mestizo heavy on indigenous color. And I am a sucker for dark eyes.

His hand gently guiding my lower back, a view I am most certain he greatly relished, we reached the top of the Arch when a fifth-grader ran to him and told him that one of the other students had descended down a blocked staircase. So Javier immediately turned all-business and, in a very police guard-like manner went down the stairs and fulfilled his duties by bringing the delinquent touring students back up the stairs.

I took advantage to get some photos from the top of the Arch then asked Javier to be in a photo with me.

An invitation he gladly accepted.

I was well aware of his left thumb caressing my skin on my waist as we posed atop the Arch of Friendship for the picture.

The children ended up providing my escape; they all wanted photos with the policeman as well, so I had them all gather round and got a picture of them with one of their cameras.

I approached to say goodbye and to thank Javier again for the private tour. He pulled me close and gave me a slow kiss on the cheek and embraced me before the sea of fifth graders in maroon uniforms took over his attentions.

At which point I managed to slip back down the stairs and away. Although a rendezvous in the stairway of the Arch would have made quite a story...well, it is the Arch of, um, Just Friends.

3. Humberto, the protector

Upon arriving at the Guaycán ruins Capac Ñam of the Maranga culture (1140-1400 AD), a rather tired looking man appeared out of a small guard hut to greet me. He introduced himself as Humberto, my guide for this tour through the heavily devastated arqueological site that is now under governmental control in an effort to reconstruct what has been discovered to be another piece of pre-Incan history that lay just in the foothills east of the capital city.

What has devastated this site to its current state? When standing amidst the ruins and looking around at the huge, steep, rocky surfaces surrounding the site, one becomes intensely aware of how easily a landslide caused by either torrential rains or earthquakes could dislodge immense boulders that would, with momentum, easily crush any stone structure in its path.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature is not the only force to negatively impact this arena. Up until very recently, these ruins have been an open ground for drunken parties and pillagers who pilfer the only unbroken remains--skulls, ceramics (at which the Maranga were most developed as their harsh living conditions in a very desert-like and rocky/mountainous state did not permit much in the way of agricultural development) and any other goods discovered in the many tombs throughout the area.

This was all explained extremely matter-of-factly, with a tone not of indifference but rather of "the past is the past; we now are working to ensure that this does not repeat itself and salvage what there is to salvage."

Humberto would bend down to pick up a stone, toss it and his pointsmanship was such that this stone would hit on what he wanted me to look at. If he slightly missed, he picked up another stone and hit it on the second try.

It was funny; the day before I had played a game at the river trying to hit a large stone in the middle of the Río Lurin and, after what must have been hundreds of river rocks thrown, I only managed to hit the large stone in the river once.

A brief moment of humble pie.

As our feet crunched over rock mixed with pieces of broken ceramics and shards of bone, Humberto and I walked silently for a few moments. Then he said, in a low voice, "Then there are the spirits."

The spirits?

Do, please go on, I urged silently, always a sucker for a good ghost story.

"The spirits here are not happy. They walk here, you can here them. Just last night, at about 11:00 while I was on guard down at the entrance, the only way anyone can get in to this site, I heard what sounds exactly like the steps we are making now. The crunch-crunch-crunch."

He fell silent, as if to further illustrate his point by the crunch of our footsteps over the rugged terrain.

"Yeah, I heard that and jumped out of the guardbox, thinking that somebody must be right here in front of me. There are always two of us at a time on guard; the other guard came out with me and we both shone our flashlights all the way around..."

Humberto acted as though he had a light and, squinting, turned 360º in a slow circle to show what he had done.

"...and there was nothing there. Only the footsteps continued. We were both stopped; nobody was moving. And they were heavy footsteps, not like any animal would make. The spirits are intranquil and, although I don't think they want to hurt us I do think that they are not happy with what has been done to their burial ground."

I can respect that.

As our conversation continued, I did find out that he is paid 100 soles a week--which is about USD$30.

30 bucks a week for working 48 hour shifts and having to deal with the spirits.

I think he should ask for a raise, is what I told him as I gave him a hefty tip for his tour.

He gratefully thanked me and then ducked back into his guardbox hut.

As an insurance policy against not having to claim "one restless and unhappy pre-Incan spirit" on my customs form upon my return to the States, I quickly and thoroughly made sure I had not a single speck of any ancient relic, bone, wood or stone on me before I left.

*-----*

By the way...pictures will soon follow to illustrate some of these places visited. I am working on a 35mm SLR.

2. Geraldine, the assistant

Appropriately, the Inn in which I stayed during my time in Perú is called "La Casa del Gringo."

The Gringo's House.

Cute.

Thus I could hardly resist!

While in communication with whom I had assumed to be the gringo, the owner of the inn, I was impressed with the natural and rustic appearance of the bungalowes he has in Cieneguilla, a district of Lima that lies to the southeast of the city in the mountainous foothills. The sun may not be shining in Lima but those from Cieneguilla boast of sunshine almost all the time.

Sunday was a day of relaxation and, when the sun broke through the heavy marine layer mixed with the thick pollution contributed by the over eight-million inhabitants of the city of Lima, I grabbed my book and went out to sit in the sun, soak up some all-important Vitamin D and read a bit.

Geraldine, the young lady who handles the reservations and, together with Juan, the management of the needs of the Inn's guests, appeared and, in the grassy area about fifty feet or so to my right, found a sunny spot into which she deposited a small kennelful of puppies!

Unable to control my "ah, so cute" reflex, I had to approach.

Geraldine and I sat in the sunny grass for over three hours, playing with those tiny puppies and talking.

She is a 23 year old young lady who has been working at La Casa for five years. She was born and raised in Cieneguilla, and has nieces and nephews attending the same school she once did with a few of the same teachers.

Although our conversation revolved around a variety of themes, Geraldine's greatest preocupation lies in the destruction of her native land in the name of "progress." She sees this destruction not only evident in the obvious mistreatment of the land, the tearing down of trees and the cementing of what little grass there is; but also in the values of the people and in the seemingly blind acceptance of the decline in quality of the food there is to eat and the air there is to breathe.

She made the point that her very intelligent sister (university-educated and everything) has no idea that carrots and potatoes do not in fact grow on trees or bushes. "How can that be when we are people of the land? This is how we were raised, this is what a Peruvian is in the soul. How can it be that she can be so smart but yet still know so little about what we are?" Geraldine postulated.

A good question.

She enjoys very much working at La Casa del Gringo. Walter, the owner, is a wonderful man who has had La Casa for fifteen years. Born of an Ecuadorian mother and a father from Piura, a city on the northern Peruvian coast, Walter and his brother were educated in English, not in Spanish. With that explanation, much came into focus, including some of the conversations had with Walter. "El gringo" is the male chocolate lab that was left behind by some gringos a while back, so he was adopted and the Inn was named after him.

Geraldine has great respect for Walter because he will not turn his back on neither his Peruvian heritage nor his deep respect for the natural environment. The Inn is located well off the main drag of town, in a very quiet area that backs up to the Río Lurin. The grounds are decorated with cactus and plentiful grass, shade trees and rosebushes. She said that he could earn so much more money as a fluent, English-educated man but, as he was born in Perú he is not eligible for the "financial benefits" that foreign workers might get. Instead, she said, he follows his dreams and his heart, and lives a lovely life.

The puppies were a month old, crawling all over the gringa's jeans and wanting to suck on my fingers. By the end of the afternoon, all seven had crawled up onto my outstretched legs, along with their two mothers (both had litters, and three puppies had died) and fallen into their late-afternoon siesta.

It almost broke my heart to have to wake them to put them back into their kennel. And, although I knew Geraldine had much more work to complete that evening, it was hard to acknowledge that our wonderful afternoon together had to come to an end.

warning: inebriated post ahead

Not too bad...just ended the second round of Mama Llama's Famous "Kick You In The Butt When You Least Expect It" margaritas.

She-Ra and I have been studying the surprising number of little black ants that have invaded this canal beach-house kitchen for the first time in the years I have been visiting this kind abode.

Hypothesis: Ants celebrate the Day of American Independence in much the same way as do humans.

Which means?

They get drunk on the leftovers from our drinks.

And mating rituals, when inebriated, greatly resemble ours. (at least, this data extracted from what the Primary Researcher has deducted must be occuring from the incidence of pairs of ants seemingly "connected" before the evil wet sponge comes to wipe them up and interrupt their ecstasy).

Yes. As the evidence in the kitchen presents, the shot glass I have employed for this experiment (containing traces not only of tequila but also triple sec) is covered with the same ten ants that were covering this particular glass many minutes ago.

And they are NOT leaving.

Neither can they maintain a straight line.

Those that were on the glasses of the guests who had retired their drink glasses to the side of the sink to be washed could not even walk back to their nest, wherever that may be, in a straight line. Yes, She-Ra and I took great humor in observing their weaving paths, their very non-direct movement--much resembling that of actually sober drivers in New Orleans (only the drunks drive straight through all the potholes while the sober ones swerve to miss them).

And, as She-Ra just reported, The Ants Are Coming Back.

More margaritas, anyone?

Happy Fourth of July, all!

1. Don Anibal, The Gentleman

An 83 year old gentleman who looks no older than perhaps 65, Don Anibal was seated in my window seat when I appeared at my row on the San Salvador-Lima leg of my arrival. I told him that I did not mind but, when attempting to stash my only bag under the middle seat I found that it would not, in fact, fit. Hence, in return for the change of seats, Don Anibal instructed me to instead place my bag under his seat.

And it was thus a lovely four hour acquaintanceship was born.

We were immediately served migratory and customs papers to have filled out for our passage into Perú and Don Anibal, in showing me into the only visible manifestation of his true age, apologetically asked me to do him the favor of completing his forms as he could not see well enough to answer the necessary questions.

He has children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren in the United States and travels frequently so as not to let those descendents feel at all lacking in their attention from the family patriarch. He also has family in Lima so he does not feel that he is amiss in his duties but rather he sees the logic in his traveling to the family rather than having the family coming to him.

"It keeps me young. It is a state of mind, and it is a motivation for me to keep taking care of myself. Nobody believes me to be 83," Don Anibal said with great pride in his words and a twinkle in his eye. His secret? "Everything in moderation."

He is a retired businessman who lives in the district of Surco with his wife of fifty years. He is a man who enjoys sharing conversation, listening as much as speaking yet who has been intimidated from learning English by "teachers who just are not pleasant."

I, of course, told him he needs to take a class with someone like me.

He smiled and said that yes, it would probably make a big difference.

Our conversation made the four hours separating Central and South America fly quite rapidly. He has a lifetime of stories to tell, and it was a sincere pleasure to sit back, listen and learn from a man who is so wise. We conversed of just about everything, from politics to the values governing the raising of children to work and family. As the beaches of Chimbote came into view we both started to understand our time as companions on this leg of our journeys was to end soon.

We disembarked the plane, boarded a bus to the terminal and parted ways at the migratory control. As if old friends, Don Anibal embraced me and gave me a besito on the cheek and a blessing for a good trip.

Little does he know how much I appreciate having made his acquaintance.

still have yet to sleep

Thus I give you a really good one that She-Ra and her husband hit me with today.

How many of YOU can relate? You most certainly do not have to be a MOTHER to relate to this video.


What fun. Those WERE the days.

...are they completely over? Or do they still lie latent in our daily activities as this video might express, those experiences which so formed who we now have become?

An interesting perspective. Enjoy.

safe and sound

I am back, safe and more or less sound. This arrival was a new late record for me--4:30 when I was supposed to have landed at 1:45. That did not happen due to big storms in San Salvador. So we sat on the plane for an hour until we could leave. That wasn't fun, and the bump up to Business Class I got from Lima to SanSal was nice but not enough to offset the lack of footroom those 5 hours on the plane from Central America up.

Así es la vida.

Carajo, gotta switch back to inglés.

Lots of stories, hopefully pictures soon. I'll get to writing once I can clear my head. Looks like there is some catching up to do on some good post reads I have missed.

For those U.S. Citizens out there, may your Independence Day be filled with--um, firecrackers!