My Two Cents & Misconceptions

Per usual, this post is long overdue.

I'll start by saying things have been going well here in Bursa.

Lots of work, lots of shitty beer, lots of food, lots of exploring.

Content for now, but also looking forward to my next adventure (I'm looking at you, Cape Town).

Funnily enough, the bulk of this post will actually have very little to do with Turkey and more to do with my own country.

When I arrived in Turkey, I was a little nervous about being an American.  Considering the somewhat perpetual state of unrest in this area of the world that America has greatly contributed to as well as the anti-Muslim sentiments projected by certain members of our society, I thought that I might experience some long-harbored resentment from people.  Much to my surprise and delight, Turks welcomed me with open arms.

Everyone was very curious about America.  They had many questions about life in the United States and they loved hearing the American accent.

However, as time went on, my initial excitement at their enthusiasm for my country began to wear thin.

I began to realize that the idea of the "American Dream" that has disillusioned so many people in my own country, with the help of all forms of media, has managed to spread around the world.

So, when I tell people about the healthcare system in the United States or the absurd growth rate of college tuition, or the fact that, 150 years after the end of the American Civil War, racism continues to be a prevalent issue in American society, they are left slack-jawed and astonished.

You see, when they watch American movies or TV series, they believe that the physical America, 6500 miles away, is the same place that is shown to them on the screen.

Full of equality, happiness, and beautiful people who like to party.

If only.

Naturally, as a concerned citizen, I have been following the news in the US especially that surrounding the 2016 presidential election and I am struggling to find the words to describe how utterly sickened I am by this new wave of aforementioned anti-Muslim sentiments.

I realize that it is only a percentage of the population that supports the ridiculous idea that Islam = terrorism.  However, I do encourage all Americans, myself included, to take a step back and actually ask yourself how much you know about the religion.

What do you think of when you think of Islam?

Women in veils and men in turbans?

Honestly, before I came here, I'll admit that my knowledge of the religion didn't extend much further than these stereotypes.

But they are just that -

Stereotypes.

For example, turbans are generally not worn in Islamic culture and, when you see someone walking down the street wearing a turban, it is, most likely, not a Muslim man but a practicing Sikh.  Sikhism is a monotheistic religion that originated in South Asia in the 15th century.

As far as the veil (or the hijab) goes, I know a lot of western women that get up in arms about women's rights, etc, etc.  However, depending on the country (from what I understand), the wearing of the hijab by women is a choice based on interpretation of the teachings of Islam.  When women do choose to wear a veil, it is not seen as oppressive or detrimental to women's equality.  Rather, a practice of modesty and a means to desexualize women and protect them from harassment or unwanted sexual advances thus allowing them to enjoy equal rights in the public sphere. (I would again like to emphasize the fact that these customs and beliefs can change depending on the country.)

**takes a breath**

My students are Muslims.

And they are some of the kindest, most compassionate, and entertaining people that I have had the pleasure to meet.

There are misconceptions and stereotypes everywhere.

It is the nature of the world we live in.

But, if we can take the time to educate ourselves and learn the truth about these issues, it will be a step in the right direction.

And, of course there's nothing that I can say here that hasn't already been written about by some online publication or someone on social media, so I guess, as usual, I'm using my blog as a kind of outlet for my own feelings and frustrations.

Am I proud to be an American?

Not always.

That being said I do think our country has a great deal of potential and that we should not waste it by giving attention to fools and bigots like Donald Trump.

I do think we can "make America great again", but the answer is not extreme nationalism with bad hair.

The Myth vs. The Man

Everyone has those few television programs that they can watch over and over again.

Mine include: Friends, How I Met Your Mother, Desperate Housewives, and I'm sure I could think of a few more.

I am currently involved in a close and personal relationship with the four main characters from Sex and the City, as I binge watch my way (for the second or third time) through the 6 seasons.

I don't put a lot of stock in the life lessons that Carrie Bradshaw attempts to convey through her newspaper column that goes by the same name as the series.  The show has elements of sexism, misogyny, classism, and ageism.  In addition, it often shows both women and men in a really terrible light and it paints a very unrealistic view of life in New York City (since when can a writer of a weekly column about sex and romantic relationships afford 100+ pairs of Manolo Blahniks and a studio apartment on the Upper East Side?).

That being said, I am pretty easily sucked into the exciting lives of the four fabulous 30-something friends that drink cosmopolitans, go out to brunch, and complain about their various dating escapades and sexcapades.

I will also give credit where credit is due.

Sure, the show is full of terrible stereotypes.  But stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason -- they happen.  And, for better or for worse, they will probably continue to happen.

I don't necessarily agree with a popular TV show perpetuating these stereotypes for six seasons, but I digress.

Carrie Bradshaw is the somewhat air-headed and scatter-brained protagonist in the show and over the course of the 6 seasons, she blindly plows her way through a series of relationships.

(WARNING: SPOILERS BELOW)

A pretty common, however trivial, debate when it comes to the show --

Aidan Shaw vs. Mr. Big.

Aidan -- the husky, furniture designer/builder, with a house in the country and a heart of gold.

Mr. Big -- the typical arrogant asshole that we all kind of love to hate.

I was always an Aidan fan.

I loved the whole "business in the city, heart in the country", ruggedly handsome, dog-owning, non-smoking vibe.

And he really loved Carrie.  He even gave her another chance after she cheated on him with a married Mr. Big!

He was so totally my type.

I mean what's not to love?

But this time around, I, like Carrie, gave Mr. Big yet another chance.

And I think I may finally understand.

Mr. Big, with all of his commitment issues and his betrayals of trust, is only human.

He made some mistakes.

But ultimately he was able to pull his head out of his ass in time to track down Carrie in Paris to tell her that she was "the one".  And that's what really counts, right?

It just took him a little longer to realize than it took the rest of us.

No matter how good someone is on paper or whether they are "so totally your type", if you don't have the zsa zsa zu (refer to season 5, episode 8), then they're not "the one".

Tell me I'm wrong.

Katie Cawley channelling a little Carrie Bradshaw for a change.

I have been watching too much SATC.

The Chill.

I arrived in Istanbul on September 1, at the end of the summer, in the middle of a massive heat wave.

Or maybe that's just normal for Turkey....

Thank goodness, the place we where we were staying in Taksim was well-equipped. By which I mean... it had air conditioning.

However, after the few days in Istanbul, I returned with Ryan to Bursa -- the first major capital of the Ottoman Empire, the fourth largest city in Turkey, home to the mountain Uludağ and the Iskender Kebap -- my new home.

My new home is also on the top floor of a five story apartment building and... wait for it.... has no AC.

Boo.

So, it's been pretty hot.

After the first few 100º days, the temperatures began to drop slightly and I began to get used to the heat (as much as I could, being from Vermont).

But I've been a little jealous of all of my friends posting pictures of apple-picking and pumpkin spice lattes (which they actually have in Turkey, strangely enough).  I guess it's made me kind of nostalgic for autumn on the East Coast, especially in New England.

Then, yesterday, it rained.

All day.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

Because right now it's 63º.

Ryan is wearing a sweatshirt.

I didn't wake up in a pool of sweat at all last night.

I went for a run this morning and had to wear a long-sleeved shirt.

And, right now, I am happily (not to mention comfortably) curled up on the couch, with a hot cup of coffee, wearing long pants, and not positively dreading the idea of going to stand over the hot stove to cook breakfast (brunch?).

So, happy fall from a happy girl.

Endless love.

This is life.... in Turkey.

In the 3 weeks that I have been in Turkey, I have been told that I am beautiful, quite possibly, more than I have been told so in my entire life.

Great.

Who doesn't like being told they're beautiful?

I'm just not always sure it's genuine.

Not to say that people are secretly calling me hideous behind my back, rather that Turkish culture seems to be kind of obsessed with the idea of beauty.

Like, of all compliments, the one a woman would most like to hear is that she is beautiful.

Not intelligent or charming or charismatic.

Just beautiful.

I have been introduced to new students as the "new teacher who is also very beautiful".

I have been told by my students that I "have a great accent", that I am "energetic and fun", but these compliments are always followed by "....and of course you are so beautiful."

People also like commenting on my beauty to Ryan.

Again, it's not like I hate being called beautiful.  It's always a nice thing to hear. 

However, I don't think my physical appearance really has much to do with my teaching abilities.

And I like to think that my boyfriend is with me for at least a few reasons other than how pretty I am. 

It's a different culture.

And I knew going into it, that being a woman would be a very different experience in Turkey than it is in other areas of the world where I have lived and travelled.

And for the most part, Turkey has surprised me.

Before I left home, I did quite a bit of reading up on what it was like to travel and live in Turkey as a woman --

A lot of people warned against it.

A lot of people gave strict lists of what women can and cannot wear.

And a lot of people gave advice as to how a woman should act towards men.

Apparently all of these people need to chill the fuck out.

I'm sure it helps that Ryan and I are usually together, but I never feel unsafe here.

I can wear a tank top or a dress that shows my knees and... drumroll... no one cares.

And, while our interactions are limited due to the language barrier, the people here have been so kind and hospitable.

I guess it's just little differences that I notice.

I get a lot of strange stares when I am running in the park.

Maybe it's because I'm the only person running.

The number of strange stares escalated the day I wore shorts.

So now I wear pants.

And the one night that I went out to run errands while Ryan was at school, people seemed very skeptical of the fact that I was out alone at that time of night (approx. 8pm).

So maybe, from now on, I run my errands during the day.

And the "you are so beautiful" thing.

Worse things have happened.

Pideli Köfte

Greetings from Bursa.

I'm not here to write something profound about cultural differences or personal fulfillment, so if that's what you're expecting, I suggest you stop reading now -- but, I think this will be worth your while.

Bear with me.

For months now, Ryan has been telling me about Pideli Köfte -- a local dish here in Bursa.

Bread, meat, tomato, yogurt, butter.

Sure, sounds good. Sounds fattening. Sounds... dare I say it?... Sounds Ryan.

One thing's for damn sure, doesn't sound like anything I would eat with any degree of frequency.

(Um, hi, where is the spinach?)

But, after a few exciting (albeit exhausting) days in Istanbul, we arrived in Bursa and I decided to humor him.

So, after walking around Bursa a bit, we reached the Pideli Köfte street.

Yes, a street full of restaurants that serve... wait for it... Pideli Köfte.

So we're peacefully walking along, when out of nowhere, all of the employees standing in front of one restaurant start loudly greeting Ryan -- shaking his hand, patting him on the back, and talking animatedly.

Clearly he's a regular.

...Not too shocking.

They herded us over to a table and hospitably pulled out the chairs for us.  One man brought over another chair and gestured for me to put my bags in it.

They automatically knew what we were there for.

They brought us a dish of pickles, dried cherries, and hot peppers and left us to wait for our food.

Very shortly, they brought us each a plate and set them in front of us.

A layer of bread, a side of delicious yogurt, a couple slices of tomato, all topped with eight (or so) meatballs.

Sounds good, right?

Wait! There's more.

This first server was directly followed by a second, carrying a pan of sizzling hot, melted butter which he proceeded to (generously) pour over each of our plates.

Sure, I cringed a little bit, but I also know that melted butter is delicious.

So I dove right in.

The verdict?

It was worth the hype.

I think the Turks just know how to make food taste good.

Add butter.

Always add butter.

So cheers to them for doing what everyone else is too timid to do.

Pideli Köfte is delicious.

What's in store.

So remember a few months back when I was leaving for South America and I was stressed and crazy and crying and bullet-pointing all over the place?

Well, I like to think that I learn from my mistakes.

Tomorrow, I'm going to Turkey.

To live.

For awhile.

*gasp*

***

I got home from camp on Monday night.

I took the rest of that night and the following day to decompress and, promptly, set to unpacking and repacking on Wednesday.

Initially, I meant to unpack from camp and repack for Turkey.

However, it turned into unpacking from camp, packing for Turkey, unpacking for Turkey, repacking for Turkey, etc.

The fact of the matter being that, a process that could have taken an afternoon, ended up taking four days.

But I'm done! (For the most part)

***

When I say that I learn from my mistakes, I am mostly referencing the fact that I left all of my packing for South America until the very last minute.

This time, giving myself a full week, allowed for the peace of mind that came from unpacking and repacking so many times.

It has also given me time to relax and come to terms with what I am about to do.

In the spirit for "pre-travel bulletpoints", here are some of the things (apart from packing and unpacking and repacking) that I have done in my week at home.

• I've eaten really good food.
• Washed the "camp" off all of my clothes.
• I've spent quality time with my parents.
• I've consumed a collective seven beers.
• I've run a collective 12 miles.
• I've done some yoga.
• I've watched Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Scream, Seeking a Friend for the End of the World, Searching for Sugar Man, and Bridget Jones' Diary -- all interspersed with episodes of Friends.
• I listened to nearly the entire Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince audiobook.
• I made a trip to Burlington to spend some time with some quality humans.
• And I've said my "see you soons".

***

Similar to my trip to South America, there has been a lot of build up leading to this adventure.  However, unlike  my trip to South America, on the night before my departure, rather than feeling anxious and sad, I feel strangely at peace with the idea.

That being said, I still have over 24 hours until my flight leaves, I'm sure I'll have my moments.

But it's nice, after so much build up, to still know that I'm doing the right thing.

***

Faithful readers might also recall that I was very sad when I was getting ready to leave for my trip this past January.

I had just said goodbye to my boyfriend, Ryan, as he left the United States after a month of Vermont winter shenanigans.

This time, he will be waiting for me at the airport in Istanbul.

So that's that.

I'll see you all soon.

Plates and Glue

As fate would have it - I have returned to summer camp in Connecticut for the third summer in a row.

Amid stifling heatwaves, ever-growing fatigue, lousy food, and an overwhelming sense of anticipation, I have found solace in spending time with close friends, making jewelry, planning my next adventure, and batiking a wall-hanging (my left and right hand are green and blue, respectively).

And as always, I find solace at camp in the little moments that are somehow not so little.

There have been a few.

Here is one of them.

About a month ago, I was on the main porch one night; the kids had gone to bed, the mosquitoes had come out, and the air felt slightly cool and damp.

I saw a friend sitting on the edge of the porch, in the shadows, looking a little sad.

So I walked up to her and asked her how she was doing.

She replied that everything was okay, but I remained unconvinced.

So I asked again.

Her response was roughly as follows -

"In my country, we have a saying:

When you drop a plate, it breaks.

You can pick up all of the pieces.

You can glue it back together meticulously.

But it will never be the same again.

The cracks will always be there."

We continued talking and she further explained the situation that she was applying this metaphor to.  Without really knowing whether what I was saying had any semblance of truth to it, I reassured her that I was sure that everything would be fine.

It may seem an anti-climactic anecdote, I just think there is a kind of melancholy truth to the plate metaphor.

Despite the somewhat gloomy undertones of the saying, one must think about what the cracks mean. The plate may be marred, but do the cracks make it more interesting? Do they give the plate a story?

Maybe I'm being too optimistic.

The cracks would make the plate more fragile; if it were to be dropped again, it would certainly break even more easily than the first time.

Maybe I'm thinking too much about the durability of plates.

Regardless, it was high time for a check-in.  I'll leave the plate analysis up to you.

Big things coming, folks.

Rainy Day Woman.

Sitting on my couch this morning, I cried for what I can only assume was the better part of an hour.

The past few weeks have been pretty emotionally, physically, and mentally draining.

Finally, on my rainy day off, with no concrete plans until 6:30pm, in the throws of menstruation, it seems to have all caught up with me.

I wouldn't even say that I'm sad per say; frustrated might be a better word.

Frustrated, anxious, tired, stir-crazy, emotional, self-pitying.

Not sad.

As I looked around, nursing a big cup of lukewarm coffee, I couldn't help but look at my old school pictures that line our living room.

The one from first grade really caught my eye.

I'm wearing this royal blue turtleneck dress, a black headband, and what can only be described as a dollar-store pearl necklace -- cheap, fake... first-grade chic?

Anyway, I am mid-giggle, looking a little goofy, but it's fine because I was six and it was cute.

I actually remember having that picture taken.

I sat down in the seat, the photographer positioned me correctly and told me where to look and then instead of doing the usual - "Smile for the camera!" - or - "Say cheese!" - he said --

"Say pickle!"

And my little six-year-old self thought it was the just funniest thing.

And that youthful moment of utter joy was captured forever -- developed, printed, purchased, framed, and placed on top of a tall white cabinet in my living room.

Immortalized innocence.

Talk about nostalgia.

I guess it's kind of cliche, but I kind of can't help looking at that little six-year-old and thinking - "If she only knew."

People let you down.  The world is one big crapshoot.  Money controls everything. You lose touch with people you love.  The American healthcare system is FUCKED.  You will absolutely have your heart broken.  That knot in your stomach?  There are times when it might feel like it will never go away.  People will lie to you over and over again.  No one is perfect.  Time doesn't slow down for you.  Death is a very real thing.  At some point you will know what pure hatred feels like.  Politics are not just about the president and which country is fighting with which country - politics are everywhere.  And on a related note... Peace on Earth?  Wishful thinking.

But I digress.

Of course no six-year-old has lived long enough to be aware of all of these things.

And I am glad that I was able to be so blissfully ignorant for such a long time.

This. Is. Life.

(inhale/exhale)

It can be so overwhelming.

But the silver lining is everywhere, you just have to look for it.

And sometimes it is harder to find than others.

Chocolate helps.

So does yoga.

Count your blessings.

Be mindful.

Pet your dog.

Go for a walk.

Hug your parents.

Talk to someone you love.

A couple of weeks ago, on a day when every muscle in my body ached with tension and every step I took was full of trepidation, someone I love very much told me to write about it.

I kind of brushed the idea away -- "I don't want to burden everyone with my problems."

But here I am, writing about it.

And I'm not crying anymore, so that's a step in the right direction.

In one of my favorite movies of all time, Kevin Spacey said:

"Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid life..."

Life is stupid and amazing.

You are experiencing life.

Take the bullshit in stride and always appreciate these moments of gratitude.

As always, thank you all for reading.

(Truly.)

23 Lessons I've Learned at 23

About a year ago, I sat at my desk in the Group Sales office at the Crowne Plaza Tennis and Golf Resort in Asheville, NC and made a list of 22 lessons I had learned at the age of 22.

Now I am sitting on my porch in Vermont on a beautiful day and feeling inspired to keep the tradition going.

So... here goes.


1. For better or for worse, people will always surprise you.

2. Yoga still helps.

3. Work to live, don't live to work.

4. Don't second guess yourself -- trust your intuition.

5. Live a little.

6. Stop searching for your "purpose".

7. Optimism is key.

8. Salt, tequila, lime -- repeat -- switch back to beer.

9. Take advantage of being young.

10. Baths are important.

11. Having hairy armpits is strangely satisfying.

12. Money sucks.

13. It's a small world --

14. --the world is also really fucking big.

15. There is an art to efficient sandwich making.

16. Find ways to do the things that you love.

17. Everything in moderation.

18. Vitamin D. That is all.

19. Find balance in your life.

20. Perspective matters.

21. All those people that told you about how much worse your hangovers become as you get older? They weren't kidding.

22. You can turn any day of the week into Sunday Funday.

23. Strive to be happy. Always.


Stay tuned for 24 -- a lot can change in a year.

The End.

So, I'm sitting in the Lima airport.

Suffering through a 10 hour layover by drinking shitty South American beer.

And I'm sad.

After Machu Picchu, it finally kind of hit me that my trip was coming to a close.

Yesterday was rainy.

Cold, nasty, rainy.

To top it off, there's this festival happening in Cuzco where people throw buckets of water or water balloons on passersby and aggressively spray the with shaving cream.  Like from two inches from your face.

And if you think that they don't target white, American girls, you are sorely mistaken.

Needless to say, our one outing into the markets (not to mention the aforementioned rain), ended in four cold, wet, cranky, white, American girls, sticky with shaving cream residue.

So we trekked back through streets covered in at least an inch of rain water to drink hot toddies and cook dinner at Laura's apartment.

It was a truly perfect and relaxing end to the trip -- despite the dampness.

My emotions are in conflict with each other.

Like I said, I am sad.

I burst into tears saying bye to Maggie this morning and all I really want right now is to be eating shitty Peruvian baked goods in a cafe with my two compañeras.

But I am also excited.

For San Francisco.

To see my family.

To plan the next step.

And then there is the jumble of other emotions: anxious, thankful, confused, slightly airport drunk -- the list goes on.

True to character, I am being ranty, cheesy, and emotional.

Let's just go with it for a few more minutes:

Thank you Mom and Dad for putting up with my angst as I saved to make this trip possible.

Thank you, Ryan, for continued support and for experiencing my trip second hand and always offering company, distraction, and words of wisdom over late-night, shitty wifi.

Thank you to all of my friends that encouraged this trip from the beginning.

Thank you to the amazing Laura Koes for for offering her company and guidance during the last few days of my trip -- you are truly a beautiful soul.

Thank you, Amanda for being the one that made me get off my ass and do this in the first place! For your companionship, your rationale, and all of the jokes.  I am happy we're friends now.

And Maggie.

Where to start!

You are such an inspiration to me.

Who knows if this crazy trip would have ever happened if it wasn't for your picking up and moving to Colombia on a whim?

Thank you for being our translator and our mom.  For your grace and hospitality.

I love you and I cannot wait to see you again!

Anyway, I'll leave it at that.

Cheesy, beer-induced rant.

I guess next you hear from me, I will have resumed my normal, boring blogging.

I'll let you all look forward to that.

Not sure what else to say other than the usual:

Thanks for reading.

WHAT A TRIP.

The Mach and Other Adventures

So, true to the rest of our arrival times throughout the trip, we got to Cuzco late.

Really late.

It was raining and every hostel we looked into was way out of our price range.

Finally we found a dingy one in a sketchy back alley and decided "whatever, it's just one night."

So we got into our beds and went to sleep.

Except that I couldn't actually sleep at all.

I think it was about 5:00am by the time I finally nodded off.

With plans to meet up with my friend Laura from Vermont (who is currently teaching English in Cuzco) at 10:00am, I got a solid 3.5/4 hours of sleep.

But the adrenaline at seeing my friend kept me going through most of the day.

We treated ourselves to lovely breakfast of waffles, fruit, and real coffee (as opposed to the watery instant coffee we'd been drinking the rest of the trip).

We then went on a long walk to a lookout over the city and headed back down into the city center to visit some of the renowned markets to look at gifts to bring back to our friends and family in the states.... and maybe a few gifts for ourselves.

Our shopping was followed by a trip to the chocolate museum and pisco sours at a local watering hole.

The next day, Amanda and I purchased tickets for Machu Picchu and began the long journey to Aguas Calientes, the small jungle village that one must travel to in order to see the ancient ruins.

After making friends with some Mexican gentlemen on our train ride, we finally arrived in Aguas Calientes and found a hostel.

We went to bed early that night as we had plans to wake up at 4:00am and hike up to Machu Picchu.

4:00am came very quickly and we groggily rolled out of bed, got our things together, and went downstairs to have breakfast.

Shortly thereafter, we began our trek up the mountain.

I think we both figured that after all of the trekking around that we had done so far, this hike would be a breeze.  And it was so early in the morning, there was no way it was going to get too hot.

Wrong.... and wrong.

The entire hike is a set of stone steps, built into the side of the mountain and I wouldn't describe it as an incline as much as a near vertical ascension from bottom to top.

And if you think that it's easier to climb steep steps than a steep hill, I am inclined to say that you are sorely mistaken.

Then it got hot.

Fast.

By the time we were half way up, we were both drenched in sweat and panting like winded carthorses.

But, finally, we made it.

Machu Picchu is incredible.

It come highly recommended and is a very humbling thing to experience.

Especially with all of the modern technology that we take advantage of in this day and age.

However, on any given day, at any time of year, one must remember that there are hundreds of other tourists that want to come and be humbled by the vast mountaintop of ancient Incan ruins.

What I'm trying to say is that Machu Picchu is a very popular tourist destination.

And it was kind of hard to really soak up what I was seeing and experiencing as girls with perfectly straightened hair in Nike sports bras took selfies with each other a few feet away from me.

But maybe this viewpoint is just me being skeptical and self-righteous -- "I am way better at being a tourist than those girls."

After about 5 hours of walking around the ruins and the surrounding areas, Amanda and I began our descent and our long journey back to Cuzco which included a colectivo ride from hell in which a stray dog was killed and we were about two hours later in returning than we should have been.

So there's a quick little synopsis of my first days in Cuzco and me trip to the Mach.

Cuzco is awesome.

And Machu Picchu is pretty amazing.

But don't take my word for it, go see for yourself.

February 11 - Lake Titicaca

After indulging myself with a yoga class on Monday morning, we took a late afternoon bus from Arequipa to Puno, a town on the banks of the amazing Lake Titicaca.

For some reason, this bus ride was one of the worst yet.  

I passed the first couple of hours reading Pride and Prejudice, then the sun went down and I was subjected to failed attempts at sleeping while the same 100 songs that I'd been listening to for the past three weeks played over and over in my ears.

Finally, around 11:00pm, our bus arrived and we took a cab to the center of town where we were navigated the streets filled with the residual crowds from Carnival (a festival that occurs throughout the month of February in Peru) wandering drunkenly around us.  

After a bit of a wild goose chase, we found a hostel, asked the appropriate questions about Lake Titicaca tours, and promptly fell asleep.

We woke up early the next morning, ate breakfast and left for our two day tour of the lake.

This particular tour was advertised as the most cost-effective and all-inclusive option.  

We would visit the floating islands, ride in the boats made of reeds, stay with a family from a local community who would take us to a celebration in order to immerse us in their culture, and we would explore some of the different areas of the lake.

Sounds like a pretty great experience, right?

The truth is, I had mixed feelings.

Lake Titicaca itself? 

Hands down, one of the most amazing places I have ever been.

At 12,555 ft, it is the largest navigable lake in the world.

Its vastness is truly humbling.

On the first evening of the tour, we climbed up to el Templo de Pachatata to watch the sunset.

When we reached the temple, high on a hill, I sat and simply stared at the massive body of still water in front of me.  With misty mountains, seemingly, rising from its depths at various visual intervals.

However, in regard to the cultural aspect of the tour, I was not as impressed as I had thought I would be.

The floating islands are amazing.

And it was definitely very interesting to learn about the cultures of the people that live on the various islands of the lake.

However, it felt a little bit like the tour was exploiting these cultures.

Even stranger, it felt as though these communities were embracing and taking advantage of this exploitation.  

When the tour advertised that we would be staying with a local family, I was quite excited.  However, it turned out that staying with a local family meant... just that.  Sleeping in their house.  There was little to no interaction between our hosts and us.  

We ate in separate rooms and slept in separate rooms, if we asked them any questions, they would answer, but were not inclined to further engage themselves in our conversations.

Furthermore, the women, who spend much of their time, hand-knitting sweaters, hats, and scarves and crocheting little toys, all to sell at local markets, were very shameless in their attempts to sell their wares.

At first, it is easy to feel sorry for them.

Their communities probably don't have a lot of money, you should support their local economy, etc.

Sure, I'm all about it.

However, when I feel like their is a distinct expectation that each and every tourist is going to purchase an over-priced item of clothing, I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable.  Not only did I get the impression of their self-exploitation but there was also an element of exploitation in regard to the tourists that are being passively pressured into buying these goods.

And when you think about it, if these families have tourists coming to stay with them five out of seven nights of the week, with each individual paying the Peruvian equivalent of $35.  These communities are probably actually making quite a lot of money.

Lastly, I think the thing that made us all the most uncomfortable was the local celebration.

We were all expected to dress in traditional garb and go to what I can only explain as the equivalent of a rec-center to listen to the music of their people and dance with our various host families.

As a foreigner, wearing their traditional clothing while knowing so little about their culture, I felt very out of place and uncomfortable. 

Maybe I am analyzing it too much.

The tourism industry is probably a very lucrative way for these communities to make money in order to sustain the lifestyles specific to each culture.

I guess my problem was that I felt that that was exactly how it was treated.

A way to make money.

They did the bare minimum in order to "meet" the expectations of the tourists and the administrators of the tour companies, whether or not they particularly cared about sharing their culture with foreigners.

But I guess that's life, no matter where you are in the world - 

Do what you have to do to make money in order to sustain your desired quality of life.

Anyway, that was a bit rant-y and I apologize.

Just food for thought, I suppose.

On to Cuzco!

February 8 - Sunday Funday

Some of my more consistent readers may remember my post from just under a year ago about my favorite day of the week: Sunday Funday.

Nothing has changed.  I still goosebump with excitement whenever someone brings it up... or when I bring it up... Okay, usually it's me bringing it up.

Sunday Funday is legendary.

Well, today I celebrated Sunday Funday - Arequipa style.

We arrived in the second largest city in Peru yesterday morning.

We found a place to stay, showered, dropped our bags, and went out to explore the city center.

Quite honestly, it proved to be like most other city centers we'd seen.  Cathedrals, churches, plazas, open air markets, etc.

Considering it is the rainy season in Peru right now, we have been surprisingly lucky.

But yesterday?

It poured. Buckets.

On the plus side, it was national Pisco Sour Day (the national drink of Peru), so there were some deals that we were able to take advantage of as we stepped into various restaurants and bars to get out of the torrential downpour.

Pisco Sours aside, this morning we woke up really wanting to do something different.

We had heard about some viewpoints on the outskirts of the city that were within walking distance, so we decided to give it a shot.

True to most of our experiences thus far, something that seemed less than complicated ended up taking quite a long time.

We asked about 37 different people for directions and each of these 37 people seemed to tell us different things.  

Finally, we reached the look-out (we're still not even sure if it was the right one) and the fog and the clouds hung so low in the sky that all we could really see were several hundred feet of farmland as opposed to "El Misti," the extremely active volcano near the city.

We were okay with it though.  It had been nice to go for a hike.

As we began our descent back into the city, it started misting and, afraid that a downpour was inevitable, we ducked into a restaurant along the side of the road.

It was quite rowdy inside and it became clear very early on that this was not a "tourist spot."  The small room was full of locals - eating, drinking and being merry.

Oh and they were all casually hammered at 3:00pm on a Sunday... My kind of people.

So we sat in the corner and sipped on cheap Peruvian beers, deliberating as to whether to get food here.

Suddenly, the cheerful old owner of the restaurant (at least, we assumed that was his role) brought another beer over to the table.  My sister tried to explain that we hadn't ordered another and he cut her short, telling her that it was a gift from the red-haired woman at the next table over.

We divvied it up between our three glasses and made a gesture of thanks towards the woman, she warmly gestured back.  

No sooner had we finished this second beer, than the owner came over with another "gift" from the woman.

At this point my sister decided that, if we were going to stay and drink, we should at least have a little sustenance.  So, she and Amanda went over to ask the women in the very exposed kitchen about the different menu items and, in the meantime, be very directly engaged in a conversation with an extremely drunk man that, undoubtedly, had some connection to the rest of the merriment going on in the small eatery.

While they were gone, the mysterious red-haired woman that had given the beer gifts (my favorite kind of gift, I might add) came over to talk to me.

The conversation was, for me, slightly uncomfortable, but to an outsider, probably hilarious.

Due to her level of extreme inebriation and my less than mediocre Spanish skills, there was very little communication going on. 

However, there was a lot of face-holding (her hands, my face) and head kissing (her lips, my head).

Amanda kept locking eyes with me from the kitchen and laughing, but I felt that the least I could do was let her stroke my cheeks and plant wet ones on my forehead.  I mean... she'd given me beer, right?

Eventually, Maggie and Amanda returned with food.  We were very unclear as to what most of it was, but we gobbled it down anyway.

Just as we were leaving, we were once again accosted by a group of drunk men who continued  to gift us with beer as they discussed their work in the mines nearby.  Apparently, Sunday was their only day off.  It seemed to be tradition: bring their families to the restaurant, eat and drink until nightfall, get up and go to work again, repeat.  Every week.  I'd say they deserved a drink... or twenty.

Finally, amid loud goodbyes from all of the local patrons, we were able to make our exit and return to the city center.

We had to take a few deep breaths after the slightly overwhelming experience, but we were all able to acknowledge how memorable it would be.  

You see, as tourists, it is easy to get sucked into the same cycle:

Go to a city.

See everything in the guide book.

Go to a market.

Eat some food.

You get the idea.

It is the unique experiences -- like getting day drunk with a bunch of local, middle-aged Peruvians -- that will truly stick with you.

Long live Sunday Funday.

February 5 - Lima

I didn't think I was going to like Lima.

Before I came, a friend literally told me: "Skip it. Lima sucks.  You're just going to get mugged or raped."

Encouraging.

My first thoughts upon reaching the capital city (after a 22 hr overnight bus ride -- woof) were:

"This is not a Peruvian city."

It's another New York. Or DC. Or Chicago.

Subway here - Starbucks there.

You catch my drift?

But it was oddly refreshing.

For example - Will I substitute Pinkberry for a plate of rice and questionable chicken?

Why yes. Yes, I will.

Call me basic white girl, whatever.

I just could not care less.

But, frozen yogurt aside, I had a great time in Lima - I may even go as far as to say it was a highlight of the trip so far.

Upon further contemplation, I think my feelings on our time in the city can be largely attributed to the fact that Lima was one of the first places that we really socialized with anyone other than each other (no offense to Maggie or Amanda, of course, but I'm sure we could all agree that "over-exposure" is a very real thing).

Anyway, if Ecuador won for local population, Lima won for fellow travelers.

Due to stupidly high prices in Miraflores (the high-end neighborhood that we were advised to stay in), we were forced out of the luxury of private rooms and into hostel dorms where we were introduced to the first of the array of characters we were obliged to encounter in Lima.

First, there were the two girls from Saskatchewan - Carly and another, whose name somehow managed to escape us for the duration of our stay.

A funny pair.

The former - a tall, skinny, endearingly dumfounded girl with a mop of fluffy blonde hair on top of her head.

the latter - a shorter, slightly more strapping, blatantly direct compliment to her companion.

The two had been in Peru only a few weeks when they'd left their bags on the beach in Máncora (the same beach we'd just come from), only to have their passports, money, and phones stolen from them while they took a quick dip in the water.

They were staying patiently in Lima awaiting the arrival of their new travel documents.

Then Nancy arrived.

A scatter-brained, shockingly naive, Canadian who loved to talk about grapefruit seed extract, "doobies", and her experiences with Ayahuasca.

On our second night in Lima, she scored "ganja" from a guy on the streets for s/200 - approximately $65.

It was oregano.

Literally.

Oregano.

And a fanfare for our Brazilian counterparts!

I actually cannot write their real names because I have no idea how (I could barely pronounce them).

But here is my rough American translation:

Dani, Marcus, and John.

Three jokesters that we met on our walking tour of the city, taking a break from work to travel Peru together.

We ate lunch and drank beers together as they made fun of our American accents and fruitlessly attempted to teach us Portuguese.

It's such a treat to meet all of these people from all over the world and share a little window of our experience (our life, really) with them.

Cheers to Brazileños, cheers to Canadians, and cheers to oregano.

Safe travels to all.

January 31 - The Beach

The ocean is fucking magical.

And the beach came at such a perfect time in our trip.

It was like a cure for my ailment.  I'm sure it was just a coincidence, but, as soon as I got off of the 9 hour overnight bus in Máncora, I began to feel better.  And within 6 hours of being here, I had weaned myself of my banana, cracker, and gatorade diet and was enjoying mojitos and fresh ceviche as the Pacific tide rolled in.

No matter my frame of mind, the time of day, the time of year, or the place -

I love being at the beach.

I love it.

The ocean is like this unbelievable cosmic energy that (literally) comes at you in waves.

It drowns everything else out.

It is easily the most calming sensation that I have ever experienced.

I can sit in the sand or walk down an empty beach alone for hours, and just think.

We experienced a really incredible moment just now.

I had just eaten a massive piece of cheesecake and we decided to go for a walk on the beach.

The sun was just beginning to set.

As we headed past the crowds to a more secluded area, we turned around to see the sun peaking through a hole in the clouds.

You know scenes in movies or on TV shows where God or Jesus or whoever descends from heaven through the clouds with this heavenly light all around them?

This was that.

Minus any form of deity.

And as soon as I was able to grasp how fucking unbelievably beautiful it was, a flock of birds soared overhead and directly in front of it -- truly picturesque.

Speaking of - I tried to take a picture and simply could not capture the moment, or at least do it any justice at all.

But anyway...

I love the beach.

I love the sand.

I love the smell.

I love it.

And somewhere around now - give or take a day or two - marks the halfway point in my trip.

So, cheers.

To life.

To the beach.

To half done --

And half to go.

Much love - Namaste.

January 30 - Montezuma's Revenge

Montezuma was the emperor of the Aztec Empire in present day Mexico from 1502-1520, when the Spanish Conquistadors invaded the region, resulting in the brutal destruction of this early civilization.

"Montezuma's Revenge" (also knows as the "Gringo Gallop" or the "Aztec two-step"), in layman's terms, refers to traveller's diarrhea.  I.e. Montezuma's form of repayment for what invaders did to his empire.

I am in a bus station about to leave Cuenca.

And I am... sick.

Not sure how it started, probably something I ate or drank along the way.

Most importantly, it's here, and it does not appear to be going anywhere.

It started two days ago and has only gotten worse.

Before I came to Ecuador, I had heard that Cuenca was amazing and I was so excited to finally be here and see what all the hype was about.

However, it's rather hard to enjoy a new city when you're, shall we say, "struck with the urge" every 45 minutes and have to scramble around to find a bathroom.

And that whole "not all foreign bathrooms have toilet paper available, so carry some with you" memo that I gave you guys?

I should remember to listen to my own advice.

Let's leave it at that, shall we?

All I really want to do is lie in bed and watch Netflix on my phone, but instead we're taking a 9 hour overnight bus across the border and into Peru.

So I've been popping probiotic tablets and chugging gatorade in the hopes of kicking whatever stomach bacteria I have obtained, but it doesn't seem to be helping much.

Update: Just got on the bus and the sign on the bathroom door says "solo orinar."

Translation: only for urinating.

Fantastic.

Not to mention we're sitting right next to aforementioned bathroom with smells very strongly of stale piss.

So this should be interesting.

But anyway, onwards to Peru (as long as I don't die of dysentery along the way)!

Touche, Montezuma.

Tou-fucking-che.

January 28 - People

What was it that Blanche DuBois said?

Something about the kindness of strangers?

Well maybe Ecuador was the place for her.

But it didn't start off so well --

5 hour bus ride with no bathroom, followed by a cab driver who over-charged us by about $15, and the onset of what must have been exhaustion induced illness.

After asking around, we found a reasonably priced hostel in the historical center of the Quito.

And the owner was so nice.

I didn't think much of it, but then we went for dinner and we were met with the same level of kindness from the employees at the restaurant, specifically, the little old man who served us our food and referred to us as his "amores".

Feeling lousy, I retired to our room at the hostel and promptly fell asleep while Maggie and Amanda took a stroll through the city.

Disoriented in this foreign space, they found themselves a bit lost.

Upon asking a policeman for directions, he declared that it was too dangerous for them to be walking around by themselves after dark, took them back to the police stations, and gave them a ride to our hostel.

And who could forget the baker in Latacunga that called around on his personal phone to find us accommodations in a safer part of town at 10:00 at night.

Or the countless hostel employees that checked on bus schedules for us and instructed us in our travels.

Or the local businesses that never failed to give us directions, whether we acted as patrons or not.

"Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

That's what Blanche said.

It's easy to put your blind trust in strangers when you're in a foreign country where you don't speak the language well.

And thank goodness for the kindness of the Ecuadorians.

January 26 - Ayahuasca

Puyo is a small Ecuadorian town several kilometers from the Amazonian jungle.

We arrived late, cranky, and exhausted.  We promptly found the nearest hostel, took note of its dingy state, said "fuck it", and booked a room anyway.

After nervously making a few black mold and bed bug jokes, we all fell asleep to prepare for our early jungle tour the next morning.

*     *     *

Our tour guide, Carlos, appeared to be the sole owner and operator of Hayawaska Tours.  Though  we were, perhaps, slightly skeptical at the outset, he proved to be just the man for the job.

With Maggie as our translator, we followed Carlos deep into the jungle.

Along the way, we tasted exotic plants, ate fish and yuca smoked in massive leaves, swam in sacred waterfalls, rubbed clay on our faces, visted an indigenous community, and learned about the many secrets and wonders of the jungle; or, as Carlos liked to refer to it, "el supermercado" ("the supermarket").

One of our final stops was a long, weathered flight of stairs dug into a hillside that led to a deck of sorts, looking out over an Amazonian tributary and the surrounding jungle.

As we sat in hammocks taking in the breathtaking view, Maggie asked about his inspiration for the name of his company, Hayawaska Tours, and whether it was related to the medicinal plant, Ayahuasca.

Ayahuasca is a plant used by shamans in rituals in order to purge its consumers of evil and send them on a spiritual journey.

Essentially -- from what I've heard -- you drink it as a tea, barf for awhile, and then proceed to have a crazy, spiritual, trippy, experience with yourself.

Carlos confirmed for us that this was, indeed, the inspiration for the name of his company.

When he was younger, he participated in an Ayahuasca ceremony with a shaman and had a vision of himself starting the company...... spoiler alert.

In addition to this vision he'd had several more that had come to fruition later in his life.

I was particularly taken with one of these stories --

During his experience with Ayahuasca, Carlos had had a vision of an anaconda.

Fairly soon after this experience, Carlos joined a branch of the military.

One afternoon, while patrolling part of the jungle, he found himself lost.

He approached a river and began to wade through it, holding his gun high over his head.

Suddenly, 10 feet away from him, on the opposite bank, he saw an anaconda.

In his culture, the anaconda symbolizes disorientation and confusion.  Essentially, it is an evil spirit that misleads those in its path - how very serpentine.

Not knowing what else to do, he shot the snake, killing it instantly.

In doing so, he also killed the misguiding spirits surrounding him and was able to find his way back out of the jungle.

The end.

Just let it resonate.

January 22- Shit Shamlessly

For those of you that hoped the title of this post was misleading... I apologize.

It's not.

I am, in fact, here to talk about poop.

Many of you have proably heard that travelling can often lead to constipation (yes, I went there).  I have always found this to be true.

The 9 hour bus ride from Medellin to Cali did not prove this theory wrong.  So, when I had the sudden urge to... well... you know... at Luz's godmother's house -- where we were staying for the night -- I picked it up and ran with it, only to discover (in the nick of time, I might add) that her toilet didn't flush.

"I'll just wait," I thought to myself.

But waiting proved to be a bad idea.

Every time I sat on a toilet after this instance, it was to no avail.

And let me tell you, a 12 hour busride from Cali to the border town of Ipiales (or probably any 12 hour busride, for that matter) is not conducive to relieving aforementioned constipation.

Needless to say, when I got off the bus in Ipiales at 7:00AM, I felt like shit.

...or lack thereof.

So we walked around a bit and sat and had a coffee.

As we were packing up to head into Ecuador, I declared that I was going to try my luck in the bathroom one more time.

Success!

I felt so relieved.

Then I realized there was no toilet paper.

At a loss... I just sat there.

I edited a few photos on my phone, hoping against hope that Maggie and Amanda would notice my absence.

Then, to my despair, a knock came on the door.

"One second!" I called frantically, kicking myself for stupidly using English.

"Katie?" A voice replied.  "It's Amanda."

Silence.

"...do you need some toilet paper?"

"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, YES! THANK YOU!"

I nearly screamed with relief.

So that was that.

The moral of the story?

When you gotta go -- GO!

And try not to forget that some countries do not grace you with the luxury of toilet paper.

January 21 - Cali

In Cali we stayed with a former landlord of Maggie's and his wife.

Fred is a slightly eccentric middle-aged man from Kansas City, MO - transported everywhere by, quite possibly, the only motorized wheelchair in Colombia.  Fred is the kind of guy who has no filter. On a walk through Cali on our second day, a police siren rang out nearby.  He looked at me very intently from his wheelchair and said unabashedly, "Hear that? That's the national bird of Colombia."

Eleven years ago, he married Luz, a native Colombian (and one of the sweetest and kindest women I've ever had the pleaure of meeting), after they met online while the two of them were living in Arizona.

From the moment they met - that was it.

I am such a sucker for a good love story, and watching theirs happening before me was almost too much for my little heart to handle.

The way they interacted, the way they looked at each other, their gentle terms of endearment, not to mention they were two of the kindest and most generous people that I've ever experienced.

They have travelled everywhere together.

From Medellin to Cali to Kansas City to Spain.

They were returning to the latter soon after our departure as they had just obtained their resident visa there.

Fred mused over after dinner cervezas that before he died he wanted to attach himself to Luz with a rope tied around each of their wrists and do ecstacy together in Ibiza.

Quite the image.

During the same conversation, he fixed us with a penetrating stare and said:

"Marry your best friend.  Make sure to marry your best friend, because if you don't, it's going to be long -- and it's going to be brutal."

Duly noted, Fred, duly noted.

January 19 - El Comienzo

Picture me, standing on a sunlit balcony, a light breeze blowing, my hair fluttering, looking out at the beautiful, hazy Colombian mountains from the city of Medellin.

Got that image in your head?

Okay.

Now, picture me, head back, eyes closed, mouth open, sweating uncomfortably, scrunched in a ball, my book open on my chest, fading in and out of sleep while loud Colombian music plays as the bus, that would hardly pass inspection in the US, rattles along, occainsionally dodging other vehicles on the twisting and turning roads.

I'll let you decide which image is more accurate.

*     *     *

I have been in Colombia for 2.5 days.

Medellin is amazing.

Full of fresh fruits, cervezas, homemade empanadas, meeting new people, and catching up with my sister and our travel companion (and childhood friend), Amanda.

We rode the metro cable, overlooking the city, and walked along a path in the mountains, passing through a park and near a river, ultimately reaching a bus stop where we rode a crowded bus an hour back to the heart of Medellin to prepare for a gathering of friends that Maggie had arranged -- our Colombian debut.

*insert flourish where necessary*

The next day I was spoiled by our visit to the Plaza Botero and the Museo del Antioquia, where I was able to see original works by Medellin's own Fernando Botero, famous for his absurdly voluminous figures.

I was particularly lucky that I came to el museo during an exhibition of Colombian and Mexican artists that featured works by Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.

What. A. Treat.

That evening, Maggie took us to El Poblado (another area of Medellin) to "tomar un cafecito" in what can only be described as a hipster coffee shop, more akin to the ones in Brooklyn than in the rest of Medellin -- cold brew and all.

After a delicious dinner, made by Maggie's boyfriend, Jhonny, it was off to bed for a few short hours before our 5:30AM wake up call to travel to the bus terminal and board a bus to travel 9 hours south to the city of Cali.

Medellin in 48 hours -- WHEW!

Until next time!

Here goes...

Hello.

Pardon me for my brief hiatus.

Remember 6 weeks ago? That huge trip that I was about to leave for? When I was an anxiety-ridden mess and crying about everything?

Well, I'm back.

Of course, it was incredible.

Incredible.

I'm sitting in a cafe in White River Junction, VT, drinking and iced latte, and eating a falafel sandwich.

All for the affordable price of $13.

*winces*

I must say, being back in America is not all bad.

I enjoy the creature comforts.

Being lazy on my couch, eating whatever I want, going to lots of yoga classes, playing with my dog, ...speaking English, etc.

But backpacking through South America sure made me appreciate the comforts of home a hell of a lot more than I did.

All of this being said, I now need to list the things I miss about South America:

Cheap food, fresh fruit, warmth, my sister and Amanda, the daily experiences, my sad attempts at both speaking and understanding Spanish, my lack of cell phone service and constant connection to the internet and social media, part of me even kind of misses the long sweaty, smelly bus rides..... part of me, not all of me.

Just under a week before I flew back to the United States, Amanda, Maggie, and I arrived in Puno, Peru.

Puno is a city on the edge of Lake Titicaca (possibly one of the most tremendously beautiful places I've ever been).  We arrived at the cheapest hostel we could find around 11pm and promptly went to sleep.

Early the next morning, we booked a two day tour of Lake Titicaca which departed shortly after.

At some point that day, Amanda and I found ourselves on the boat that took us to the tour's different stopping points on the vast lake discussing all of the American food that we missed -- namely, Snickers and cheesecake.

I kid you not, the conversation lasted at least an hour... at least.

Miraculously, while hiking to a hilltop temple on one of the islands later that day, a member of one of the local communities was selling American candy bars for the Peruvian equivalent of about $2.50 on the side of the trail.  Amanda and I bought one and split it.

It was as good as we'd imagined.

The craving didn't really subside for the rest of the trip. I think I bought more Snickers in South America than I ever have in the United States. And do you think I've indulged since I've been back?

Not even once.

I guess it's the weird thing about being away from home.  You miss the convenience of things.

You know what I mean?

I only wanted a Snickers because I couldn't have one.

Now that I'm home, minutes away from places where I can buy a candy bar for $1.09, I don't crave one in the slightest.

And this philosophy applies to most things that I longed for during my five weeks away from home.

But the creature comforts are nice... I'll just keep reminding myself of that.

Silver lining or something.

Thinking about all the South American things that I miss -- most of all.... South America -- makes me want to relive the trip, the memories.

So bear with me in this endeavor as I transfer my jumbled memories from the pages of my journal to the computer screen for your reading pleasure.

But, naturally, I must start from the beginning.

Hold that thought ----

My brain hurts.

Have you ever had one of those days where there is so much going on and so much for you to do that you find yourself unable to think because your head is too clogged up with a jumble of unorganized, bullet-pointed to-do lists? And your cluttered brain makes very little room for self-motivation to actually do all of these things it's telling you to do? And instead you just want to sit on the floor and cry?

This has been the last few days for me, I truly have no idea where I found the motivation to blog.  Probably just using it as an excuse to keep the rest of my "ducks" very distinctly not "in a row."

Here's a synopsis (a list of bullet-points, of course) of my last 48 hours, not including the part where my friend's car got stuck in the snow for an hour and a half on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

• Say goodbye to my boyfriend as he departs for his flight back to the Eastern Hemisphere.
• Run errands.
• Talk to one of my aunts on the phone.
• Try to come to terms with the fact that on Saturday, at 5:00 AM, I will fly from Boston to Medellin, Colombia to begin a 4 week South American adventure with my sister and our friend, Amanda.
• Come to terms with the fact that I haven't started packing.
• Procrastinate by watching 8 episodes of friends with my brother (damn you, Netflix).
• Figure out how I'm getting to Boston.
• Actually pack.
• Try to remember how to pack light.
• Re-pack.
• Talk to another aunt on the phone.
• Fix my camera.
• Check-in for my flight online, only to find that I am not qualified to check-in online? Whatever the fuck that means.
• Fight with customer service over the phone.
• Say goodbye to my brother and my mom.

**Insert intermittent crying where appropriate.**

In the spirit of bullet-points, here are some of the feelings I've felt based on this sequence of events.

• Sad.
• Stressed.
• Fuck.
• Tired.
• Hungry.
• Sad.
• Angry.
• Confused.
• Fuck fuck fuck.
• Excited?
• Frustrated.
• Sad.
• Sad, sad, sad, sad.
• Sad.

But here I am.

My to-do list finally seeming manageable:

• Shower.
• Walk Mac.
• Go to the bank.
• Say goodbye to Dad.

And around 4:45, I'll be heading down to Boston to wait for my 5:00 AM flight.

I'm not bringing my computer with me and I'm not sure what my wifi situation will be while I'm there, but I hope to be able to give you all a few updates during my trip!

Time to stop feeling sad and stressed and start feeling excited and lucky to be able to have this experience.

So far 2015 has been a lot of hiking, beer, snow-shoeing, reading, loving, skiing, driving, and eating. 

Can't complain.

Although, I am looking forward to adding "selfie at Machu Picchu" to the list.

Now I have to go walk my dog (check!).

Catch you on the flipside, y'all.