My father has a motto: "What's the worst that could happen?" In college my friends decided that the worst possible scenario should always end with "And then you can never have sex again!" which requires quite a bit of creative thinking. And although it can be a little annoying when my dad says it, I find it a useful exercise to hypothesize about all the horrible situations that could happen and how I could handle them. (In fact my father and I did it just this morning when I found out that the building I live in is foreclosing and we decided that the worst would be if I had to move back in with them and commute 2.5 hours to school which would be logistically impossible because I don't have a car and I rarely leave the academic buildings to begin with...and that would most definitely result in the situation that my college friends foretold)

Anyway, L and A and I were all set to leave the ecovillage and head on to the beach (!!!). We had called a taxi to come at 7AM, figured out the bus and ferry schedule and gotten all packed. The taxi showed up! On time! And despite my bruised little bottom the ride was not too horrific. The taxi driver and I spoke briefly about the semantics of the words parque, plaza and cancha...after he corrected me several times when I told him to drop us off in the central plaza. (Evidently their soccer fields are called plazas, their plazas are called parks, and their stadia called canchas...they also give all directions using meters instead of blocks "de la esquina 500 metros" which made me feel like I had to triangulate everything or carry a surveyors tape).

We arrived at the parque and the girls ran for breakfast while I again guarded the bags and verified the bus schedule....we were an hour early. As I sat, I noticed that some buses arrived with standing room only which worried me because we had a lot of gear and I didn't want to stand for 2 hours. So we got on line early and got seats and set out....on the slowest and hottest bus known to man. About a half an hour out of town the bust stopped for the gazillionth time, but this time people were muttering "Puntarenas, puntarenas directo, hay que bajarse, Puntarenas." A quick survey revealed that the bus behind us was going directly to Puntarenas (our intermediate destination) so we quickly got our stuff and switched buses. I actually thanked my lucky stars because if we were in Bolivia people would have silently debarked just knowing that the other bus was better and having no need to state it to the hot and frustrated tourists. Although equally oven-like the new bus was indeed better, less crowded and much faster....and thus we arrived at noon to Puntarenas described by my trusty rough guide as the hottest place in all Costa Rica, fading and wilting in the sun. I had a general idea that the next ferry to Nicoya Peninsula (yet another intermediate destination) left in two hours but I was hoping that there might be an earlier boat so we rushed into a taxi to the other end of town. No luck. A two hour wait. We chilled in a lovely gulf-side restaurant in perhaps the only town in Costa Rica where it is not recommended that you drink the water. A declined to take this advice citing the fact that she's Indian.

I am a nervous traveler and one of my quirks, besides needing to be fed at regular intervals, is being early. When I get to the airport I like to go directly through security and to the gate and then go to eat or pee or whatever. The same with buses or ferries or any mode of transportation. I am irrationally afraid of being left behind. (This phobia is in the same category as being afraid of being locked in the bathroom. Both situations have happened to me numerous times...sometimes with one causing the other.) So even though we could see the ferry from the restaurant and knew that it wouldn't leave for a half hour I was still nervous because we weren't actually on it yet.

But we didn't miss the ferry and not one of my numerous forays to the bathroom resulted in being trapped. It was at this point that I realized how ridiculously bad I smelled, which A had said was her travel quirk. Besides also needing to know where she would be eating next, she detested smelly people. L declined to let us in on her weakness but I suspect it's control. We quickly deduced that she is a youngest child and must always get her way. Luckily A and I are middle children and are capable of compromise or alternatively joining forces to get our way. The ferry was actually quite nice, although slow like molasses, and we arrived at Paquera to be shepherded into a waiting bus. The ticket taker was the least pura-vida Tico we met the entire trip and he was in such a hurry that we finally just threw some money at him and got on the bus. We had to stand.

Even standing wasn't too too horrific. At least we were in the front where there was a breeze. And hanging on for dear life builds arm muscles. So at approximately 7PM we arrived at Montezuma our final beach-front destination. Hooray! I walked up to the hotel and the man at the desk opened with (in Spanish) "You're the three girls who reserved yesterday. Please don't yell at me."

He had given away our room! Despite his request, I started to yell (just a bit). "What do you mean you gave away our room? I reserved with a credit card! Why didn't anyone verify it on the phone! Are there any more rooms? Are any other hotels free? Are you fucking with me?" At this point, my brain busted and my Spanish completely failed me so L took up the charge, "Can we call your manager? Will you pay for the taxi to another hotel? You have the responsibility to make the customer satisfied! You can't just give away rooms!" This man was exasperatingly smug and just sat there as we fumed.

We calmed down a bit while talking to a shirtless American tourist named Michael (Michael was a good distraction but A said he wasn't suitable because he didn't have six-pack abs just a four pack and I said he wasn't suitable because he was an idiot.) and the receptionist eventually found another hotel for us (far far outside of town). He was not willing to pay for the taxi or the extra cost for the other hotel and he declined to call the manager saying that she would only yell at him and at some point he made some comment to the effect of "At least you guys speak Spanish" which caused another round of yelling and fuming.

We left our bags and went to dinner where we took photos of our comic distress and decided to construct an alternative narrative of our day...something about a yacht and catching seagulls with our bare hands and enjoying cocktails at sunset. I'll write it up and post the pictures later. We finally arrived at our new hotel; L remained exasperatingly optimistic and went night-swimming while A criticized everything about it before going to bed. I bridged the gap by criticizing before going to check out the beach.

Next up: socialism at its frustrating-ist and our own private beach

One of the more surreal experiences was the daily dance around the questions, "Where are you from?" and its close follower, "Where did you learn Spanish?" Being a veritable United Nations of single lady travelers we generally stuck with "We study in the United States" for the first answer unless one of us was asked specifically. The second question made for some ridiculousity.

My favorite conversation was one I overheard between L the Mexican and one of the Costa Rican hippies. The exchange went something like this:

H: Where did you learn Spanish?

L: I'm Mexican.

H: Oh so you learned Spanish in Mexico?

L: Uh, yes.

H: Did you take Spanish in school? Or just from living there?

L: What?

H: Because you speak really well. You even have a Mexican accent.

L: Right.

H: Because that other girl has a different accent. She says she learned in Bolivia.

L: But I'm Mexican.

Conversations with me usually went:

Where are you from?

The United States

But you speak Spanish!

To which I would respond either "I lived in Bolivia" or "All New Yorkers speak Spanish." Upon reflection, this isn't as strange as it at first seemed. We did meet several Americans living in Costa Rica who had made no attempt to learn Spanish. One of the hippies, for example, had been coming to CR for 11 years. The owner of our hotel had been living there 15. No Spanish. Honestly, besides the Subways and Dennys and Walmart and Burger Kings, I think this is one of the reasons that I didn't really enjoy Costa Rica as much as I could have. At the very least, our sojourn into hippydom gave us the opportunity to speak with real live Costa Ricans who were super proud of their land and the efforts they made to make the country environmentally friendly.

The morning of January 1 we struck out for an ecovillage near San Mateo. Not that telling you it's near San Mateo will give you any indication of where we were; the town only has about 500 residents. But in case you're interested it's about halfway between San Jose and Puntarenas if you go the back way. The bus ride was a good opportunity to see the areas surrounding San Jose (including the Walmart and Dennys) the mountains, pineapple plantations and all variety of four-wheel-drive vehicles. I must take a moment to admit that even recognizing that pineapples are very heavy and it would be anatomically illogical...I thought they grew on trees. The road itself was quite steep and extremely curvy. Some small children were yelling "wheeeeee!" at every curve but even they got silent and motion sick in short order.

We arrived in San Mateo around 1ish to find that the guy who was supposed to meet us had not shown up. He was also not answering his phone. L asked everyone and their mother if they knew this character or if they had any idea where the ecovillage was located. We even asked the one cop and all the little old men hanging in the plaza who were less than helpful; the cop couldn't even figure out how to dial his cellphone. I voted to just go to the only bar in town and just wait and eventually L found a taxi driver who sort of knew where we were headed so we relaxed with a burrito and a few beers before setting out. The town (and the bar) were actually quite charming.

The taxista took us about five miles out of town and up a dirt road for a few miles before determining that his car couldn't handle the terrain....so he dropped us off. Ok. L and A started walking while I guarded the bags and read the Economist until a jeep came and picked me up about five minutes later. The guy driving was actually a local farmer who was going home for the day. He just picked us up out of the goodness of his heart, recognizing that it would be a loooong walk. Like good little nerds, we talked with him about his citrus crops and asked about the other landholders and the history of the site. And then we arrived. I could tell that the farmer was particularly curious to see what the crazy hippies were doing in the middle of nowhere. I'm not sure what he was expecting, and I'm not even sure what I was expecting but this was....different.

Sure, an ecovillage is an "intentional community with the goal of becoming more socially, economically, and ecologically sustainable." Sure, that indicates some alternative worldviews, a lack of electricity and composting toilets. But this place was a bit less formal. They created a shareholder group with half American and half Costa Ricans to live on the land in the ideals of permaculture....which until this trip I didn't realize included communitarian aspects.

Anyhoo, people lived in half built houses with a communal kitchen. Each hut had a dry compost system (that they didn't really dress up much so it was basically "shitting in a bucket"), solar shower (which judging by the smell of certain individuals was not universally used) and a communal kitchen. As I later learned it had been formed by a small group of people who had a camp together at burning man in the early 90s...which should give you an indication of the vibe. Sure I've hugged a few trees in my time and my personal goal is to have a composting toilet in my house...but I'm not much into yoga and health food fads. I don't believe in the paranormal or indigo children and I'm pretty sure that cutting off a cow's horns does not affect the quality of its digestion. (The last two were actual conversations of residents of the village. long conversations. Mostly one-sided.)

Anyhoo, A and I immediately began to plot our escape. The next day we got a ride into town to plan our next stop. Like dealings in any "non-Western" nation this involved talking to everyone and their mother to figure out bus schedules and calling lots and lots of hotels that all seemed to be full. After successfully figuring out how to leave town and reserving a room over the phone, I rewarded myself to ice cream and headed back to the hippies.

That afternoon we had a lovely vegetarian lunch and headed up to the river to swim in the waterfall. The most eventful part is when I fell on my ass climbing down the rocks. It hurt so bad that my legs went numb for a second....bruised tailbone. right before the day we had a long day of travel planned. oh boy.

When thinking about this post, I was torn between two different beginnings to describe my recent Costa Rican vacation:

1. A Mexican, and Indian, and an American walk into a bar. It sounds like the start of a bad joke but is instead the beginning of a worse vacation...

2. On several occasions my friends have commented on my propensity for disaster in all travel undertakings. And although many admit that I generally escape unscathed, some have decided to never travel with me again....

Although both seem overly dramatic they are based in truth (ok it was a party not a bar) and my notes from the trip place events squarely into three categories: the good, the bad, and the purely ridiculous.

It is important to note that each day, no matter how ridiculous, had at least one highlight. And I should start with my travel companions: two lovely ladies and classmates L the Mexican and A the Indian. Their company was invaluable and positive, our travel quirks were well balanced, and although towards the end of the trip we made a pact not to talk to each other our first week back...I think our friendship will survive.

Day 1! We arrived in San Jose bright and shiny at 1AM and went directly to bed. L and I had to share a bed which was no easy task. Although I was forewarned about her propensity to toss and turn (and I of course shared that I sometimes cuddle others) the scope of her spreadability was incredible. At some point during each night I woke up to find her taking over 3/4 of the bed. The other seven gazillion times I woke up were due to the noise of cars rushing past...a sound akin to a freight train.

That morning we set out to explore the city. The Rough Guide writes that Ticos who live outside of San Jose describe it as, "a maelstrom of stress junkies, rampant crime, and other urban horrors." They go on to cite "pothole-scarred streets and car dealership architecture," deep open drains, and kamikaze drivers. Determined to make the best of it we took cheesy photos of ourselves at all the parks and markets and made a valiant effort to check out the National Library, the National Museum, and the Gold Museum which were all closed without explanation. We did pee at the swanky Gran Hotel Costa Rica where JFK once stayed. At night we headed to San Pedro to eat hummus and drink with obnoxiously young university students. Someone actually called me senora.

Day 2! The next morning A and I woke up at 6AM to head to Poas Volcano...except we accidentally woke up at 5. I'm not entirely sure what the time difference is between the East Coast and Costa Rica and I didn't bring a watch or cell phone in an effort to enter a state of zen timelessness (which transitioned pretty quickly into stress and asking every five minutes, "What time is it?") but this was a bit extreme. Anyhoo we were on time for our bus! Once inside the Park, A and I walked to the crater where we looked over the wide open expanse....of mist. You could see nothing of the crater, the surrounding mountains, or even the sky. Nothing. We took a picture anyway because I'm thinking of starting a "Lenni in the mist" photo album. (If you'll remember, my experience at Macchu Picchu was similar.) Post-mist we hiked around complaining about how our old knees hurt and avoiding the green squirrels and then checked out the tiny volcano museum, gift shop, and tiny art gallery before realizing that we had two additional hours to kill before the bus headed back to San Jose. We spent this time passing back and forth a three-month old copy of The Economist. Getting back to the city we checked out a few churches before heading back to the hotel to meet a friend (P the Bolivian) for dinner.

Dinner was actually pretty sweet. The food was delicious, the atmosphere local and although our ordering was like a scene out of When Harry Met Sally the Vegetarian with simultaneous translation the staff was very accommodating. Chelles is panelled entirely in a rich mahogany and has an old drug store/soda shop feel to it. A San Jose institution, the restaurant's atmosphere afforded us an unparalleled opportunity to malign the incredibly loud American tourist at the next table. Usually open 24/7, even Chelles closed early for New Years Eve and we moved on making plans with P to meet up later for drinks because A and I needed a rest and L needed to finish work on her grad school application.

I wish I could say we finished strong and that our New Years Eve in the tropical nation was one for the books but unfortunately we are surprisingly lame. On our hike A had mentioned that one of our young professors had an open Facebook page that had several shirtless photos so we perused those before watching the ball drop on tv. Keeping in mind the time zone issue, we may have accidentally fallen asleep at 11PM Tico time.

Photos to come!

Next up: dirty hippies and compost toilets.

Part 1: The purchase.

This Fall my Grandma gave me $20 to put towards a purchase of new hockey skates. Even though I've been on the ice since before I could walk (which honestly hasn't helped me develop any great level of skill), I can only remember once receiving a brand new pair of skates. So this seemingly age-inappropriate gift was surprisingly sweet.

Starry-eyed I set off to make "the purchase." The salesman, or more accurately the saleskid, was named Vladimir or Olaf or Gordon or some other name associated with cold weather countries whose citizens hold innate knowledge of skate craftsmanship. As such, he explained that skates come in a variety of stiffnesses that support the skater in his her speed and acrobatics. He also explained that although junior skates would be infinitely more comfortable, flexible and perhaps most importantly cheaper, they would not be really usable after they had broken in (too too flexible). However, unless I planned to skate all day every day or gain 100 pounds this was unlikely to happen. After an hour and twenty pairs of skates, Vlaimir-Olaf-Gordon began to doubt my true commitment to providing him with a sales commision and pawned me off to an even more junior associate. This guy handed me a 21st pair which I immediately bought. (Shameless plug: Paragon Sports offers free skate sharpening for life with purchase.)

I brought my skates home and put them on display in a place of prominence so that I could gaze at them and admire them every day. So excited was I that later that week I actually invited a guy back to my apartment to "meet my skates." Luckily he knew me well enough to realize that 1) I was a smidge intoxicated and 2) I was totally serious. "Meet my skates" was unfortunately not some footwear related euphemism like "knocking boots." (He declined by the way.)

As we all know, $20 does not buy a pair of skates...or even one-fifth of a pair so I swore to make them worth every penny and set the goal of skating in every rink in New York City.

Queens: Flushing Meadows and City Ice Pavillion

Manhattan: Wollman, Lasker, Bryant Park, Chelsea Piers, and Rockefeller Center

Brooklyn: Abe Stark

Staten Island: Clove Lakes, Ice Skating Pavillion

Paying to skate may not seem the most reasonable way to offset a big purchase but it provided a uniquie adventure that allowed me to experience a wide swathe of NYC with my friends.

First up: City Ice Pavillion!

Like all modern urban women of a certain age, I have tried the online dating thing. Since I generally judge people on the their grammar and wit, the idea of scoping people out through a written profile and email exhange (plus carefully choreographed photos) appeals to me. I meet well-read, politically literate guys who are awesome people and spiffy dressers...and we have one date.

Moving away from that sad fact, one prospective boytoy recently posed the question "Who would you rather date, James Bond or Indiana Jones?" Never one to make an uninformed decision, I immediately began to draft a pro-con list:

James Bond

Pro

AthleticSnappy dresserLikes to travel – even been to Bolivia!Good with gadgets – could probably program VCRAgelessSophisticated - owns tuxSexy accentIntelligentEU citizenship – better healthcare and education system just in case we marryWell paid and well connectedTan suavecito – por Dios!Superduper hot – especially Daniel Craig Can defy laws of physicsCon

Brits not known for sexual prowessEmotionally distantHigh maintenanceLadies’ man – must have the herp by nowQuestionable moralsNo sense of humorHigh risk profession

Indiana Jones



Pro

AthleticBoy ScoutLikes to travelLow maintenanceQuick thinker Close to family – charming inlawSelf-deprecating witGood with whips -- if you like that sort of thingDog personIntelligent – reads dead languages (siiiiigh)Con

Emotionally distantIn love with MarionGruff (could be super sexy pro)Somewhat naïveAfraid of snakes and rats Bad temper

My college asked me to write a short essay on my experiences in Peace Corps. They didn't give me any direction beyond that so hopefully they have a sense of humor because here goes:

How Peace Corps Made Me Insufferably Pretentious

Pretentious, defined by my big, heavy and expensive Webster New English Dictionary as "a showy display, as of wealth or knowledge," describes many a Peace Corps volunteers. I can see the shadow of doubt crossing your face so allow me to explain.

First, please take a moment to think of all the loathsome behaviors of those who continually try to impress with their greater knowledge, experience and cultural savvy. Now think of your average returned Peace Corps volunteer. Using me as an example (Bolivia '07-08), let's see how they compare...

Listen to world music: Peace Corps Bolivia introduced me to new instruments (the charrango, the tarka) and new music (the chacarera, the copla, the ever so sexy saya), some of which I loved and some of which I hope never to hear again...and many of which have made it onto my next generation iPod.

Greet everyone with a kiss on the cheek: due to depth perception and personal space issues this culturally acceptable greeting took a lot of getting used to. Now that I’m used to it I find that it keeps my pressed suits from wrinkling.

Use the word ciao: in much of South America they say "chao" to say goodbye. It's less final then "adios" and makes me seem so cultured.

Use foreign words in every day conversation, particularly from obscure third language: heck, Peace Corps taught me to speak Quechua. Where else will I use it if not at cocktail parties?

Stock your refrigerator with exotic foods: at first I did not really enjoy squeaky cheese, dehydrated potatoes, or purple corn but I will admit that I now have an unhealthy addiction to all of them. Ok I lie. I will never ever enjoy dehydrated potatoes but I am pleased that my supermarket carries them just in case I should experience a conversion. I will serves papas a la huancaina or sopa de mani with pride at my next fine china dinner party.

Pronounce foreign country names in their original language (eg, Mexico = May-hee-co): I was mocked mercilessly during my Peace Corps career for mispronouncing Chile. It won't happen again. And now I sound intelligent and word traveled.

Use the phrase "pencil you in": things don't always go as planned in Peace Corps. Meetings that you agreed to and confirmed several times may not actually happen generally due to circumstances beyond your control or cultural issues that will never fully be explained to you. It is best not to be too firm in your scheduling. It is also common to...

...arrive fashionably late: I had Bolivian friends who would invite me to parties saying "It starts at 8. You should arrive at 10." After a few months it was no longer necessary to advise me on the proper (late) arrival time, an attitude that I find has stuck. Either way I am much too busy and important to show up on time.

Name drop: by some unfortunate quirk of familiarity, most people refer to Bolivia's President Juan Evo Morales Ayma as simply Evo. Examples would include: "Evo has a really large head. Quite enormous in fact." or "Evo is the first indigenous president of Bolivia." which brings me to my next point...

Make obscure references to politics, world leaders, geographic locations, etc: I might say, in casual conversation, "Last Spring, Evo sponsored a conference in Tiquipaya on global climate change inviting environmental crusaders from all over the world." You will be impressed by how I keep my finger on the pulse of Latin American politics (and I'll never tell that I am updated by my Bolivian Facebook friends).

Say things like, "when I lived in South America...": Well I did live there! I learned a lot, met wonderful people, and started listening to chacarera, eating humintas and referring to the President by his first name. You too can become insufferably pretentious. Consider Peace Corps.

Lenni (‘03) served as an environmental education volunteer in Bolivia ('07-'08). She set up schoolyard tree nurseries and a couple of community gardens maintained faithfully by the kindergarten. She worked with the middle school to host an environmental radio show and tried desperately to get the high school interested in recycling. She was an insufferable American, eating exotic cheeses and reading English books.

My heroes at CarTalk recently put out the call for Road Trip Stories. I shared mine with them and will now bless you all with it too:

Sometimes road trips (and breakdowns) let you see the good (and the less good) in the world. In July 2004, I moved back to Washington, DC from St. Paul, MN stopping along the way to visit various relatives. My 1995 Dodge Intrepid (white, named Moby) was packed to the gills and equipped with a few days worth of snacks and the same mix tape that had been stuck in the tape deck for the past six months. First stop: Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.

Correction. First stop: somewhere in the wilds of Wisconsin. Moby, with impeccable timing, overheated on a stretch of country road where cell service was unavailable and no buildings were evident. In a characteristic belief that all will go well, I abandoned my car and started walking. Soon I came across a small housing subdivision and started knocking on doors. (What was I thinking?) At one house, a young couple (just married they said!) invited me in to cool down before setting out to cool down my car. Instead of just handing me a phone book to call a tow truck they grabbed a jug of coolant and drove me back to my car. They refilled the radiator and accompanied me to the nearest gas station…still miles away from a garage. The couple waited for a tow truck with me and the gas station attendant even let me recharge my cellphone.

Not the end of the story! I made it to my aunt’s house in Fond du Lac and after a short visit and a surprisingly long mechanic bill I set off to pick up my brother-in-law in Gary, IN. In a complete highway-driving haze (or perhaps I was distracted by the vitriol of Indiana’s conservative talk radio) I drove right past the exit and wound up going an hour out of the way. When I finally made it back, my brother-in-law nicely offered to take over driving. Instead of enjoying the ride and napping I found myself cringing when he started to drift a bit into the shoulder with increasing frequency. He was falling asleep at the wheel! I offered to take the driving responsibility back but he declined...at which point I yelled “PULL THE HELL OVER AND GET OUT OF THE CAR!” I am nothing if not subtle.

The road trip still held a little more excitement. I had to make a desperate pit stop for “lady products” and explain to my brother-in-law why exactly I needed to borrow 50 cents. AND after dropping him off in Pittsburgh, my car broke down again a half an hour outside of DC. Resigned to my fate, I packed an overnight bag, left the rest of my worldly belongings (and my car) at the mechanic, and hopped on a bus to a friend’s house. Not quite home safe: he had forgotten I was to arrive and wasn’t home. I slept on his back porch braving the 900 degree heat and a swarm of eagle-sized mosquitos.

No exaggeration. Except for maybe that last part.

So I just signed a lease on a one bedroom in which I will live all by my lonesome. and although I'm a little concerned that it might take even longer to discover my body if I die I am mostly thinking of all the wonderful things that living alone provides:

working out in the living room without my roommates watchinghaving a big worm (compost) bin without grossing out my roommatescloset space! mine! all mine!refrigerator spacepeeing with the door opensleeping with the door open

letting the yellow mellowbeing able to leave my stuff in the living room or kitchen or anywherefeeling slightly less guilty about not doing my dishesnaked time!having all my books in one placesleepoversdecorating all living space (including the refrigerator) with MY photos and artwork

I do however have cold flashes when I consider other things about living alone

as previously mentioned, longer time needed to discover that I've died (if I happen to die)

I have no living room furniture! or appliances!I have to pay the whole utility bill all by my lonesomeMy spectacular roommate won't be there to buy toilet paper when I forget to...or dish soap, or paper towels, or cleaning supplies

No one to help me open hard-to-open jars or reach hard-to-reach shelvesSo I suppose if you, loyal reader, have a couch, coffee table, book shelves, armchair, microwave, cleaning supplies, can opener, bottle opener, tool kit, air conditioner, nightstand, tv, dvd player or area rugs you know to whom to donate them.

Me.

I should probably clarify that I'm not one of those live blogging types. I am not currently in New Orleans but back in my apartment chomping on some late night chocolate chip cookies. So let's flash back together....

Friday morning we all dragged ourselves out of bed, climbed in the cars and drove out to East New Orleans without saying a word. The morning continued in silence as nursing hangovers and sleep deprived we continued to build houses. I moved on from painting things blue to painting things gray and then cutting J channels for vinyl siding. I don't mean to sound like Ms. Dudley can't-Do-Right but it involved geometry skills that I lack, or rather that I have to work super hard at. The day picked up when our fellow workers from a church outside Philly bought enough ice cream pops for everyone. Appropriately refreshed we took one last group photo and skedaddled into the sunset.

As much as I love people I am a big believer in me-time so that evening I splintered from the main group with Laura, a colleague from Parks, to seek out Mexican food. It was an interesting experience if only because they sold the nacho cheese and salsa separate from the chips. My face expressed a confusion evidently previously unseen in New Orleans when asked "You want chips with that?" I was tempted to respond, "No, just a spoon will be fine."

Switching gears we walked along the ole' Miss and stopped in at Cafe du Monde to sample beignets. They're open 24 hours a day! I would guess that the French donuts (fried dough smothered in powdered sugar) are one of the more unhealthy foods of the world but Cafe du Monde was opened in 1862 before the advent of cholesterol. Tradition calls for blowing the sugar onto a friend but Laura politely declined.

The next morning (day 6!) I decided to take full advantage of the day and go on a bus tour of the entire city. We stopped at St. Louis Cemetery. Built over an old leper graveyard (heck yeah, I'm composing the all-singing all-dancing leper musical in my head now) it is built with walls of niches. The bodies are laid there, do their thing, and then are transferred to ossuary buildings. During yellow fever, graves couldn't be reopened until a year and one day after the bodies were interred. I would love to share more fascinating information about the cemetery and new Orleans but I fell asleep on the bus waking up only to note where the Ann Rice lived and the Manning family lives. Ok, I'm less than inspired tonight...blame the chocolate so I shall end with the flight home. It was the bumpiest, scariest landing I have ever endured and I did think that death was a possibility. Compounding my anxiety, there was a woman on my flight who was super afraid of flying...to the point that up until the minute we took off she kept asking her companion if perhaps they could drive. I am a super low key flyer but it was a rough landing.

Day 3: Hump day! Wednesday was the first clue that I might not make it through the whole week unscathed. Bright and shiny we met at Bayou Rebirth's nursery to be led into the wild blue yonder of a real live bayou. Unfortunately their truck wasn't quite in working repair. While the men folk tinkered with the engine (and by tinker I mean remove large parts of the engine that I'm pretty sure are necessary to its proper functioning) we occupied ourselves by devising a hockey-type game with broom sticks. But sun exhaustion and a twisted knee and a replacement truck conspired to cut the game short.

Then we drove past endless waterways and several oil refineries to arrive at a newly built waterfront park. On site we dug through the bucket o' waders to find boots in a size approximating our own and then headed into the water to plant the marsh grasses that we had lovingly repotted the day before. This was more complicated than you might imagine as mucking through two feet of water (and a foot of mud) in incorrectly sized boots leads to imbalance and wet pants.

After lunch we got to cross the water in a boat to plant cane. The ride would have been much nicer if waders in direct sunlight didn't conduct so much heat but it was a nice opportunity to see the innards of a bayou. I may or may not have seen an alligator and some of the girls swear to having spotted a dinosaur. We did positively identify several nesting kildeer.

Night 3: Anyhoo, at the end of the day we were glad to peel off four feet of rubber and make our way towards Lafayette Square for Wednesday at the Square, "a free, 12-week concert series with food and drink for sale to benefit the Young Leadership Council." Of course we benefited the Council by purchasing Mar-GO-ritas, the adult version of a Capri sun and then went to soak up the alcohol at Deanie's Seafood because "you haven’t done New Orleans, until you’ve done Deanie’s." After doing Deanie's (and boy did we do Deanie's) we walked off all the fried, steamed, and boiled fish-y goodness on the way to d.b.a.

According to their website, d.b.a.'s "building dates back to the 1880's, and musicians say the all cypress wood music room is one of the warmest sounding rooms in New Orleans." The website also says that it's located it one of the hippest neighborhoods in the country besides perhaps Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I maintain that Frenchmen Street and its live music venues and Creole mansions is way super cooler than the hipster haven. After drinking, dancing and feeding Philip (as in fill-up the tip jar) we caught a cab back to our plush bunk beds to dream of marsh grass and levees set to a blues soundtrack.

Let's just move right on to Day 4: Switching gears we began work with Habitat for Humanity. Although our crew leaders were total hotties and I could forgive them most anything I would have appreciated more of a welcome to the work day than "We have a lot of injuries each year. Please don't cut your fingers off or get hit on the head with a two by four." But besides the admonition not to rest tools on top of ladders that was about it; we were broken into teams and set to work hanging Tyvek sheets.

I immediately admitted to my team my complete inability to stand on ladders and do anything but stand. I was not blessed with a surplus of balance, if any, and was so relegated to the post of "ladder- holder and hammerer of low things" for the morning. At one point a two by four fell on my head. Seriously. Anyhoo, it was not an ideal job for any of us as there was no shade and boy is Tyvek reflective. We did take a brief break to construct a fort out of extra boards to provide a refuge from the blinding rays of the sun but I realized early on that any more time in the sun might cause my arms to fall off so after lunch I bribed someone with an inside job to take my place.

I spent the afternoon cowering in the shade and happily painting things blue. My arms, unfortunately had already started to blister a little (I'm allergic to the sun. neat huh?) which prompted a rational fear of what Friday might bring. But I didn't concern myself overly because of what Night 4 had in store.

Night 4: The leader of the gang (the fearless Brian, Lousiana native) had prepared a crawfish boil for us. We arrived to his house to be greeted by the spectre of 60 pounds of dead crustaceans on a table, with more in a large vat stirred with an oar. Also on the menu were corn on the cob, boiled potatoes and artichokes all smothered in cayenne pepper (which incidentally stings quite a bit when it comes into contact with your eyeballs) and a healthy selection of Abita, the local brew.

We spent the evening schmoozing and competition story-telling before Brian's neighbor hit on the bright idea of dragging us all to Rock and Bowl. Evidently this woman had an in so we paid a $5 cover and were treated to free shoes, $1 socks (bleached to germ free perfection), and an hour of bowling... to the sultry tunes of live zydeco. There was even a man with a washboard. It was perhaps the hippest bowling experience I've ever had. The lanes were new and pristine and the building featured a huge bar and dance floor.

In some fluke of lane assignments, I got a whole lane to myself and played against myself in five different positions. I impressed by bowling pretty much continuously for an entire hour and scoring higher than 60 for each spot. Sober with a tired arm I was in that first car to skedaddle home at 2am. We closed that place DOWN.

Does our hero survive Friday with only four hours of sleep and facing the threat of sun poisoning? Stay tuned for the next installment...

Before I enlighten you on Day 2, I should probably give you a brief tutorial about wetlands restoration in general and in New Orleans in particular. Please keep in mind that I am by no means an expert. Any information that I hope to impart comes from an undergraduate degree in biology, several web searches, and three all-too-short days working with City Park and Bayou Rebirth.

Wetlands, as the name implies, is an area of land that is covered in shallow water all or part of the year. Bogs, marshes, swamps and bayous are all examples. Many wetlands exist in areas where freshwater and saltwater systems meet and are called estuaries. Wetlands, and especially estuaries, are considered the most biologically diverse systems in the world.

New Orleans is basically one giant wetland. bounded to the north by Lake Pontchartrain, to the south by Mississippi River and to the East by miles and miles of canals, most of the city is below sea level. It wasn't always that way though. The River, like all rivers, used to flood periodically depositing silt and sediment, building up the land mass of the city. After a particularly destructive flood, levess were built to control the flow of the river with the unfortunate effect of funneling all the dirt into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Additionally, channels were excavated to facilitate the transport of petroleum and ship traffic. The excavation increases the surface area of land exposed to erosion. So without new dirt provided by the river and with channels dug everywhere, New Orleans is slowly sinking. (National Geographic's feature "Gone with the Water" also points to overpopulation of nutria as a problem. Evidently those little suckers chomp wetland plants like no other. But not to worry, they're edible and soon they'll be as integral to Nawlins cuisine as jambalaya.)

Everyone we talked to in New Orleans also pointed towards the destructive influence of Mr. Go. Not a supervillian of extraordinary powers but the Mississippi River-Gulf Outlet, Mr. Go was dredged to serve as a 500-ft wide shipping shortcut. Unused, it has eroded to three times it's plan size and in Hurrican Katrina provided a direct route for storm surge to reach the city.

Storm surge is the wave created by hurricanes in open water. But for every two to four miles of wetlands the wave's height is reduced by 1ft. This would be good news if the wetlands of New Orleans were untouched by levees, shipping channels and Mr. Go. (I have to say, it was remarkable how bitter NOLA citizens were about Mr. Go. Even the average joe seemed to be consumed by vitriol at its mere mention.)

Obviously people aren't just sitting around watching the wetlands disappear. There a number of groups doing phenomenal (albeit sometimes scattershot) work to restore the wetlands.

On Day 2 we got to work with such a group: Bayou Rebirth. "Founded in 2007 partly in response to the environmental and community needs present in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, Bayou Rebirth envisions a revitalized and restored city through local and visiting citizens’ connection to the ecology of the coastal wetlands. Bayou Rebirth is offering local residents and visiting volunteers a way to get involved in solutions now."

Hidden in a parking lot behind an abandoned kitchen fixture store Bayou Rebirth has a nursery of wetland plants. We stepped up marsh grasses, drained pools, weeded and cleaned up bags and bags of strofoam in the unfortunately direct sunlight.

Night 2: After work, we ventured over to the lower ninth ward, the neighborhood of New Orleans that sustained the most damage and casualties in Hurricane Katrina. As it turns out, the levess built to control flooding were found to be in complete disrepair, or rather they were built in a manner that was since found to be completely negligent. Diaregarding the settling and sinking of the land, and using outdated methods the levees were not built to standard. In some areas, the walls were filled with crumpled newspaper and sand instead of dirt and cement. The citizens of New Orleans filed suit against the Army Corps of Engineers and in a historic settlement were awarded damages. The levees were rebuilt twice as high but only 60% of NOLA citizens returned after the hurricane and houses remain abandoned. They retain the water line and markings indicating FEMA searches. The juxtaposition with modern new houses built by Brad Pitt's Make it Right is especially eerie.After a dirty day in the hot sun, and the depressing spectre of a devastated neighborhood, we recovered our spirits with frosty daquiris at the drive-thru.

Today, while I was walking in midtown (the lights! the bustle!) my iPod got into the spirit and started playing songs from the great white way (Broadway). It took all I had to not burst into song. I know that most anything is acceptable in the big bad city but I still think people would frown upon me belting "Seasons of Love." And yes I am that sterotypical.

I went to New Orleans! And I'm gonna tell you about it whether you want to read it or not!

Ahem. Perhaps I'm still a bit intoxicated.

Two weeks ago, I went on a work-sponsored trip to the Big Easy to plant things and build stuff. Arriving on Sunday evening we went straight to business at Franky and Johnny's with alligator nuggets. That's right, delicious fried reptile. Mmmmm. I never knew what I was missing living in NY where alligator is not readily available. Moving on to other items in the Nawlins repertoire I ordered red beans and rice which you are evidently only supposed to eat on Mondays. Don't ask. Have you noticed that thus far I've only talked about food? I'm afraid it will continue as cuisine and New Orleans seem to inseperable. If anything can be made bigger, better or deeper fried, it can be done there.

Day 1: Donning our waders and braving poisonous stinging caterpillars we set out to City Park to plant trees, dig up marshgrasses and just get dirty. At 1300 acres City Park is one of the largest (and oldest) urban parks in the world. It has an amusement park, golf course, botanical garden and so so many big beautiful gorgeous 600 year old live oak trees. After Hurricane Katrina, the whole park was under water and much of the vegetation was destroyed. Five years later, the Park's staff still works out of a trailer. But they are a few hundred trees closer to being restored after our work day! It's gonna eat me! These suckers dropped out of trees and lurked everywhere waiting to sting the unsuspecting.

A spring chicken of a live oak tree. Their branches can reach lengths of 40ft!

Night 1: When most people think of New Orleans they think of Bourbon Street: the traditional center of drunken debauchery where open container laws hold no stead. So of course we went there. At the Gumbo Shop I ate my first crawfish ever and drank my first hurricane of the trip. Actually four of us girls split a hurricane because we were all a bit to pooped to drink. (We might be a bit lame for New Orleans.) After dinner we popped into a voodoo shop selling Virgin Mary tokens (that looked an awful lot like Frida Kahlo), charms (unfortunately all for fertility) and a wide variety of cigars. I was tempted to peek into the aura reading happening in the back room but the posted signs promising death and doom to those who looked without paying scared me back on to the street. We moved on to souvenir stores selling beads, boas and bourbon and walked by Big Ass Beers several times. And then I headed to bed. Oh, I'm so lame!

All right ladies and gentleman, please watch Spike Lee's When the Levees broke before reading the next installment of Nawlins for lame-os.

I've lived in the big bad city (NY, the original big bad city) for over a year and haven't written nary a blurb on it. Perhaps as a native NY-er I tend not to feel a need to remark on the weird that has become the everyday. Or perhaps the big bad city isn't as weird as outsiders think....no. that can't be it.

This weekend was an umbrella killer. Facing the rain and some terrific gusts of wind my umbrella promptly turned inside out and I decided that I had had enough. I disposed of it and bought a new one for $3 at the corner store; umbrella #2 bit the dust pretty much immediately. Screw it, I headed back to the apartment to nap and watch reruns of Gilmore Girls...more appropriate rainy day activities.

But Saturday nights are flamenco nights! So that evening, against better judgement, I grabbed umbrella #3 and headed out to Chelsea. According to the New York Times' neighborhood profiles (a thinking girls' bible) Chelsea is "charming in some places, and less so in others, including some pockets of high crime." I was likely in one of those areas where the two meet.

Because after the wind had destroyed yet another umbrella and the rain had soaked me through I realized I didn't have any cash. No, I wasn't pickpocketed just cash-less. The flamenco lady recommended that I go to the bar across the street to use their ATM but unfortunately she wasn't quite accurate. The ATM was in the store next to the bar, where surrounded by fake lady parts I withdrew some cash. I was in a porn store. But it was warm and dry and the staff was friendly, although a bit sad that I didn't make any purchases. Perhaps for Christmas. Sensual love toys for all my friends!

On the way home the subway was closed due to "smoke conditions," I saw a rat as big as a bobcat and a man in a dress called me beautiful.

Oh and the flamenco show was sublime.

In 2009 I...

...drove or walked across the george washington, throgs neck, triboro, 49th st, manhattan, brooklyn, and verrazano bridges and through the midtown and lincoln tunnels. Only the whitestone bridge and the holland tunnel remain.

...finished 60 books including War and Peace, the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Wild Card Quilt, What is the What, Mountains beyond Mountains, Half the Sky, and Animal Farm.

...planted 45,000 trees (with the help of 3000 volunteers).

...had 5 first dates. Sigh.

...set foot in 7 states.

If you don't mind I'll squeeze the last three days of our trip into one posting. Day #2 in Sevilla we decided to maintain our long-standing tradition of visiting museums off the beaten path...so off the beaten path in fact that we spent much of the morning wandering lost in the haze of a 100 degree day. Finally we stumbled through the oasis that is Parque Maria Luisa where Chachi lectured us on the finer points of urban planning and forestry. According to Wikipedia the park "tiene una particular característica, sus palomas, que al agruparse forman una blanca alfombra cuyo apetito resulta difícil de saciar." Fighting off a white carpet of insatiable pigeons we arrived at the Museo de Artes Populares y Costumbres which had an extensive collection of doilies. Even the display on sausage-making did not make it worth the threat of a fowl death. (Ha?) Next we hit up the Museo Arqueologico de Sevilla where we learned all about the history and culture of Spain from trilobites to tapas. I was perhaps more fascinated than my lovely companions but generally our indomitable tourist spirit was lessened and we spent the rest of the day eating anything but tapas, swimming in the hotel pool and shopping.

Sevilla from above (duh?)

Day #3 in Sevilla we actually spent on the beach in Cadiz. Due to some quirk in train reservations Mary and I were seated in a diffferent car than Chachi and arrived sans our favorite tall redheaded companion.

The woman at the information desk in the train station convinced us that no trains would arrive for the next few hours and that we should probably just go to the beach. We hopped on a bus, stopped at the grocery store, tried calling Chachi several times and finally settled on the beach hoping against hopes that we would run into the boy eventually. A mile or so and the beginnings of a good sunburn later we spotted our fair (literally) friend who had gotten off at a train stop closer to the beach, didn't see us, took the next train to where Mary and I had gotten off, spoke to the same woman who evidently didn't absorb that the three lost Americans were together, took a bus back to the beach and in the mark of a good traveler also bought some groceries and settled himself. Reunited, we continued to work on our sunburns until we headed back to Sevilla. here, Chachi left to meet up with a friend of his and Mary and I ventured out to a flamenco show. Unfortunately I don't have any photos so this one will have to do:

The next day brought the end of our trip. Mary and I, erratically and uncomfortably sunburnt (I still bear marks today) traveled back to Madrid and in the whirlwind typical of the last day of vacation visited the Archeology Museum, ate McDonalds, bought souvenirs, took photos of the train station...

...and then sat in the airport for three hours due to mechanical difficulties.

We are now home safe and sound and are planning our next vacation which I won't write about until six months later. Bueno pues nada.

Competing in the Amazing Race demands some athleticism. Mary runs marathons and I can plod along for hours....and honestly this was our downfall in Sevilla. It was sooo hot and we walked sooo far each day getting sooo lost when honestly we should have sprung for cabs all the time. (Not that cabs always helped. At least twice we got dropped off at the wrong place and still had to walk further.)

But let's start at the beginning. Bright and shiny early Mary and I hopped on the train to Sevilla and upon arriving somehow navigated our way to the hotel. (I seem to recall taking a bus. Could that be true?) While checking in, I turned to see Mary being hugged by a tall red-head who turned out to be my friend Cody. Cody served in Peace Corps Bolivia and had the poor fortune to be in my Spanish class for 11 weeks. He is now in grad school in Europe and agreed to spend a couple of days with us.

For some bizarre reason we decided to cram all of the Seville sights into one day...and started off by ducking into a church to check out the relics (bits of dead saints).

Finally we made it to the Cathedral which, according to the Guinness Book of World Records certificate inside, is the largest in the world. I take nothing at face value so I googled it; it's the largest Gothic cathedral in the world and third largest cathedral cathedral.

I have a bad habit of attaching myself to tour groups and eavesdropping on all the exclusive juicy historical details so I was pleased to note that Cody had the same habit. As an added bonus he also speaks French which allowed us more range in our tour group joining.

Unfortunately all he understood from the description of the altar pieces were a bunch of numbers which we assumed to be dates.

The cathedral has a bell tower or giralda that you can climb.

It does not have stairs but rather a 36 story ramp. (For those wondering: they were numbered. I didn't count the floors.) Many of the floors have windows which provide welcome opportunities to rest and check out the drainage system.

Each individual bell was named after a different saint but to my disappointment they were controlled by an electronic timer.

Throughout the trip I was interested to note what aspects of Spanish culture made their way over to the Americas. Hmmm.

After a lunch of overpriced sandwiches, instead of resting like normal people we went to the royal palace and gardens. Evidently the royals still live there although probably not in the summer. If you are insane enough to go in July (like us), there is a poorly calibrated fountain in the palace that sprays water on passersby. Totally worth the admission.

I took thousands of bad pictures that do nothing to show off the scope and scale of the palace... And we left when Mary got the hiccups and I was laughing too hard at her distress to be able to breathe.

Still to come: the boring museums of Sevilla which aren't highlighted in tourist guides for a reason.

After a few days in Madrid, we decided to take the show on the road and start the trek southwards to Sevilla. First stop: Cordoba. Status: closed. In yet another example of not reading the guide books we arrived to Cordoba on a Monday only to be told that almost all tourist attractions in the city were closed on Mondays. We made the best of it.

We didn't stay in this hotel. But I liked this particular street in the Jewish quarter of town-- and so we ate lunch there which presented for the gazillionth time another impediment to our Amazing Race debut. Flaw #3: my dear sweet sister is allergic to a variety of meat products, many of which are served with regularity in Spain. My translating skills were the only thing standing between her and certain death! After lunch we continued wandering, stopping into a variety of artesenia stores before coming to the mosque. While Mary was using the bathroom outside of the mosque I ran into a nice Canadian Mennonite couple on vacation from Bolivia. Poor Mary came out to find me chatting animatedly with strangers yet again; they recommended a good flamenco place and we parted ways.

The mosque and gardens were lovely. They are of course a Catholic church now. After meandering through the grounds and gigantic building we walked over to the other side of Cordoba to the only other open tourist attraction.I haven't yet mentioned but Cordoba was really frikkin hot and sunny. We spent much of our time applying and re-applying sunscreen and scurrying from shady spot to shady spot. This bridge presented quite the barrier to that plan.

The bridge ended in a tower that had several interactive displays that described the history and attractions of Cordoba with audio tracks piped through to stylish headwear.

You could change the tracks to your particular language at will and at one point I even tried German in one ear and English in the other. After an hour or so there we returned to the main city, ate ice cream, sampled horchata and looked at all the lovely building from the outside. For a bust of a day it wasn't too bad. We then went to the train station to reserve our tickets for the next day. Unfortunately it looked like everyone else wanted to leave too...

In the next installment: we get lost in Sevilla and avoid haircuts.

Before going to Spain Mary and I divided the financial and planning responsibilities. I bought the plane tickets (because I harangued American Airlines into crediting me for a flight I purchased but never took. That's a story for another day.) and the EuroRail pass and Mary reserved the hotels and was generally the cash-cow (moo) in-country. I decided on what cities we would visit and Mary was going to plan the individual days...or so I thought.

So Sunday was blocked out to take the train to Toledo for the day. According to Wikipedia and the guide books we consulted Toledo was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its "extensive cultural and monumental heritage as one of the former capitals of the Spanish Empire and place of coexistence of Christian, Jewish, and Moorish cultures"...until they were expelled from Spain of course. Sounds dreamy no?

And so it is, See?.......ok perhaps not the best example.

We arrived at the Madrid train station and went straight to the information office to figure out how in the heck to use our EuroRail pass. Here I will give one of the only useful travel tips you can glean from my blog: The EuroRail pass is pretty much useless, or at the very least not cost-effective, in Spain. EuroRail requires reservation fees in addition to the cost of the pass for trains that are high speed. Wait for it, wait for it...pretty much all the trains in Spain are high speed and, as it turns out, the reservation fee is often more expensive than just buying a normal ticket sans EuroRail.

We did make it to Toledo finally and tooled around the town. Unfortunately many of the the touted cultural sites were closed for renovation. That's ok. There's always the Torture Museum!

A note on this photo in the spirit of oversharing: like many women I am prone to retaining water during certain points of the month. Generally that bloat contributes to distractingly large boobs but sometimes, due to large amounts of water consumption and/or trans-Atlantic flights, I can expand in all directions. So yeah, that's what's going on.

Afterwards, we basically went to whatever was open. The cathedral:

The monastery church:

And several other churches that were churches and several synagogues and mosques that were churches and castles that had churches.

Then we got tired, and perhaps a little heat-stroked after all the walking and started taking cheesy photos. Mary with the Spain beer guy:

And me with Cervantes:

Then we headed back to Madrid for dinner at which point Mary, who up until that point had made no indication of reading the guide books, mentioned that most restaurants were closed on Sundays except those that catered especially to Americans. (another travel tip! Amazing!) So we entered a restaurant in a parellel universe where the typical American dish was enchiladas, Michael Jackson was dead, and Brazil lost a soccer game to the USA....and the day ended.

Still to come: We travel to Cordoba but it's closed!

Day two: Still swollen. Mary and I decided that if we had time we would see the art museums that Madrid is famous for: El Prado and El Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. Between the two of these museums is held the largest collection of Spanish paintings (dug) including great works of Dali, El Greco, Goya, and Velazquez. Makes sense since The Prado is the largest gallery in the world.

But as I type this I get a kind of twinge because...we didn't go there. Instead, Mary and I went to see what really interests us...shrunken heads and codpieces. Bright and shiny early we trekked to the university district to visit el Museo de America because honestly it elicits more of a reaction from me than a painting. Instead of an "oh pretty" prompted by a painting that I don't really understand I can expound for days on the cultural legacy of Spain in the Americas...or something. for example, this photo is of some guy with a bola of coca that would get him kicked him out of Peace Corps for sure:

And this guy had an unfortunate run-in with some dessicating agents. I actually recommend that you google "shrunken head." The results are fascinating and include ones for sale and a how-to.

But seriously folks. The below is a traditional Bolivian costume worn for Carnaval. The flowers on the skirt are kantuta, the national flower because its petals are red, green and yellow, the colors of the flag.

Next we moseyed over to El Museo del Traje which had (according to some tourism guide or the other) the best Basque restaurant in Madrid on the premises. The menu was fashion themed (because traje means clothing...yes we went to a clothes museum and there was a whole display on stillettos) and I accidentally ordered liver or oxtail or something weird. Luckily portions in Spain are small.

The museum showcased a history of clothing from the fig leaf to the harem pant (which is way popular in Spain right now) and included several opoortunities to try things on. We took full advantage of this opportunity to take embarrassing photos of each other:

Oh yeah baby. You're too sexy for your ruff. Too sexy for your ruff. Too sexy.

After this we started walking back towards the center of Madrid, through the University grounds and Parque Bombilla. Unfortunately I miscalculated the distance to the nearest Metro and we had to stop in a department/grocery store to refuel. Tidbit: they don't let you touch the fruit and vegetables. Don't touch them!

While at the store I redeemed myself by successfully finding the correct adaptor for gringo appliances...which required asking more questions than one might think necessary. Then, as far as I recall in my hunger haze, we sat on a park bench and ate Nutella on crackers and several nectarines before hopping on a train to the Prado.

Generally, a Prado is a glorified, vegetated median strip dividing a main thoroughfare. We sat there looking at a map to determine where dinner might lie. To be more specific, Mary looked at the map......and I took photos of random thingsAs you may have determined, there is another barrier to our successful participation in Amazing Race. Flaw #2: We get lost a lot.

The next installment: We go to Toledo for no apparent reason.

Although I left off in the middle of my Spanish vacation (not like I've written more about it) I wanted to share some photos my friend Chela sent me yesterday. She just magically knows when I'm wistfully reminiscing about the simultaneously frustrating and inspiring country of Bolivia and the simultaneously frustrating and inspiring people that inhabit it.

Peace Corps was a constant state of confusion and misunderstanding, and it was in that state that I first met Chela. It all began when my friend Jimmy asked me two questions: "You like kids right?" (yes) "Do you know how to make puppets?" (yes). I didn't have time to wonder about this strange line of questioning when he pulled me out of my house and down the street to introduce me to Pedro and Gloria with, "This is Jelen. She can make puppets." And off he ran to catch a bus as Pedro and Gloria led me to their friend's house as if this was completely expected. (It may have been. As an American I am not completely fluent in the subtle, indirect and often non-verbal communication that happens in other countries. Kind of like in the mid-west.)

So a short time later I was sitting in a stranger's living room (Chela's) making a papier mache Jesus head. I soon realized that my new buddies ran Oratorio (defined by Wikipedia as place for at-risk youth to explore their intellectual and spiritual development in the spirit of Don Bosco) and I was welcome to help out. At first I just showed up to meet the kids and drink milk with sugar. Soon I was leading activities and expanding my repertoire of ice-breakers and camp songs....but this time in Spanish. I had plenty of adventures with Gloria, Pedro, Chela, Fatima, and the kidlets who participated. They ranged from the usual --birthday parties, hikes, visits to the sick, and lots of singing-- to the odd --a wake, singing about Jesus in front of 100 high schoolers, and giving vaccinations.

So you can imagine that an update on these kids brightened my day and I'd like to introduce you to them:

This is Vero. She and her brother Jhonny practically lived at my house. We played millions of games of war and she always forgot to take my food scraps home for the pigs. Like a good big sister she teased her little brother constantly but she would beat up anyone else who made fun of him. I hesitate to admit that we hung out so often because their mother was the woman who supported my Oreo habit.

Meet Edson. This is the boy who used to stand outside my house every Sunday at 7AM singing "Ojos de cielo" at the top of his lungs until I stumbled downstairs. Generally I would feed him and we would mosey to the plaza where we would gossip about all the middle school happenings. He was that friend that every Peace Corps volunteer needs: 11 years old, patient, who will explain words to you and try not to laugh when you sound like an idiot.

These are all the kidlets and Fatima. I'm not sure how many I could name now. Please note the non-smiling faces as is typical in a Bolivian foto.

All of the kidlets and Gloria. And yes it was usually all girls. Probably for the best.And to end...one of our favorite activities. The tobogan!

I know. I went to Spain in July. It's October. You, loyal reader, have been more than patient but unfortunately I do not have exhaustive notes on my trip. Although I carried my notebook through museums, markets and public gardens and toted it on planes, trains and buses I did not really use it.

This is a common problem for me. Walking and writing at the same time tends to aggravate my clumsiness and after long days of trekking 200 miles in 900 degree heat I found myself too exhausted (and prone to exaggeration) to document my day. So perhaps a photo essay will suffice.

We flew to Spain. We flew on a plane. It was fun. There was a camera on the tail. We saw the plane take off and fly and land from the inside. I retained water. Lots of water.

Day 1: Still swollen. Upon successfully navigating the Metro and getting directions to our hotel (Vale?) Mary (my charming elder sister) and I set out to see the wide and wonderful city of Madrid. But first! Lunch!

Perhaps some explanation is needed: Mary and I have a shared fantasy of being contestants on the Amazing Race. We have similar travel styles, are relatively low key, culturally sensitive and realtively good about talking to strangers. However, this trip pointed out some of the flaws in our dream.

Flaw #1: We are very Id-based beings. Immediate needs, usually food, are a priority for both of us. Several times throughout the trip we made great plans to see museums and plazas, castles and mosques...only to postpone them for food. "But first....lunch!"

If we were Amazing Race contestants they would take away our food as the first challenge and we would crack. We would crumble into cranky, silently crying messes.

So anyhoo, after a hot lunch of paella and Coke we tooled around Madrid and avoided creepy buskers in the Plaza Mayor.

Then we took artsy photos of doors and doorknobs...

...and visited several churches furnished and gilded in beautiful gold and silver filigree stolen from the poor oppressed Indians toiling away in South American mines. ahem. In this particular church we visited the catacomb where I asked the guide guy so many questions that he (naturally?) assumed that I wanted to buy a burial plot. I'm sorry Mom and Dad. In my botched Spanish I've purchased a crypt in the Catedral Almudena.

Then we went to the Palace, imaginatively named "the Royal Palace" and built crooked. Really. I can't say more about it beyond:

-There was lots of art. -There was lots of armor.-The Royal Pharmacy was awesome.-The royal family were unfortunate looking people.-Some poor chick passed out and conked her head on the marble staircase.-Mary stayed in the bathroom for forever and the guards were trying to close the palace and I had to explain why I was still sitting in the gift shop when they were trying to kick me out. Id I tell you.-I didn't use the bathroom even though I was still very swollen. I didn't have to explain that to the guards.

-even the fountains were crooked!

Next up: Our second day in Madrid. But first! Lunch!

When choosing a returned Peace Corps volunteer for your household remember the following rule of thumb: returned Peace Corps volunteers from Africa are smiling, warm and friendly. Those from Asia are zenlike in their calm and introspective nature. And those from Latin America are revolutionary and reactionary (and often somewhat socialist). Please be supportive of your newly returned volunteer as she readjusts to this new and traumatic situation. Below you will find some useful guidelines and behaviors to expect.

Nutrition: In the beginning, you may notice that your returned Peace Corps volunteer has a compulsion to drink water from all available water fountains. She may also adamantly refuse to drink bottled water, to the point of crying in the grocery store over all the varieties available. Your returned Peace Corps volunteer will most likely want to gorge herself on dairy products (especially ice cream and cheeese!) and Mexican food. You may want to limit her intake. Too much dairy is bad for any newly returned volunteer. Your returned Peace Corps volunteer may have a strong aversion to potatoes or rice. She may insist on putting salt on everything, cutting her salad into small pieces and wiping her utensils clean. Please be patient with her bad table manners until she is re-trained.

After she re-adjusts to her new home your returned Peace Corps volunteer may crave potatoes again or a salad made entirely of tomatoes and onions. She may also bring home exotic foods like api, humintas, and haba tostada. This is normal; you should make a gesture of acceptance.

Behavior: Your returned Peace Corps volunteer may no longer recognize socially acceptable limits to conversation. She may speak inappropriately about bowel movements, digestive problems or sex. Encourage your newly volunteer to talk about these issues with other newly returned volunteers...rather than with her co-workers, neighbors, or parish priest. In addition, it is likely that the large majority of her conversations will contain "when I was in Peace Corps..." or "In Bolivia they..."

When beginning a new relationship with your volunteer, you may notice that she expects to be friends immediately and may be surprisingly gregarious when talking with strangers.

You may notice that your returned Peace Corps volunteer kisses on the cheek as a greeting. Even kisses same sex. For heaven's sake...get over it.

Your returned volunteer may be addicted to telenovelas. This appears to be incurable.She may also be super cheap, be very careful about sun exposure, not go out in the rain, be exasperatingly patient, and take mid-day naps. She may not care about superfluous details.

Your newly returned volunteer might be homesick.

Communication: Your newly returned Peace Corps volunteer will not be proficient in English. She will speak a strange mixture of languages, use an overwhelming amount of acronyms like PCMO, RPCV and STI, profess to "not know it in English," and may insist on referring to you as che.

Be loyal and patient with your faithful companion, the returned Peace Corps volunteer.

Feliz Navidad y un Prospero Ano Nuevo!

Every family has their own unique traditions that often change into adulthood. This Christmas, as the only child of four to come home, I reflected on how our family Christmases have changed.

The holidays began with the hefting of the tree. It would be kept in the garage for a few days (leading my brother to believe as an adult that a tree needs to be kept cold before being brought into the house) until Dad struggled with it up two flights of stairs, scratching ceilings and raining needles over everything. This event was followed closely by the holiday vacuuming. We would decorate the tree, set up the creche and tie our stockings on the entertainment center; the fireplace is downstairs and lacks a mantel anyway.

On Christmas morning we would run and perch in the living room. We never disturbed the inner sanctum of the parents bedroom but adopted my father's own technique for rallying the troops - yelling - until we were allowed to open the stockings which held a treasure trove of lego sets, chocolates, and Christmas socks.

After the small taste of gift-wrapping we would all go to church where we would smoosh into the pews while trying to avoid actually touching each other. Like any Sunday a big breakfast followed, with the exception that us kids would eat as fast as humanly possible so that we could return to the living room. (Semi-annually my brother would be sick and miserable - unrelated to hoovering his food.) My parents, on the other hand, moved astoundingly slow, chewing more than absolutely necessary and insisting on coffee and a bathroom break as we yelled with increasing volume from the couch.

My mother gave out the presents, one to each person, and we would all open them at the same time. Santa was always generous and even included my parents who by the way had markedly different handwriting; I never figured this out. My best gift ever was new ice skates and as the youngest girl it was the only new pair of ice skates I ever got. When gift guessing/shaking one person always speculated that it was either a tennis racket or a hockey stick.

Christmas continued at dinner with the presence of Gram, Uncle John and Aunt Ruth, Joe and Mr. Pfister. Mr Pfister deserves his very own paragraph honestly. He was an ancient German man (I'm pretty sure this wasn't just my youthful perspective) who was so spry that he would always swing up the stairs on the banister. He had a dog named Wicket, equally ancient yet spry, who could jump at least ten feet in the air. Wicket was only allowed on the stair landing which I was perfectly fine with as he was a completely insane animal.

The Christmas spirit hasn't changed overly. The stocking gifts evolved into chapsticks and socks. The celebration just wouldn't be the same without the annual gift of lip balm! Breakfast is my favorite part as it is very rare that my entire family eats together. (My father has a slurping fondness for oatmeal that requires us kids to construct cereal box barriers to avoid seeing the gray mass in his bowl). The tree is fake. Some relatives are gone (including Wicket) and new ones introduced. My brother-in-law insists on putting hot sauce on the turkey. And this year instead of ice skates I got batteries, a SpinBrush, a bathrobe, long sleeve T's and earrings and was perfectly happy with my haul.

Merry Christmas!

In Bolivia people get sick. (duh?) As such, they have developed wide ranging wit and wisdom inherent to folk medicine. If you suffer from intestinal parasites, stys, cracking joints or rashes among other ailments, please continue reading and you may find a cure!

Got hiccups? Don't worry. You're growing.Intestinal parasites? Eat a piece of cheese and chase it with a shot of your favorite alcohol. As it happens, bichitos can't get enough of cheese. They'll swarm to it and then be killed by the booze. Not a bad way to go if you ask me.A sty? Or chalazion? Or whatever the heck they're called...eye pimple? Put a pair of dirty underwear on it.Gall bladder problems are a result of RAGE. (much like zombie-ism)UTI? You forgot to bundle your kidneys! (Don't ask. I'm not entirely sure how that works)Don't look at something you shouldn't. You'll get pink eye.Coke cures diarrhea. How's that for product placement?Beer, on the other hand, cures sore throats, hangovers and all sorts of social phobias.If you stand on something cold, you'll get arthritis. (Don't worry, beer will loosen those old joints up!)If you sit on something hot, you'll get a stomachache.Rashes can be caused by an unclean stomach. (I actually heard this from a medical professional.) However, hives can be cured by wearing clothing of the opposite sex.Sinning results in knee pain...or is it the atonement?and finally, semen is a phenomenal anti-wrinkle agent.All better?

The Washington Post published a front page article on PCVs returning to Bolivia.

THIS is the article I wanted to be written. THIS is what I wanted the world to recognize...the deep connection we volunteers have with our community and our adoptive country...and the commitment some have to get the job done. I will probably regret forever that I couldn't finish what I started. But I will celebrate those who did.

While in Peru I was interviewed by a journalist. Unfortunately, I feel that I was misrepresented. Below is a copy of his article and the response that I sent him. (I replaced my full name with Lenni as always)

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Former volunteers upset over suspension of Peace Corps' Bolivia program

It took Lenni the better part of two years to win the trust of the people of Camargo, a farming town of 5,000 in southeastern Bolivia. The mayor agreed to partially fund the Peace Corps volunteer's proposal to have children plant fruit trees on main avenues. Lenni, 27, was about to be interviewed by a local TV crew when she got the call: The Peace Corps was pulling all 113 of its volunteers out of Bolivia. "I just started crying. I was like, I don't want to go!" recalled Lenni, a native of Monroe, N.Y., as she sat in a cafe in Lima, Peru. She is among more than 70 volunteers who quit the Corps rather than start over in a different country.

The hasty pullout came directly on the heels of Bolivian President Evo Morales' Sept. 10 expulsion of the U.S. ambassador for allegedly inciting opposition protests. Lenni was among disappointed volunteers who believe their government overreacted, hurting U.S. interests with the blanket withdrawal. True, some parts of Bolivia were dangerously unstable, but most volunteers felt no security threat, several told The Associated Press.

"Peace Corps, unfortunately, has become another weapon in the U.S. diplomatic arsenal," said Sarah Nourse, 27, of Mechanicsville, Md., another volunteer who opted out. Nourse had been developing trash management projects in a small town in the eastern state of Santa Cruz, the center of opposition to the leftist Morales. She questioned the wisdom of depriving Bolivians of a rare firsthand opportunity to weigh Morales' anti-U.S. rhetoric against real Americans.

The top U.S. diplomat for Latin America, Thomas Shannon, told The Associated Press that security was the only reason behind the "saddening" pullout. "We don't politicize the Peace Corps," he said. "Remember, the Bolivians on at least two occasions that I'm aware of said that they thought the Peace Corps was part of a larger intelligence network that they thought we had constructed in Bolivia. Those kind of statements we find very worrisome," Shannon said.

In fact, a U.S. Embassy security officer suggested to a group of Peace Corps volunteers during a briefing last year that they report any sightings of Venezuelan or Cuban activists. After the incident was publicized, the embassy said the officer had not been authorized to make such a request and he left the country.

Currently, 2,174 of the Peace Corps' 8,079 worldwide volunteers work in Latin America and the Caribbean. They are based in 21 countries in the region. Honduras and Nicaragua have the largest presence with 194 volunteers each. They are followed by:

The Dominican Republic: 193

Paraguay: 187

Guatemala: 184

El Salvador: 175

Panama: 174

Peru: 168

Ecuador: 155.

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Dear -------,

Thank you for sending me the article. I'd like to make it clear that I feel that my comments were misconstrued and that the article was negative in its portrayal of volunteers, Peace Corps as an organization and Bolivia.

I regret the use of the word "quit" in the following sentence; "She is among more than 70 volunteers who quit the Corps rather than start over in a different country." Peace Corps volunteers in this situation are officially regarded as having completed their service in good standing; the opportunity to continue service in another country is optional.

A smaller issue, but equally upsetting was the portrayal of my project. Although it sounds nice that "The mayor agreed to partially fund the Peace Corps volunteer's proposal to have children plant fruit trees on main avenues" it was not accurate. The project was to be funded through Peace Corps Partnership and the fruit trees were to be planted in an individual school.

I understand that it is too late to make any changes to the article or remove my name but I wanted to have the opportunity to express my disappointment.

-------------

I should also add that I don't feel that Peace Corps's decision was an overreaction as stated in the article. They warned us that if political rhetoric increased, we would have to leave. It was unfortunate that it happened and that we had to leave our projects and friends. Also, I can't believe that he kept my quote as "I was like..." I mean, like, really, like, edit it out dude. And I wasn't there two years. And I didn't live in southeastern Bolivia. And Peace Corps wasn't quoted even after giving a statement. Anyhoo, after my comments, the reporter had the opportunity to make some minor changes.

It has taken a surprisingly long time to start writing this newest chapter of “Lenni’s Adventure.” As you may know, Peace Corps has been evacuated from Bolivia. After a week in Peru taking care of the plentiful and ever-present paperwork inherent to government jobs, we were set free to move on with our lives…to travel, to join Peace Corps in other countries or to face the terrifying prospect of job hunting.

But first, a history lesson:

Bolivia is roughly divided between East and West. In the western area, composed mostly of agriculturally unproductive high lands and mines, live the “kollas.” “Kolla is the original name for the fierce Aymara-speaking tribe that inhabited the land before the Incas came. The Incas, by the way, are the predecessors of the Quechua people who also continue to live in the West of the country. The eastern area is populated by “cambas” who generally appear to be of European or mixed descent. They rely highly on profits from gas, soy and cattle. Although there is a large division between rich and poor people throughout Bolivia, the wealth base is skewed heavily to the provinces in the east. (I’m not even going to get into debt relief programs and foreign aid.) Divisions between the indigenous populations of the western half of the country and the wealthier independence-seeking states in the east have existed for centuries and continue into the 21st.

In 2005, Evo Morales was elected as the country’s first indigenous president and soon began to lead efforts to give more resources and opportunities to the indigenous people. Unfortunately, many of Morales’ programs and policies resulted in alienating and angering the middle and upper classes. He has met huge opposition from the eastern states, who are now demanding economic independence and the control of their own gas revenues. Not necessarily a bad thing (this is how American states work too) it was presented in political propaganda as the refusal of the white elite to help the poorer (and darker) indigenous.

Bolivia survived several large political events lately without violence: elections to create autonomous states, the election of governors, a vote to revoke (or not) those same governors and the president himself, and the somewhat unlawfully drafting of a new constitution. However, the political situation in Bolivia has become increasingly tense over the past few months. Roadblocks have become a constant, restricting travel and causing shortages of food and gas in many communities across the country. In addition, several protests over gas revenue and their distribution have become violent.

As you all know, the United States is heavily invested in the future of Bolivia. It has forgiven their debt, taken an active role in the “War on Drugs” and provided 120 enthusiastic young people to do on-the-ground development work. (Side note: I’m not a fan of war on drugs but it’s a huge and un-ignorable factor in this history lesson.) This intervention has led to heightened suspicion of Americans’ motives, particularly among the higher ranks of Bolivian government, accusations of spying and just general tension. Last week Evo Morales informed US Ambassador Phil Goldberg that he was no longer welcome in Bolivia and asked him to leave immediately. Hugo Chavez, president of Venezuela and ally of Morales, followed suit and sent Venezuela’s ambassador home, too. The US reacted similarly, ejecting both countries ambassadors to the US.

This is when I started to freak out. Every night, my neighbors and I would get together for coffee and the news. Politically liberal and educated, we often spent that hour yelling at the television and getting angry at the one-sided political commentary. We actually had a game to see who could watch the news long enough without changing to a different (news) channel. It seemed that no one knew exactly what they were fighting for as violence increased in the provinces of Tarija, Pando and Santa Cruz. Economic autonomy? Distribution of revenue? Racism? Just plain being paid to protest?

Generally, Bolivians are a “take-to-the-street” type of people. This is there way of being heard and achieving change. Blockades and protests are frequent but generally don’t last too long. This time it just felt different. I should specify that effects were not really felt in my town. There was no chicken and less gas but there was no violence or anti-American sentiment.

September 11th I woke up in my typical anniversary funk. I was trying to avoid televisions for fear of seeing any twin tower images. I had a bad day anyway. When I went to my counterpart agency, to verify that they had paid for my radio and television shows, I overheard a conversation assuring my Peace Corps boss that yes there was a landing strip in a nearby town and no there were no blockades between the main office and me. Instead of dwelling on this obvious reference to a possible evacuation I went to the radio station to schedule my shows…where I learned that the student presenters had never shown up and the manager had accidentally been given the money for the TV shows too. I went back to the agency and from there to the TV station to straighten things out. I was being asked to give a brief interview for the local news when my phone rang. Could I please leave for Cochabamba that night? Peace Corps wanted all volunteers in one place. Reading between the lines I begged for an extra day to prepare and burst into tears. (Never got to do that interview.)

Compared to many other volunteers, my evacuation experience was a piece of cake. Some friends came over for a goodbye fried chicken and tea and I had time to warn several profes of my disappearance and pack my things and requisite underwear; in a rare turn of events it was all clean. I had the luck to travel to Cochabamba with my bestest Peace Corps buddy the incomparable Juice and there were no blockades or violence or anything interesting (besides llamas) between my destination and me.

In Cocha we learned that we would be evacuated to Peru and before boarding the plane we found out that the program in Bolivia was suspended indefinitely. Through this experience I have decided… that when someone is puking that they should be babied like a 5-year old. Their hair should be held, their back should be rubbed, and someone should tell them (as they are airlifted in a military transport to Peru) that the bag that they are puking in has a hole in it and they are actually vomiting all over their last pair of clean pants which will be seen by several Marines, 112 Peace Corps volunteers and the American Chief of Mission in Peru. Yes I vomited all over myself. Apparently crying for days, a bacterial parting gift and air transport in a C130 don’t combine for a positive travel experience.

But good friends, a beautiful country, smiling children, a friendly people, and the opportunity to make a dent in the world did combine for a positive Peace Corps experience, one that I will remember for years…and which will cause me to regale you with uninteresting and oftentimes inappropriate diarrhea, llama, fish head soup, or mistranslation stories.

Thanks for reading.

The past month or so have been kind of slow. I finally quit English classes and must say that my overall health greatly improved as a result. The schools were on vacation for a month because 1) it's winter 2) the teachers were on strike and 3) there was an election and they wanted everyone to go on vacation and not vote. I packed up and headed to Stephanie's site for a weekend which turned into a week's stay. I helped her out a bit in her library and we celebrated Dia de San Juan with salchichas (hot dogs), canela (cinnamon tea spiked with liquor), chispitas (sparklers), and fogatas (bonfires). I went into the city for the 4th but no one was around so I tooled around being touristy for once, checking out the churches and markets. My city routine generally involves eating. I eat bread and hot cocoa in the hotel and then head to the market for api (purple corn drink), pastels (fried cheese pastries), and a liquado (milk shake). Then up to the church for saltenas (baked meat pastry), the café for apple pie and the pizza place for dinner.

My neighbors and I have been trying to be more neighborly so we celebrated el Dia de la Amistad (Friendship day) by having a hot dog dinner complete with gift exchange. I got a stuffed rabbit that giggles when you squeeze it. Oh boy.

Last weekend was the Festival of patron St. Santiago. The festivities were kicked off on Thursday night with a procession through town. Each school made a float representing the saint. Friday was a Mass and yet another procession. Saturday and Sunday was a Santa Anita or sita which is basically a carnival with gambling games and miniature toys. For example you can buy miniature money if you want more in the coming year, or mini bags of flour, or gas tanks, or mini clothing. There were barbecue stands and the standard wine vendors. And that's about it so I leave you with this tome:

The general stereotyped Peace Corps Volunteer is a dirty hippie trying to distance him- or herself from all the unsavory aspects of life in the United States (poverty, foreign policy, racism etc.) by, perhaps ironically, trying to present a positive face of the US in other countries. But there comes a time in every PCV's service when they recognize how truly splendiferous the US is. I mean where else can you find such a wonderful interstate highway system complete with well-stocked, generally clean rest areas?

The main means of long-distance transportation here in Bolivia is bus. Please take a moment to recall all those reasons why you don't travel by Greyhound. Now don't get me wrong. These buses aren't rickety old yellow school buses handed down by other developing nations. (Those are reserved for intra-city travel and are repainted in a stunning variety of colors.....

...see?)

Flotas, as they are called here, are instead rickety old Greyhounds (sometimes also painted brilliantly). The only difference between US buses and Bolivian flotas are minor. Flotas don't have bathrooms, animals are more-or-less allowed, the schedule is oddly limited, the roads are often unpaved and narrow, clinging to the sides of mountains, and the drivers often bring their wives along. This, by the way, is a good sign. If the wife rides shot gun there's very little chance of plunging off a cliff. Although your chofer will want to show off a little he won't want to kill anyone.

Let's discuss:

Bathrooms – some buses have established stops where there is a restaurant or public bathroom. (Oh there are so many places this narrative could go!) The bus from Tarija northwards, for example, pretty much always stops in Iscayachi which as the locals joke means "between two cold places" and is described by the resident volunteer as "like a Wild West town on the moon." For 50 centavos you get a wad of pink tp and your very own stall. Sometimes there's running water. Sometimes not. Sometimes there's a toilet. Sometimes not. On the Inca trail I encountered a flushing hole in the ground. Unlike the Colombian high schooler in the next stall, I thought it was neat-o-keen especially compared to the Peace Corps training center which has dark unlockable outhouses with wood blocks where your feet should go but which in my personal experience are not a very accurate guide. (I evidently must assume a wide left-leaning stance.)

Often there is no bathroom or it's locked or the TP lady is on lunch break. In this case people drop trou pretty much anywhere. There seems to be no effort to find a comfy spot….unless you're my work counterpart who searched for twenty minutes for an appropriate tree to water. I don't have any particular horror stories but on my most recent trip to Tarija I had to water a tree so badly that I had to ask the bus driver to stop just for me. As my friend Oscar says, "Anything's better than the Potosi bus terminal" which, by the way, is the highest in the world and has indeed been patronized by yours truly. How's that for distinction?

Animalitos—to be honest, the only times animals have been on my bus were when I was carrying one. I brought my kitten to the city once. Unfortunately we were sitting in the way back wedged next to a cholita wearing a traditional skirt with its hundred traditional underskirts and covered in a thousand layers of blankets. Neither the cholita nor Maní enjoyed the ride. I once saw a woman in the bus terminal with a couple of lambs in her bag and several times have passed minibuses with flocks of sheep strapped on top. Those sheep looked friggin terrified.

Schedule—for some reason, all the buses to a particular destination leave at once. For example, all the buses going through my town to Tarija leave at 6AM or 10PM. The theory is that if one bus breaks down there will be four other buses to help out. The last bus however is screwed. Asi es la vida.

Road conditions—There is a reason the volunteers in my region are flown everywhere instead of being made to take the bus. Roads in the Tarija area are unpaved, narrow, and curvy and generally have a lovely view over a cliff. In fact, the road to Entre Rios is so curvy that buses only leave at night so that oncoming traffic is easier to see (headlights). I cross through at least one river to get to the city, more during rainy season. However, I can count the times I thought I would die on one hand, and two of those times were in private vehicles and one of those times I asked the driver to go slower and when he didn't I puked all over his car. Take that!

Bus travel also involves the en route movie, temperature fluctuations, chatty and/or smelly seat-mates, drug checks, and the possibility of getting kicked off because the company has overbooked seats. I've seen Terminator at least thirty times. (My personal favorite is "Killer Sheep.") I've frozen. I've baked. And I've had hour long conversations about armadillos. Isn't travel glamorous?

Glossary

Asi es la vida: Such is life. C'est la vie.

Centavos: cents. Bills are known as Bolivianos.

Chofer: driver

Cholita: woman who wears traditional clothing

Drop trou: drop trousers or to remove your pants to urinate, defecate or fornicate.

Flota: bus

PCV: Peace Corps Volunteer

...with the sounds of Bolivia

So I´ve been thinking about all those weird Bolivian things that I already take for granted...like burros and pigs walking down the street. Or buying everything I own on the street. Or eating soup with every single lunch. So today´s episode will be "The Sounds of Bolivia"

There are of course the semi-typical village sounds of church bells ringing in a non-harmonious manner at LEAST an hour before the 7AM mass, the premilitary kids chanting in the streets (and now the real military sent here to guard the newly nationalized telephone system), and all variety of school noises and those produced by obnoxious kidlets. Also (how could I forget?) the school band that practices every night until 10 or 11PM. Their repertoire includes "The ants go marching two by two" which is apparently some manner of Bolivian fight song. They have no concept of tuning and although I do not have perfect pitch I often find it very painful to listen.

Some punks making noise.

Less-expected noises include the garbage whistle, the gas horn, the news, and whistling. Every week the trash truck comes through and one of the two guys riding blows a whistle to signal to all the houswives, servants and yours truly to come running out to throw their garbage on the truck. It used to be fun (because what little girl doesn´t fantasize about being a garbage woman when she grows up) but now I miss people to pick up my trash when I´m not there.

I may never have mentioned that ovens/stoves are supplied with propane gas tanks. I probably didn´t because I didn´t want anyone to worry that I´ll explode...as I worried when my landlord held a lit match to the tank to see if there were any leaks. "I´ll just wait out here ok?," I yelled from the patio. Or that time that some (male) friends lit a fire under the tank to "loosen" the small amount of gas left. Anyway there is a gas truck that comes by honking "GAS!" like an overgrown water buffalo. You bring your tank outside, pay, and get a full tank to lug back to your kitchen. This may be the only reason that the Peace Corps application asks if you can comfortably lift 40 lbs, a question to which my doctor answered "sometimes" because she didn´t want me to be disqualified.

Whistling. It seems that Bolivians (meaning high school-age males) have their very own language of whistles. These are not the typical "Hey there hot stuff!" whistles but are more like calling cards. "Hey! It´s Juan! Come downstairs" or "Jaime is here." I was told that by the end of my service I would know when someone was whistling for me and who it was but I think it´s a boy thing (like making machine gun noises.)

Sometimes if there is a special event, another noise enters the mix. We have a taxi especially rigged with loudspeakers. Someone sits in the back yelling the announcements about the upcoming circus or basketball tournament.

So Thursday was Corpus Christi. I missed the typical procession and Mass to go out to the campo, hike around, and take some GPS data. Sometimes I´m not sure if people are messing with me here...like that time that my host mom told me that my host-bro had accidently hung the previous volunteer´s cat. So this time I wasn´t sure of the truth when I got into the car to leave town and was told not to worry because our driver also drives race cars. Unfortunately this race car driver had spilled a bottle of vinegar in the car and between the speed, curves, and smell...I DIDN´T puke! As it turned out the hike was a side trip because out driver wanted to go to Potosí to look for these two guys who may or may not be selling their 50s era trucks. We wound up way out where I had a stereotypical (and before then unexperienced) Peace Corps experience...the one where a bunch of little kids run up to touch you and then run away giggling. Finally the brave ones started to ask a bunch of questions like who´s my mom, who´s my uncle, where do I live, do I speak Spanish. I am often asked, after I´ve been conversing for ten minutes, if I speak Spanish...generally by drunk people.

We finally left, checked out an old church where community members had done amateur excavations (AAGGGH!), and hiked up the cliffs to check out some caves (more like big rocks balanced on little rocks), prehistoric art and the local Inca trails. We also tried several joke allergy remedies like throwing rocks from the cliff into the river, licking large piles of dirt, and breathing deeply...didn´t work.

Sunday was an auto race...through our narrow village streets. We have one newly lame dog and my racecar driver friend crashed into a wall about ten feet from where I was standing. I left when then this really weird drunk guy decided to stand outside of the store I was in yelling (loosely translated) "Blondie! I just wanta drink with you! I know you´re not married! Come here damn it blondie!" Got to say...ruined my day.

Monday was the anniversary of the state and there was a "parade" with the typically horrible school bands. Then I went with some friends to eat barbecue and play cacho (dice). Tuesday was Mother´s day! This means that the kids here haven´t had school for the past three school days.

...nose.

So recently I completed my first year as an official Peace Corps volunteer. I was only in site for the first seven hours of the day...five sleeping, two freezing my backside off in the plaza while waiting for bus to Tarija and reflecting on my first year. (To be honest I didn´t reflect that day cuz I was so angry that they told me to come to the bus stop at 5:30AM when the bus came at 7. And I even asked what time the bus came the day before, that particular bus, not the other lines)

Let´s see. After one year:

--My hair is longer. It also appears to be blonder. I think I might look older but that could just be the gigantic wrinkles between my eyebrows from squinting all the time.

--I still procrastinate. I still hate doing dishes and I still leave all my clothes in a pile to be sorted later. I clean slightly more frequently because my room is the size of a postage stamp.

--My sarcasm has mellowed a bit. maybe. Mostly because it doesn´t translate. I am still brutally direct which has been referred to recently several times as "having balls." As it happens we had a situation recently where one of the new trainees told the country director about some rule breaking he had seen, resulting in some shady dealings and the loss of a spectacular volunteer.

--I am better at small talk. My friend Doña Maria says that her heart leaps when I walk by because she knows I will stop by and chat....usually about health problems (she´s 70), the scandalous dress of women today, and our neighbors. This does not mean that I will join a conversation of more than three people unless you try to tell me that coral is the biggest animal on earth, the holocaust didn´t happen, or you ask (someone else) if I understand Spanish....but then the convo may take an unpleasant turn.

--I still dislike kissing people on the cheek (the typical Bolivian greeting). This may be a depth perception thing though. I am so unsmooth. As such I continue to trip, fall over, and bump my head. I had hoped that my new glasses might help but this Sunday I walked into a pole and yelled F!%/k that hurt! (in English) in front of 20 small children. After recovering we crossed the river to have a picnic and several races. After some time, instead of using sacks to have sack races the kids started hiding in the bags. I think you had to be there. We were in a field of cacti and scattered among the plants were several colorful, chattering, rocks. Lunch was tomatoes, sardines, bread and cheese. That´s new too. I never liked tomatoes before I got here... nor peach flavored products, hamburgers and more soda than I´ve ever had in my life. I avoided organ meat until last week when I was served liver and watched to make sure that I ate every bite.

--I still have a skewed sense of humor. Bolivians make a big deal out of town/county/state/country anniversaries with parades and speeches and such. For April 3rd, the anniversary of Camargo, all the students (and I) marched to the plaza and lined up....to wait an hour for the hung-over dignitaries to show up. (For full disclosure, I also was hung-over.)When they finally came they made a bunch of long speeches to no one and then we marched again. In all seriousness, the mayor has someone specifically to make sure that the marching is done correctly. I am always tempted to stop short, or skip, or wave to the mayor.

Have set a deadline to quit English. I was visited by the Peace Corps boss-man this week. We had a meeting with my counterparts and then went to visit one of the schools where the profe and I had big plans to plant fruit trees. But her proposal got turned down so the boss man (Remigio) and I went into action trying to figure out if we could make it my project instead. Just at that moment the irrigation committee was having a meeting in a beautiful sprawling hacienda so we went to see if we could convince them to go in on a water tank. Meanwhile, we were served "refreshment" which turned out to be undistilled grape liquor....oops

I still don´t journal every day, still haven´t read War and Peace, still don´t like Bob Dylan, still have no idea what I wanna do with my life...but I have a year left. I started by celebrating my year with my buddies, dancing and looking for a tall young man for my friend who is recently broke up. Funfun.

Oh yeah. The nose. Evidently my allergies are really bad in this country and I now have sinusitis and am leaking boogers all over and coughing and stuff. I leave you with that image.

Sorry it’s been so long. I had a temporary lapse of sanity and agreed to teach English classes in one of the local schools. This will probably cause complete and permanent insanity. I have 6 classes of about thirty kids and absolutely no control. Individual children are great but as a mob I’m not a fan. I actually tried to quit. However, as if on cue several 9 year old boys ran up yelling “Good morning teacher!” (in English!) to hug me so I agreed to wait until they contract a new person. I think they have plans to trick the incoming volunteer from Spain to do it. I don’t even know if he speaks English.

I also work in eight schools doing environmental education. Three of those schools have projects left over from a previous volunteer and apparently I am supposed to make sure that they’re sustainable. How I’m to achieve this hasn’t been communicated to me. But I’ve been having some issues with communication lately. For example, my friend stopped talking to me for two weeks because I didn’t wave at him enthusiastically enough as he passed on his motorcycle. In my defense, I wasn’t wearing glasses so I didn’t actually recognize him until too late.

This weekend, after several hellish English classes and a splendiferous session cleaning out the tree nursery with my fourth graders, I went to visit another volunteer in her site. We sat in her new library for a few hours, made ghetto sushi, hung with some buddies and finally went to the bar (I’ve visited several times and we never manage to make it there) to dance. Evidently I have some sort of dancing talent…but I think that Bolivians just have limited exposure to black people. On Saturday we went out to the town of Incahuasi (house of Inca in Quechua) to watch an auto race. It started two hours late (of course) but the campo outside of town is so beautiful and we occupied ourselves by talking and drinking beer. We met a man nicknamed Underwear who carried me across the river so I could take photos. There was also a corn fair so we ate a lot of corn-based products.

Sunday we came back to my site for a fair to promote eggs as we are friends with several of the technicos who work on this project…including the boy who I slighted with my weak wave. Steph and I ate lots of egg-based products including a slightly disgusting batido (egg beaten with wine). Then we all went to a barbecue afterwards where once again I impressed with my dancing ability.

As Dad says whaddelse. I got asked out by a 60 year old man. Got my butt kicked in basketball last Sunday. Peace Corps cancelled a project development workshop for my group. Attendance to this workshop is mandatory if you want to ask for funding….so we’re a bit screwed. The politics are heating up again as they amend the new constitution, accuse volunteers of being spies, and stay out of that situation with Columbia .

On Father’s Day so we had a party at work where the guys had to sew buttons, dress babies and peel potatoes; I can say that they can all do those things better than me.

For Easter I planned to hike up to the stations of the cross on the mountain above town but my students me fallaron. Instead I was kidnapped and forced to peel thousands of fava beans for the traditional Good Friday lunch of locro (fava beans, pumpkin, corn, peas) and aji de haba (fava beans, cheese, sardines, corn, peas, potatos and hot red sauce). Gas was had by all.

That´s so not very newsy...really all my time has been taken up with teaching english, planning to teach english, and complaining about teaching english. Besides that everything is going swimmingly and I have a few good garden projects on the horizon.

The view outside town!

My favorite English student and her kidlet at graduation!

Shimu and I at the high point (literally) of the Inca Trail!

Macchu Picchu!

Peace Corps Volunteers and Fullbright Scholars in Bolivia have been asked by a US Embassy Representative to spy on Cuban and Venezuelan nationals. See here and here. A huuuuuuuuuuuge breach of protocol (to ask such a thing) any compliance with the request has been denied as both PCVs and Fullbrights are specifically apolitical. The US Embassy has also acknowledged the error as such.

Cuban and Venezuelan nationals are in Bolivia to enact various social programs in the country´s ongoing socialist, um, consolidation. (ie we´re rolling with the socialist homies and they´re paying for stuff.) In my own town we have Cuban doctors which guarantees good music playing in the bar for at least a few months and Venezuela has funded quite a few construction projects. We also had, for a time, a tall leggy Venezuelan number doing literacy programs. I didn´t have much interaction with her because I only understood about 4% of the words coming out of her mouth.

This, by the way, could get Peace Corps kicked out of the country.

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Peace Corps´official statement is linked to the link above. but if you care for it in Spanish (por si a caso) aqui está:

DECLARACION DE CUERPO DE PAZ

Desde su inicio en 1961, Cuerpo de Paz, ha mantenido el firme mandato que sus voluntarios se mantengan al margen de cualquier actividad oficial correspondiente a la política extranjera de los Estados Unidos, lo que incluye el involucrarse en actividades de inteligencia. Este mandato ha sido reforzado constantemente por todas las autoridades de Cuerpo de Paz desde hace más de 46 años.

Cualquier conexión entre el Cuerpo de Paz y la comunidad de Inteligencia comprometería seriamente la capacidad de Cuerpo de Paz de desarrollar y conservar la confianza de la gente del país en el que el voluntario presta sus servicios.

Consistente con la política de cada una de las administraciones de Cuerpo de Paz desde 1961, el Director Ron Tschetter, quien es un ex voluntario que hizo su servicio en la India (1966-1968), ha sido explícitamente claro en reafirmar esta antigua política y, una vez mas, asegurar que el objetivo de los voluntarios de Cuerpo de Paz es trabajar en el servicio a la comunidad, solamente.

La política de Cuerpo de Paz en contra de las conexiones de inteligencia, se basa en la autoridad general del Director Mundial de Cuerpo de Paz, provista en la sección 5 (a) del Acta de Cuerpo de Paz, de establecer términos y condiciones de servicio a los voluntarios, y por el Acta de Servicio Extranjero de 1980, y la antigua y siempre vigente política de la Agencia de prohibir cualquier conexión entre Cuerpo de Paz y la actividad de Inteligencia anunciada por primera vez durante la Gestión del Primer Director de Cuerpo de Paz, Sargent Shriver en 1961.

Desde la apertura del programa de Cuerpo de Paz en 1962, más de 2500 Voluntarios norte-americanos han servido en Bolivia. Después de un receso que comenzó en 1971, el gobierno de Bolivia formalmente solicito a los Estados Unidos que este retorne a Bolivia, y por lo tanto, el Cuerpo de Paz re asumió sus operaciones en 1990. Hoy, 130 voluntarios están trabajando en Bolivia en las áreas de agricultura, desarrollo de microempresas, educación, saneamiento básico y proyectos de medio ambiente. En los lugares que así lo requieren, Cuerpo de Paz también integra a voluntarios capacitados en informática y tecnología para expandir el acceso a la tecnología entre la juventud boliviana, agricultores, micro empresarios y municipalidades.

La seguridad de los Voluntarios sigue siendo nuestra primera prioridad. Debido al ambiente en que se trabaja, el Cuerpo de Paz basa su seguridad en minimizar los riesgos a una mínima expresión e incrementa la seguridad proveyéndoles una experiencia significada a los voluntarios y a sus familias anfitrionas. El Cuerpo de Paz esta celebrando sus 46 anos de servicio en la casa y fuera de ella. Actualmente hay más de 8000 voluntarios haciendo su servicio, 37 años en el campo. Desde 1961, más de 190.000 voluntarios han colaborado en promover un mejor entendimiento entre los norteamericanos y la gente de 139 países donde los voluntarios han servido. Para ser voluntario de Cuerpo de Paz, se requiere ser de ciudadanía norte-americana y tener al menos 18 años de edad. El servicio de Cuerpo de Paz es un compromiso de 27 meses.

#########

Amanda H. Beck

Directora de Prensa

Cuerpo de Paz

"The Lenni" has returned victorious from her vacation!

So ladies and gentlemen I recently celebrated my one year anniversary of living in Bolivia. How did I celebrate? By leaving the country. On the 24th I boarded a bus in La Paz and 13 hours later arrived in Cusco, Peru. There I met up with my partner-in-crime "the Shimon" to explore the city before leaving for a 4-day trek on the Inca Trail. We were accosted by an army of street vendors, discovered a new cucumber fruit, and snuck into some churches (during services so we didn´t have to pay) and museums. Cusco is way more cosmopolitan than La Paz and although a range of good food (and candy bars) were a nice change of pace it was a bit weird to be a gringa tourist again.

On Friday we woke up at the butt crack of dawn to meet our guide and porters and drive to the trail head. I must admit, that starting I was very nervous that I wouldn´t survive the trail, that my little legs would fall off and my lungs would explode. Shimon and I were the only members of our group so our anthropologist guide had time to explain every little thing to us. I swear he could identify every plant on the trail, knew everyone who lived there, and helped me with my Peruvian Quechua (which is different than Bolivia and I´ve since forgotten). The first day he set a very nice strolling pace on the gentle trail. We stopped half a zillion times to take photos of hummingbirds and orchids and learn a bit about the Incas. (Hey Mom...we killed a cochinilla bug!) The villages on the trail have to haul everything in on the trail or by horse. But the tiendas catering to hikers still sold food (Milky Ways, animal crackers, gatorade) that I can´t get in Bolivia. Maybe I´ll tell the tourism guys here that if they sold animal crackers we´d totally get more tourists.

The next day was pretty much all climbing...up to an altitude of 4215m. Shimon left me and the guide (Ebert) behind because our strolling pace was too slow. But Ebert and I enjoyed the opportunity to keep a steady, non-stop, slow pace that allowed us to talk about politics, plants, and my tendency to use Bolivian slang. At one point the guide commented that I was the only one smiling as I hauled my butt up the mountain but after that day I was pretty much sore until a coupla days after the hike. The next day was relatively gentle but a bit boring...it rained a lot. But we did have more opportunity to talk to more of the hikers. It was a bit weird being one of the only gringos more or less conversational in Spanish and people addressed me in both languages.

The last day we set out for Macchu Picchu racing to the Puerta del Sol (Sun Door) to see the sun rise over a view of the Inca site. Unfortunately every other hiking group also left at the same time so it was like a race with people on your heels at all times. It was the fastest I hiked the entire trip and was not entirely enjoyable..especially cuz it was foggy and we weren´t gonna see the sun rise anyway.

We arrived in Macchu Picchu and got a nice comprehensive tour (after using the lovely flush toilets). Every day there is a limit of 500 tourists on the trail and I think 3000 at Macchi Picchu itself. But because we went in the rainy season it wasn´t too full. It´s not really an adventure. You have porters who carry all your crap, set up the tents, cook delicious meals, wake you up with hot tea etc. There is no way you can get lost and the latrines actually flush.

We had two more days in Cusco which was taken up mostly by sleeping and watching the primary results before taking a 10PM overnight flota to La Paz (and then to Coch). Unfortunately the flota was very slow, immigration took forever and we didn´t get to Coch until 11PM the next day. We ate some pique lo macho. I got a vaccine. And then we caught a taxi to Oruro where we met up with a whole heap of volunteers to party and celebrate Carnaval. On Saturday we went to the main plaza to watch all the traditional dancers and participate in a raucous waterballoon-shaving cream fight.Shimon went back to La Paz and the states Saturday night and due to a lack of buses leaving directly for Tarija, I left for Potosí on Sunday afternoon. Unfortunately I missed my connecting bus and due to an overwhelming urge to sleep in my own bed and see my kitten I paid an arm and a leg to take a very bumpy 4hour taxi ride home.

Yesterday I went to my village´s traditional Carnaval celebration (dancing) where as one of the only resident gringos I got pelted with waterballoons. Unfortunately I couldn´t find any of my friends so I left when it got dark to avoid being cold and wet. Today the festivities are continuing but it´s a bit more family oriented.

I´m trying to reflect on how/if I´ve changed after a year here. At the very least I´ve read 60 books (not a change just a lot) a list of which I´ll post eventually if you care. I can say that I have fewer personal space issues, I can sleep in any moving vehicle, and I´m better at talking to strangers.

Feliz Martes de Ch´alla

Based on the comments that I recieve, many of you view my experiences here as positive and many of you also believe that I get sick a lot. I thought briefly of cataloguing the times I wrote that I was sick with a brief explanation but decided against it because besides my three-month wicked snot-fest, I have been okeydokey and parasite-free. And things really are going well here but I gotta say that this past month has been inexplicably rough. Let´s see if I can inject some humor into it so you can get a taste of my crankiness without lobbying for me to come home.

In college, I had a theory that whenever I had one of those days that everything went wrong, the cafeteria would serve cupcakes. Or maybe because there were cupcakes I had a bad day. Who knows?

So last I wrote, I was in La Paz translating a document for USAID. I hate translating. Odio traducir. Seriously, people who don´t even speak English will argue with you. "Are you sure that´s the right word?" I got to meet the official US Embassy translator. He was...interesting. He was shocked to see that I was a young punk in jeans and a t-shirt and I was shocked to see that he sported an 80s rocker hairstyle. He spoke verrrry slowly and didn´t seem to grasp the concept that you can´t translate directly...and that spell check is essential. Also a bummer, I swear it was hailing in La Paz...and if you´ll recall I didn´t have shoes.

La Paz got a little better after I found a little taco place, finished my work and bought some new shoes. I decided to stay the weekend and chill and headed off to an art museum. All the artists were Bolivian and the house itself was splendiferous. At first the guide talked to me in pidgin Spanish. I swear he pointed at me every time he said "you." After about five minutes of this, and a more or less fluent question from me, he went off. I learned more than I will ever need to know about Bolivian artists. (well. maybe not) I was also invited back to a new gallery opening. I think at this point he may have been hitting on me. After the museum I got Chinese food and ice cream....which I mention only cuz it was spectacular. Friday my friend came into town and we went to the cemetery to check things out for Día de los Santos. Bolivian families go from house to house eating (Trick or Treat almost) and then to the cemetery to eat, drink, pray etc. The tradition is to bring loaves of bread shaped like babies. They´re called t´antawawas which means bread baby in Quechua. My friend actually brought me two! Cemeteries in Bolivia are a bit different. The graves are like cubby holes, stacked on top of each other. Because La Paz is a big city they are about two stories high or maybe 12 cubbies stacked up. I tried to ask about the general hygiene of that but was afraid it might seem morbid. Still curious though. And sorry, no photos. I wasn´t sure how disrespectful it would be because neither my friend nor I have anyone buried in that cemetery. Saturday we went up to Lake Titicaca and Copacabana. So pretty. For lunch I had trout. That afternoon we went back into the city to the market which was scary and big and crowded where I felt ill...fever, aches. So I went to my hotel and to bed. The next day I slept pretty much all day: in the taxi to the airport, in the airport, on the plane, in the taxi to the bus terminal, on the bus, all night.

Here´s where it gets fun. Monday, back in my site, I felt more or less fine. I went to the schools like I had originally scheduled and they told me that they hadn´t been informed that I´d be out of town (aaaaaaaaaah!) and therefore wanted to postpone our thrice-postponed class (aaaaaaah!). I felt wholely unreliable. That night I swear my fever was so high that I lost a few brain cells. I spent all morning calling the clinic, the doctor, the doctor´s wife until I finally got an appointment. I had salmonellosis! Figuring I wouldn´t recover overnight, I called the school to postpone our four-postponed class. (My co-workers came to visit me and asked me not to tell my parents that I was sick because then they´d think Bolivia is a horrible place.) So word, as it tends to do, got around that I was sick, and the family who feeds me every Monday and Wednesday offered to feed me Thursday too because they were afraid I´d restrict myself to crackers and rice and bananas and starve. (The family is of the Adventist pastor and I teach their 9-year old English. He´s one of my favorite people.) Sooooo I went to walk with the Pastor to his house on Thursday because they have a mean mean dog but he left without me so that when I arrived at the house the dog bit me on the knee. I hit it (to disengage its teeth from my flesh), yelled at it, and promptly burst into tears. The family came home to find me in the patio, crying and wheezing with the dog facing me barking.

Late that week I realized I lost my bank card, I snapped my glasses in half and a mean German priest yelled at me in front of a small group of Bolivians. I had neglected to greet him when I walked into the church hall and he of course attributed my rudeness to being an American and just had a complete cow. He made me cry. My crying prompted a sympathy response of many people telling me what shmo he is and recounting all the other mean things he´s said in the past.

Other sad things included my pension closing. I chose the pension cuz my friends eat there, they always have vegetables and Don Julio takes special care to explain to me what exactly is in the meals. Once, when he only was serving guinea pig, he offered to cut the meat off the bones for me so that I wouldn´t have to deal with a guinea pig carcass on my plate. (I had soup instead)

Lets see. I also got a wicked sunburn. I had to go to the funeral of a small boy. And when I showed up to the school on our scheduled day, they had no idea that I had rescheduled with the director and they postponed yet again (aaaaaaaaaaah!). In fact, a kiddo came up to me and asked why I had "failed" his class by not showing up twice. And now my favorite nine year old and his family are moving away! And my favorite technico was in a motorcycle accident!

Things aren´t all bad. My favorite technico is alive and kicking with at least one leg. We had a party for Don Julio. I have spare glasses and a new bank card. I FINALLY did the class. The second graders were a disaster but the fourth graders rocked my socks and were so excited about planting seeds that they actually showed up on a Saturday and stayed way longer than they needed to. In total we planted about 70 seeds to grow trees. I got to visit my two schools in the campo. In one all the kidlets were so excited to show me that their plants were more-or-less surviving (corn and watermelon) and they practiced their environmental poem for me. They presented the poem at our environmental fair. In the other school we read the Lorax and wrote the end of the story in 10 years time. I went back by popular demand to play some team-building games. I did some footwork to let teachers know I´ll be here next year and that we should plan a curriculum when school starts again. And I met all the technicos in the mayor´s office. My English class has 5 more or less dedicated students. (If they miss a class they have to bring snacks. I eat well.) Oh and Thanksgiving rocked!

Just so y´all know, the political situation here is getting a bit hectic.

Protests and paro civicos continue (although not where I live) and I have to call Peace Corps every day to verify that I am indeed alive and well....which I am. Don´t worry.

The last we saw our intrepid hero she was waiting with bated breath (what the heck does that mean anyway?) to see if her students actually remembered to bring their planting supplies to school....Many adventures have transpired since then.

First our brave volunteer encountered 40 shovel-wielding 4-year olds who had high hopes of planting a garden. She set them to work mixing dirt...because what kidlet isn´t capable of dirt mixing....and successfully created a small garden of lettuce and radish. (Well the seeds were more or less successfully planted. Whether or not they survive under the excessive ministrations of the Kinder remains to be seen.) The very next day Super Lenni mounted her trusty steed and pedaled out to the campo...where they were totally not expecting her. She decided to stay to hang out with the kids, dance, play basketball and just generally celebrate the Dia de Mujer. Unfortunately danger lurked in the form of a drunken community member waiting to ambush our hero and the directora of the school and invite them to get shnakkered. But using their powers of divination (or something) both Lenni and the Directora escaped back to their respective houses without having to participate in any raucously drunk celebrations.The drunk community member is still emotionally wounded by this slight but our hero is pretty sure that she wouldn´t be able to withstand the torture of explaining her feelings about Bolivia or Evo Morales repeatedly.

Super Lenni returned to the campo the very next week to visit a new community (unfortunately for her having to carry her stupid bike up several flights of stairs, across a river and through large piles of sand...next time taxi) and to teach a class about trees. She is pretty sure that some learning was had by all. Lenni also had an encounter with the local gang of kidlets who said "If you don´t come to play with us on Sunday...WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE."

The very next week, our favorite volunteer decided to take a trip to outside Sucre with the grand purpose of helping a fellow volunteer with a puppet show and pizza party. Unfortunately Bolivia is kryptonite to well laid plans and our hero hasn´t done anything planned since then. Instead of leaving on Tuesday, she endured a suprise meeting with her Peace Corps boss. Wednesday (instead of leaving) she endured a surprise meeting with the Mayor, or would have if he had showed up. Instead of making it all the way to her friends town on Thursday she only made it to the city of Sucre due to blockades and the like. This was fine with our hero cuz she was tired and wanted a pizza and a warm bed.

In the grand white city of Sucre (which by the way is Super Lenni´s favorite city now) she met up with her BBT who turned out to be very enthusiastic tour guide. As a result, our hero got to see the Casa de Libertad where Bolivia was born, the castle of the only princes in South America, several thousand churches, dinosaur tracks, the watchtower above the city, the eiffel tower, the national archives, and the first bank, train station and university in Bolivia. She also got to visit several mechanics and battery shops, eat lunch with his family, and have some quality gringo time with other volunteers.

Two noteworthy things: 1. Foriegners have to pay triple the price to get into museums than do Bolivians. Our superhero, defender of justice, had a bit of a cow and yelled a bit about it until she hit on the bright idea of showing her Bolivian ID card. (The definition of Bolivian in the case of entrance fee extends to all who look remotely Latino)

2. What was the second thing? I think it was that while lunching with the family..who were sort of elitist and rude to the wait staff, our hero ran into her old sidekick from Camargo. She leaped out of her chair yelling greetings and hugging him and no one mentioned this strange occurence until about 20 minutes later "Do you know him?"

On the way back to Camargo, our hero was waylaid by her counterpart agency who wanted to send her to La Paz to translate something. That is where our hero remains today...translating a stupid document while enduring a slight altitude-headache. Because she was trapped en route to her home (ie on the bus in the city of Potosí) our hero doesn´t have shoes with her (just Tevas) and is also lacking clean underwear. Such is the hero´s life. But perhaps she´ll stay the weekend here for a bit of vacation.

I just finished reading "Nine Hills to Namonbahka" which is the account of a Peace Corps Volunteer in Cote D´Ivoire (West Africa for my geographically disinclined friends). I tell you all this to adress those of you who hope that I will write a book about my own experiences... Sorry, not gonna happen. Although I´m quite sure that the author (Sarah Erdman) edited out many of those typical Peace Corps days of sitting around doing nothing, I´m not sure the rest of my days warrent a full-length book. The blog will have to cut it.

Let´s see.... Two weeks ago, I was invited to several schools for their environmental fairs. Each class presented experiments, posters, and even some skits to illustrate the importance of water. My personal favorite was a group of kidlets who each dressed up representing the different departments of Bolivia and gave a short speech. I would have liked this even more if, as honored guest, I didn´t have to sit in front of the stage in the blazing sun but everyone involved did a splendiferous job writing up 10 commandments of water, or presenting skits on how to save water and why not to poop in and/or drink out of the river etc. The students of one particularly ferocious nun actually went to the offices of the company building our new road to check out their anti-pollution practices (sadly nonexistent).

This same week the Peace Corps Doc came to visit my place to make sure that I´m using my mosquito net, not eating lettuce, and being generally happy and healthy. I took her out for chicken...or actually she paid for my chicken...and then we walked to my English class where my bud Osvaldo told me he had no idea there was going to be English class. Let me explain, Osvaldo is the security guy at my agency so he usually knows what´s going on in the building. He is also the main person to pester me about starting classes so for him not to know that we were starting was kind of frustrating. But the Doc, Osvaldo and I hung out until two students showed up. It went well but due to a big meeting, we haven´t had classes since then. My students picked what time they wanted classes but many people have told me that it´s too late at night...not sure how to deal with that. Then I escaped to the city where I got yet another vaccination, went dancing with the cute Argentinians, and got rather ill. (All better!)

I got back to town in time for my Spanish lesson but my teacher had gone somewhere else for what was explained to me as "an emergency." So I had time to gather sand (weird gringa hanging out in river) for my Monday tree-planting! I had just returned to my room when one of the teachers showed up to tell me that they wanted to postpone afore-mentioned tree planting. So I had time to work on my talk on reforestation for the kindergarden profes! That talk went really well. Everyone seemed interested and if nothing else they learned that trees NEVER breathe out carbon dioxide. A popular wives tale in Bolivia is that plants produce oxygen during the day but CO2 at night. For this reason, you shouldn´t have a plant in your room because it can kill you. So I tried to dispel this myth. I also taught them some games and activities to use with the kidlets and learned that you should never use fertilizer on violets.

The next coupla days I worked with the kids, presenting a puppet show and some games on the parts of trees. As my counterpart said "You need patience to work with kindergarden." Of course he then added "Do you even have patience?" I´m very patient damnit! As a perk to working with the youngins I now have 120 small children who know my name and point me out to their parents whenever I walk by. This Friday we´re going to plant seeds (she says with optimism that they´ll actually remember to bring the needed supplies.)

Saturday I had a day that will never ever make it into my Peace Corps book. I was so very bored out of my skull. I recently bought a TV and had watched about as many dubbed movies that I can take. I had bought gas for my stove, washed my dishes, and folded my laundry so I decided to go take photos of the market and town. This resulted in a small posse of children posing for me and some very cute photos. Then I escaped to the plaza where I ran into my friend Lino, a German volunteer. He mocked me because he always seems to find me in the plaza doing nothing. (That is because he´s only around on Saturdays.) As is typical in Bolivian Spanish conversation he asked me "Where have you lost yourself" because we haven´t seen each other in months. As is typical in Bolivian Spanish I answered, "here. there." About two seconds later one of the nuns ("Hola monja!") walked by and asked Lino where he had lost himself. I find this question rather irritating in the scheme of things. For one, I am often asked by people who have my phone number and/or know where I live. Come find me! Also, it is often the other person who is missing. The other day my neighbor, who had been in La Paz for the past month asked me.

Change of subject. Sunday I went to hang with the kidlets in the church hall. I brought playing cards and Harry Potter. Several children followed me home despite a deep-seated fear of my dog. (I think I will exaggerate the size of his teeth to discourage future visits. But really, he´s an ancient German Shepherd.) Anyhoo, we were hanging in my room, touching every single one of my belongings, watching my tv, and drinking my water (I am very possesive) when the little boys disappeared. I left my room to hear the water running and a small pile of clothing outside of my bathroom door. Goodness! Naked little boys showering in my house! When everyone was fully clothed I kicked them out because I´m cruel like that. They asked me to forgive them and to not throw them out and promised to come back at 3. I mentioned this occurence to the Principal of the Kindergarden who had remarked on the posse traipsing through our patio and she said that it was great that they got to shower. So apparently it isn´t quite as bizarre as I thought it was.

Sunday night I was invited to a talent show at the high school. Two of my friends were singing so I suffered through several hours. I think my favorite (besides my friends) was a comic re-interpretation of Hotel California in Spanish and Quechua about a guy who had a child out of wedlock. However, talent shows in whatever language are painful and most of the evening was spent listening to the crowd insulting the acts.

My class on trees for a school in the campo was postponed due to yet another paro civico or as my friend Doña Horti calls them "dias de flojo." This particular lazy day was to urge the highway company to come back sooner to finish their work. Oddly, the teacher seems to have foreseen this because when we made plans weeks ago she said "Come on Tuesday but if you can´t Thursday is fine." So Thursday and Friday, more trees. Woot!

May I rant?

Ok. So yesterday I was in the office of my counterpart (checking flight times for Christmas) when he came in and told me that because I apparently have no time for (or interest in) working in the vivero (tree nursery) they have hired a new person in charge on behalf of the organization. (The mayor also has a person in charge but he does nothing)

When I first got to site I went to the tree nursery and found that the ladies who work there already know how to do the basic stuff. I couldn´t think of any way to help the production of the vivero (mostly because I also only know the basics). I explained this to my counterpart, adding that my general area of expertise is education. But to please him I asked for more information about the types of trees grown, the treatment of seeds. I also asked for a copy of their plan and the registro where they record all the data. I was told that the viverista (guy in charge) had most of this information...but he´s never around. I found this a smidge odd because the viverista actually asked me for a lot of this info that he was sposed to already have. I was NEVER given any information on their general plan of operation or timeline or anything. (As I recall I was told "we need 4000 plants") I tried to help them out by drawing a map of the vivero, doing a FODA to get a baseline, and finally to offer workshops on the stuff that I know that they don´t (honestly not much but important stuff) but my counterpart seemed more concerned with "branding" the vivero as USAID funded. Too little too late I guess.

Now my counterpart has hired someone, given her all the necessary information and told her what they need from her...including a plan, a registro of data and a general chronogram. AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! My counterpart said to me "I asked you to go to the vivero, I practically begged you and you did nothing."...at which point I freaked out a little bit.

To be honest, I don´t really want to work in the vivero. It´s probably better that they´ve hired someone local who actually has experience in this sort of stuff....but I´m PISSED. I can´t help if I don´t know what they want! Is this a warranted reaction?

Also, the mayor´s office has asked me to help educate some people on the mini-vivero in one of the schools. My counterpart told me that he "would be very angry" if I agreed to help out with this vivero but not with his. Hopefully I explained adequately that my responsibility was to be education and not the actual manual labor. But again I could have ripped his arms off.

That has been my rant.

Shall I lighten the mood? Sunday as I walked to the market to drink an api (purple quinoa drink served hot) I counted 8 people with eye patches. EIGHT! Then I went to get a hamburger and BOTH the people who work at my pension had eye patches too! Unfortunately for y´all the explanation isn´t as glamorous as act-like-a-pirate day, or an eye-stabbing maniac on the loose but rather the Cuban doctors in town are giving free surgeries for cataracts.

Today I feel much better by the way after meeting my new Spanish tutor, planning some activities in the kindergarden, and watching the técnico from the Mayor´s office get yelled at by three people at once. I thought I was the only one totally frustrated with him...it was great!

I took advantage of the Sunday afternoon descanso (rest) to write this. At this time of week/day there are fewer snot-nosed little boys in the internet cafe. As much as I love children, I sometimes have NY moments where I can´t stand my personal space being invaded.

Don´t know if y´all have been watching/reading the news but there has been some interesting happenings here in Bolivia. As you may or may not know, Bolivia has two capitals. La Paz has the legislative and executive branch and Sucre has the judicial. At the moment, an assembly is rewriting the constitution in Sucre. Also, they are protesting pretty hard-core to bring the other two branches of government to the city. This has resulted in protests, blockades and even a paro civico where everything in the country was closed. The paro civico affected me personally because for the first time in a week I had hot water for a shower but no soap...which I couldn´t buy because everything was closed. Sigh. I live in the same department (state) as the city of Sucre and like all volunteers here have been prohibited from going there until at least Monday. But things here (8 hours south) are normal. By the way...protests, blockades, and such are pretty normal here because the people of Bolivia don´t have the traditional means of appealing to the government. Lobbying, letter-writing, and petitions are mostly useless. You can read about the current sitch here

So my birfday passed pretty much normally. I had one gringa friend (Stephanie) and one Bolivian friend come over for dinner and card games and then we went out dancing. My other Bolivian friends kinda bailed on me. Ah well.

This past weekend (Sept 1) I went to a rodeo (!) in Yacuiba. Wednesday evening Stephanie and I met to take a bus down to Tarija. Usually this trip lasts about 5 hours. However, we left at about 9 and didn´t arrive in Tarija until 3AM. The ride was bumpy, slow, and absolutely freeeeeezing cold. We were both rather cranky upon arrival and I found myself wishing for an all-night diner. No such luck. The very next night at 5PM, we hopped on a bus with some of the other Tarija volunteers to Yacuiba. About an hour outside of Tarija the bus broke down so we sat there for a while. We arrived in Yacuiba at about 7AM. Once again the ride was absolutely freeeezing cold and from what I could see out the window....scaaaaaary. Anyhoo, we met up with about 10 other volunteers and went to breakfast, slept until lunch and then went out to Palmar Chico where the rodeo was. We hung out, eating, dancing, drinking and then headed over to the arena. I was quickly adopted by a group of girls who taught me how to dance the Chacarera. The next day we watched the vaqueros lasso and brand cowies. There was a bullfighter and some traditional dancers too. Apparently, I missed the part of the rodeo where they bury ducks in the ground and then whack their heads off. I wanted to see that just because it seems too outrageous to believe. Then we went to a volunteer´s house for a huge barbecue. Some of his friends sang for us which was very cool. Then we returned to the arena to dance until it was time to go home. My time to go home came very soon after my dancing partner dropped me while dipping me. My backside is still sore. Really, the whole experience is hard to describe so you´ll have to check out the photogs. (When I finally upload them) In all, it was great fun to hang with the other volunteers who I never get to see, visit another part of the country and dance my little legs off.

Work: This week I started planning lessons with two teachers on the subject of trees. We´ll be working together in the school garden too. I had a meeting with all the ladies in the tree nursery to do a SWOT analysis. The ladies decided that they want me to give them a class on how to do stuff like mix dirt, treat seeds etc. (They even scheduled it!) I´ve also finally set up days and times for my English class so every Tuesday and Thursday night I´ll be getting my language on. I have been tutoring three people in English but this will be a switch to a full-size class of adults.

Sunday I went to the parroquia to hang out with the kidlets. (They begged me to) The parroquia is where the priests and nuns live and where they have chorus practice and youth group and stuff...like a church hall I guess. So I read the story of Esau and Jacob to the kidlets, served some breakfast and then we went to visit Doña Vincenta. She´s a woman who lives in our town and is apparently semi-paralyzed. It looked to me like a stroke or cerebal palsy but I´m not trained in that sort of thing. Anyhoo she was pleased to have 20-odd kids in her house singing to her. One of the other woman who volunteers with the kids asked me to come on her radio show to explain what the heck sort of work I´m doing here. So that should be good if not entirely nerve-wracking. She´s also a kindergarden teacher and wants me to do some stuff with her students.

That is approximately all. Been doing a lot of cooking and have read a surprisingly large amount of books recently...Harry Potter (surprisingly good and at one point terrifying when a herd of cats was running across my roof yowling), Ethan Frome (sad), A Thousand Splendid Suns (sad), Cheese Monkeys (not sad).

I found this so amusing that I couldn´t resist. Here´s a glimpse of life in Bolivia.

1. What kind of soap is in your bathtub right now? Bathtub! hahahah! But I have Irish Spring that I brought from the States

2. Do you have any watermelon in your fridge? Nope. But I had one this weekend.

3. Is there anything moldy in your refrigerator? It´s not really my fridge but I hope not. Although the guac I made prolly is.

4. Are there any dirty dishes in your sink? For once there aren´t.

5. What would you change about your living room? What living room? I only have one room.

6. Are the dishes in your dishwasher clean or dirty? Dishwasher. Hahahahaha.

7. Do you have a can of mushrooms in your pantry? No pantry here. But if I had one, there would never be a can of mushrooms in it.

8. White or wheat bread? Whatever they sell across the street. It hink they have both but they´re not loaves.

9. What is on top of your refrigerator? a jar of honey, a candle, a book about the bible.

10. What color is your sofa? I don´t have a sofa. I have a mattress that I arranged to resemble a sofa and it´s blue striped.

11. What color or design is on your shower curtain? shower curtains are completely unheard of here. One showers under the faucet between the sink and the toilet getting everything wet in the process.

12. How many plants are in your home? 0 apparently flowers kill you in your sleep.

13. How many candles are in your home? 2 in tuna cans for when the lights cut

14. Is your bed made right now? never --->

15. If you have a coffee pot, what color is it? I have a tea pot. Does that count? It´s white.

16. Electric or standard can opener? I use a Leatherman.

27. Comet or Soft Scrub? Bleach.

28. Is your closet organized? I don´t have a clost. I did but it kept falling apart spilling all my clothes on the floor. So now I just leave my clothes in piles on the floor. Soon I´ll have crates to put stuff in.

29. What color is the flashlight that you use the most? My headlamp is black and blue

30. What kinds of things are in your junk drawer? I don't have a junk drawer. I have a junk box with a travel mosquito net, various electrical adaptors, money, passport (not exactly junk I guess)

31. Do you drink out of glass or plastic most of the time at home? My nalgene or a tin tea cup.

32. Do you have iced tea made in a pitcher right now? Nope. But that sounds fantastic.

33. If you have a garage, is it cluttered? No and no.

34. Curtains or blinds?I have frosted windows that are covered in a Sureña (local beer) tapestry, a picture of the Virgin Mary and a mirror

35. How many pillows do you sleep with? 1

36. Do you sleep with any lights on at night? Nope.

37. How many ceiling fans are in your home? 0

38. How often do you vacuum? Never. I´m not sure I´ve seen a vacuum in 7 months. But I do wash my floor about once a week. Damn dust.

39. Standard toothbrush or electric? Standard.

40. What color is your toothbrush? blue and yellow and by mistake I bought a kids brush.

41. Do you have a welcome mat on your front porch? No. But I don´t really have a front porch. I have a big gate and if you get past that and the big dog there´s a patio.

42. What is in your oven right now? A baking pan.

43. Is your microwave clean or dirty? I don´t have a microwave. But they are not completely unheard of.

44. Is there anything under your bed? suitcase, backpack, 12 hangers, broken closet, empty boxes, papers to reuse

45. Chore you hate doing the most? Cleaning the bathroom.

46. What retro items are in your home? The tv is black and white and has dials...it doesn´t work well so I barely watch it.

47. Do you have a separate room that you use as an office? I have only one room that is my bedroom, kitchen and living room. I share a bathroom with 4 people and my neighbor has been kind enough to give me the keys to his kitchen which I use to entertain or teach English in.

48. If you have a yard, who mows it? Grass lawns are a completely foriegn concept and let me tell you I miss it. It´s also illegal to lay on the grass in the main plazas but I am often tempted. Actually in the house in Cocha we had a lawn and my host dad weed wacked it. He actually had a weed wacker! Or he used a machete.

49. Is there anything on your kitchen floor right now? In the area that serves as my kitchen there is a tank of compressed gas and a box full of garbage bags on the floor.

50. How many mirrors are in your home? 2.

51. Do you have any hidden emergency money around your home? yes.

52. What color are your walls? Pink.

53. Which rooms in your house have wallpaper? None of them.

54. Do you have a peephole in your front door? Nope. ¿Quien es?

55. Do you keep any kind of protection weapons in your house? Nope

56. What does your home smell like right now? Steph says it smells like powdered donuts but now I think it smells like Oscar cuz he sent a letter scented with his cologne (How Latino)

57. Fave candle scent? vanilla, evergreen.

58. What kind of pickles (if any) are in your refrigerator right now? Fuck. pickles. Those sound fuckin fantastic.

59. Who are in the pictures you displayed? liz, mary, joe, mom, dad, gram, evan, elena, dean, thinium, katie, michelle, trisha, laura, court, shimon, all 28 of my peace coprs group, Jesus, Mary 60. What color is your favorite Bible? my favorite?

61. Do you have plenty of cabinet space in your kitchen? Regrettably, no.

62. Ever been on your roof? Nope.

62. Do you own a stereo? Nope.

63. How many tvs do you have? 1 but it's not mine.

64. How many house phones? None.

65. Do you have a housekeeper? Don't I wish.

66. What style do you decorate in? Peace Corps chic. Anything that is utilitarian and fits in my room with a sprinkling of religious/Bolivian.

67. Do you like solid colors in furniture or prints? Solids.

68. Is there a smoke detector in your home? No nor is ther a fire extinguisher but there is a tank of gas.

68. In case of fire, what are the items you would grab if you only could make one quick trip? passport, money, boots

69. Do you know how to work your electrical box? Yes cuz the fuses blow every time I take a shower at the same time as using alight...showers are electric here.

70. What temperature in your home is most comfortable to you? anytime i don´t have to wear a hat to bed

See! Life isn´t all that different in Peace Corps Bolivia!

I heartily apologize for not writing in quite some time. I was struck down by a two-month cold (still going strong) and a hearty case of culture shock. To be honest, I didn´t realize it was culture shock until yesterday. I just thought I was in a long-term crappy mood and having several more "I-hate-Bolivia" moments followed by fewer than usual " I-love-Bolivia" moments. It´s not like the culture is entirely different. The religion is the same, the language is familiar and I don´t really feel that much like a minority. If I were to use a metaphor, which I will, I´d say it´s like watching somewhat eating an apple and thinking, "That´s totally not how you do it! Everyone knows you eat around the middle first!" Of course, I could be anal about my apple-eating technique but in general it´s a feeling that people are doing things strangely. In general, I handle this well...stepping back, evaluating and perhaps adapting the new technique for apple eating.

Just to clarify, I think Bolivians eat their apples the same way but they eat oranges differently. They just unpeel a little bit and then suck the hell out of it. Also, they cut eveything into teeny tiny pieces before eating it.

Examples of Ellen´s culture shock: A few weeks ago I went into the office and was handed three rolls of toilet paper. Hooray! I then had to sign two different forms confirming that I had received said toilet paper and was told that it was mine and only mine and I should not let anyone else use my TP nor use anyone else´s. Ok. Later I went to use the copy machine where I was mocked for not knowing enough to bring my own paper. In my humble opinion, I think these sort of things should fit into normal operating costs. I mean does someone get penalized if they use more than their alloted three rolls?

When in Tarija I went to the post office to pick up a package. Package pick up, by the way, is only between 3:30 and 4 on Mon,Wed, Fri. I went to one window to pay 21Bs and the woman put three postage stamps on each package slip, two rubber stamps and signed them. She then told me to go into the first door on my right. Once in that hallway, I was told to go back outside and make copies of both of the package slips. (Why couldn´t the first lady have told me this?) So I did and returned and was told that since the packages had arrived eight days ago, I had to pay for eight days of storage. This I don´t understand. If I can only pick up my package three days out of the week, one of which was a holiday, I shouldn´t have to pay for the other days. Ah well. I did and returned. Then I had to sign each package slip and copy and wait for the customs guy who showed up 15 minutes late. He opened my packages, retaped them and sent me on my merry way. (One of the packages wasn´t even for me)

Yesterday I was riding in a bus when the ticket-taker didn´t rip every single part of my half of the ticket off. Rather than letting it go she tore the teeniests bits off (which by the way had no writing nor any importance to me) and handed them to me. Why?

Perhaps it´s not so much culture shock as it is beauracracy shock. (Did I spell that right?) They drill into your brain during training that this is normal. You will have a honeymoon period, then a culture shock, readjustment, further culture shock, further readjustment and then you´ll never wanna go home again. According to the time scale, my honeymoon period lasted way longer than normal.

Anyhoo, for the past month I wrote up a very informative presentation on trash management. AFTER my counterpart read it he told me that the schools had extended their vacations and that I wouldn´t have the presentation yet. Ah well, I´ll be ready.

I went to Cochabamba to reconnect with the other volunteers in my training class, present a diagnostic about my community, take some Spanish etc. Due to blockades between me and the airport I got to take a bus through Potosí. Let me tell you, Potosí is frikkin cold! (highest bus terminal in the world) But there are llamas! (although not necessarily in the terminal) Anyhoo, in Cocha I did get the opportunity to visit my host family whom I love so much. They are just so splendiferous. I went and played cards with the boys, they commented on the fact that I talk a hell of a lot more and we had a bunch of fun. (Eliz, they thank you for the cards. Perfect gift) I also got the chance to eat salteñas, buy some used clothing (which just cuz it´s used doesn´t mean it´s color-fast as I found out today by dying all my socks pink), get more vaccinations, eat in restaurants...and take a Quechua class. Quechua rox my sox. Who knew that I was capable of glottal stops and hacking and spitting like a pro? Y´all do now.

Let´s see. This Monday was Bolivian Independence day. I was not feeling well but didn´t want to miss it so I ventured out of my house where I ran into two guys I work with. They invited me to march with them in the parade. This consisted of standing in the sun for two hours, waiting to march, and then marching one block past the mayor´s stand. That´s it. But it was fun to see all the schools in their formal get-ups and all the organizations that exist in the town. This one high-schooler pinned a Bolivian rosette on me. At first I thought he was some punk trying to cop a feel but it was a friend I play basketball with and I swear if I had a daughter I would fix her up with him. Anyone want to marry their daughter off to an athletic, respectful to women, good looking Bolivian?

After the parade all my work peeps went to hang out and barbecue and I tagged along. Then I was asked to cook some sort of dessert for my friend´s go-away party. Apparently word has got out that I can cook. So after a shower and a nap (useless details, I know) I met up with a gal pal to cook apple crisp. The go away party was tons of fun...an "I feel like I´m with friends in the states" moment. However, I left early to go hang with my Bolivian boytoy because he was freaking out a bit. Every time he called a different male friend of mine would answer my cell demanding "Who is this? Why do you want to talk to Ellen? How long have you known her?" The last time I answered and they all started chanting "Seco seco seco!" which is the Spanish equivalent of "chug chug chug!" (Don´t worry mom. I wasn´t drinking. Also my friends apologized for mocking me mercilessly and promised to call me "American friend" instead of "gringa".)

No more news.

This was my horoscope today, "When was the last time you experienced something foreign (sushi, burritos, and sweet-and-sour pork do not count!)? Today, make a bigger effort to expand your horizons. This is an ideal day to research travel plans, especially if they involve travel outside of the country. Deciding on the right time to go can be a hassle, but if you pick a time now, you can avoid any complications later. The time is always perfect for planning an ambitious vacation." I find that highly amusing.

It is official: I am a site rat. This term is used to describe people who stay in their own town instead of going into the city every few weeks. Last week (ie the last week of June), I was actually a little worried about my sanity and felt an overwhelming need for some gringo time. Things were getting just a little too bizarre. Several times throughout the last few weeks I have been amazed at the conversations I´ve had. Topics included transvestites, race relations, how I need a boyfriend, toilet hygeine, and how to properly wash my socks. The gang at the waterfall--->

In the interest of oversharing: some months I am just so happy to get my period. It means I can rationalize any inexplicable depression or crying for the preceding days. I am not a complete and utter freak...I am a woman! Hooray!

Haven´t thought through what I want to write today. I haven´t even written in my journal for months. I think I was going to enumerate more things I like (burros), don´t like (talking about the weather, unreliability), and am no longer amused by (people who can only say "good morning beautiful" in English and insist on saying it whatever time of day it is).

Also, I´ve decided that I want to be an old Bolivian man when I grow up. I will be slightly slouched. I will wear a sweater vest AND a cardigan. and I will sit around in the plaza talking to other old, sweater-vest-wearing men. If only they played chess or dominoes.

News: I´ve moved houses. Now I have a much smaller room with a hot shower and some very cool neighbors and a dog. I do not have men throwing rocks at my windows in the middle of the night anymore. Nor do I have a creepy old man neighbor who watches porn.

Also, I´ve been suckered into teaching English twice a week to the Pastor´s kids in exchange for lunch and cakes. The cakes part was a joke (y´know..church ladies...cakes...no?) but I´m afraid that they might actually make some for me.

Also, also, I´ve met some cool new people who are trying to sucker me into making puppets with one of the youth groups. I might be willing to do so but in the meantime it´s nice to expand my circle of buddies. In addition, several of my "students" now say hi to me in the streets and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy adentro.

At the same time as my social schedule is expanding (I´ve also apparently been scheduled for a date with a semi-coworker), last night I had my first night alone in days. It was splendiferous. Ah to be an American who enjoys her me time.

I have had a wicked cold for three weeks now. Who gnu a body could have so much mucus?

Now off to the vivero to meet with the viverista who won´t be there because he never is. It´s a long uphill walk everyday for nothing.

But first! the empanada guy is here! I love the empanada guy! He is so friendly! And he comes bearing empanadas!

During training I made the mistake of telling the country director that "sitting in my room reading all day" might be an impediment to me integrating into my community and getting work done. He referenced this about thirty times after that. But yesterday I did indeed hold my second day of room-sitting. I just needed to. This weekend I got no sleep nor relaxation because...get this...there was an auto race in my town. Twenty pimped-out, really friggin loud, formula one cars racing around my town for two days. Some of the drivers even had the overwhelming courtesy to drive their cars (really friggin loud cars may I remind you) at 3AM. No joke.

Monday I held my first official workshop with 18 profes on trash games. It was suprisingly exhausting yet exhilirating (how do you spell that?) to spend an hour and a half trying to be somewhat comprehensible in Español. My compañero asked me if I was nervous...but really I was just excited to do it. I hope it went over well. The profes seemed oddly impressed by my crafts made from trash...wallet out of wine box, handwashing station out of bottles, candelabra out of tin can. That last one I was especially surprised about. I mean I stuck a candle in a tuna can (with gum!) so it wouldn´t fall over and burn my house down. Not that creative.

So anywho yesterday I needed a break..and really had nothing to do. So I hid in my room making the best ever tomato soup (anyone have an tips on seed removal?), folding my laundry, sucking down "Glue" by Irvine Welsh, and playing with the cutest kittens ever.

I´ve been in site a whole month! I don´t really have any cultural news. There were only three festivals this month, none of which I took part in. I flew into Tarija on Tarija day and all I witneesed slightly out of the norm was a lot of marching bands in the street. And really, that is only slightly out of the norm. Marching bands are real big here. On Labor Day I had the day off and I noticed that there was no one in town so it was more boring than usual. I was told later that the people were most likely inside getting sloshed so perhaps it´s good that I didn´t particpate. Then there was some very small happening where some townspeople hiked up to the plateau over the town where there are stations of the cross. They brought one of the crosses down and remained in a house praying, eating, and drinking for a day before they returned the cross. I´ve been wanting to hike up there for weeks now but apparently the trail is very hard to find and as I am really clumsy it might be better if I go with other people...who can scrape my body off the rocks. And I´m gonna miss Chuquisaca day because I have a meeting in Tarija. (Grr! And I was invited to a barbecue and everything!)

So work has begun to pick up. I do get some glimpses of how many problems I will face from lack of transportation, lack of enthusiasm, language barrier, and some uniquely Bolivian problems.

Last week I went to a school that my organization has a program with. I was introduced and given ideas on what they want from me...including a workshop on didatic games and help in their tiny tree nursery. I went back later to coordinate this but the Principal wasn´t there and the teacher responsible for the nursery told me in no uncertain terms that she was NOT interested. I went back yesterday and was introduced to two teacher who actually DO want to be involved so we outlined the next steps and I somehow agreed to give two talks this week (Friday and Monday). Luckily, I guess, I don´t work on Friday afternoons so I had to cancel one talk which will give me a smidge more time to prepare.

I also went to visit the Director of the School District twice but he wasn´t there. So I went with some coworkers out to the campo to visit two schools there and check out their schoolyard gardens. It was nice to have a different perspective because right now I live in a "zona urbana" and the culture and the kids seem different. Also, one of the schools gave me a bag of radishes...so that was nice.

This weekend the five closest volunteers came to visit me....or really to use the internet and eat in a restaurant...but I´m a perk. It was a perk for me too because I could visit them at the hostel and take a hot shower and watch cable tv. So rather than doing nothing alone, we did nothing together. One night we actually tried to visit as many hamburger joints as possible to compare the quality of food. (There are only about four if you´re liberal about your definition of hamburger.) We plazeared, played cards, ate, and visited the one bar in my town. My poor friend Steph got propositioned in the five seconds it took for my friend to walk me home. But of course she promised to introduce me to this lovely married man whose relationship is on the rocks. Apparently we have a lot in common, like believing in extraterrestrials, thinking that the US is spreading disease to further capitalism, and harboring atomic bombs. (To clarify just in case, these are not beliefs that I harbor strongly or at all.)

I also have started to play basketball with my coworkers and other gente. I learned the words for "pick and roll", "sprained ankle", "cheering section" and "shoot already gringa!" I got my butt kicked by the secretary in 1on1 but later beat a male coworker. He blamed this occurence on the fact that I am an American and therefore must be vastly superior at all sports except soccer. (For those who don´t knnow me, I´m about 5ft2 and 105 pounds. Not exactly star player material.) The next day I got my butt kicked by a 12 year old girl. She wasn´t American.

I visited the Director of the School District and he wants me to work with three schools in my town and five in the campo. I have to somehow balance this with working in the municipal tree nursery (which I haven´t done at all) and with the Mayor´s program on green spaces. And to think I was bored last week.

Yesterday the director took me out to the campo to check out three schools and meet everyone there. I must work on introducing myself. It is very formal here, as are goodbyes and thank yous and as an American I have trouble with expressing deepest gratitude for having met someone and wishing them all the best in all that they try to accomplish in their life...after only five minutes of talking. Anyway the schools were very small...two were one room schoolhouses which should provide a unique challenge. The kiddos were cute like all Bolivian children and none of them knew where the United States are. Now I just have to schedule activites, figure out appropriate lessons...and manage transportation out to the schools. Two might be close enough to bike it.

That´s all folks.

It has come to attention that several newbie Piscorinos (PCVs) and some applicants have stumbled upon my blog seeking answers. Recognizing that they have probably been disappointed thus far I will try to enumerate some common concerns.

Let´s start at the beginning shall we? The application: Really it´s not that hard. They want to make sure that you´re intelligent, relatively well rounded, and not crazy and/or racist. Try to get your references in as soon as humanly possible. Hounding them will be good practice for Peace Corps anyway. On the medical portion, learn from my mistakes...do NOT check anything unless you know that it will actually cause a problem. Unless you want two lung capacity tests and an echocardiogram...then by all means check to your hearts content. And your essays do not have to be theses.

The interview: Again, PC is trying to make sure that you´re fairly intelligent, openminded, and not racist, crazy or running away from your life. I read somewhere that if you´ve just broken up with significant other or had another big life change they will make you wait another six weeks or so. (It took a lot of effort not to write "se dice que" en vez de "I read somewhere")They will ask you about your concerns, your educational and work background, and preferences for placement. You can find the standard quesions on the PC Yahoo groups. Be flexible yet specific...especially if you know that if they offer you Chechnya for example (which they won´t), that you won´t go.

Nomination: I was nominated in the interviewer´s office. But otherwise you sit around and wait for a letter and medical/dental packet. Make sure you have recieved everything. It´s ok to bother your recruiter but don´t be an ass about it. They travel a lot, are busy, and there have about a hundred other nominees to deal with. Patience is a virtue.

Medical: Mine took from June to August, including the aforementioned lung capacity tests and echocardiogram. It´s basically a rigorous physical. I wasn´t really that suprised by any of the tests...although the packet they give you is huge. Make sure to triple-check everything and make copies. FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS! Explain to your doctor that everything is needed. You may want to explain to a boss what´s going on so that they don´t think that you´re dying from some strange disease...but your decision.

The placement office might call a few times or they might not. Be patient. I was called once and not given any clue as to my progress in the process. I also had the luck of meeting my placement officer and stiffing him on drinks. ooops. (I lived in DC. Drinking with PC staff isn´t normal and/or all that accepted)

Invitation: Again, patience is a virtue. Check your online toolkit and if it says it´s in the mail (which is just plain cruel) but you haven´t gotten it in two weeks or so...call the office.

And then the fun begins!

Packing: I only weigh 100lbs soaking wet so this produced some additional problems. You are not going to be able to bring everything you own. You will have to leave stuff home and you will live. Lotsa people say to bring fewer clothes than you think you need. I didn´t really follow that rule but I didn´t have many electronics. Wanna know what I brought for a tropical/freezing cold country? jeans, two khakis, three dress pants, two sweaters, three light weight sweaters, fleece, boots, two dress shoes, sneakers, tevas, flippies, bathing suit, shitload of socks and undies, 5 long sleeve ts, four tanks, 3 collared shirts, 4 short sleeved ts, sweatshirt, hat, gloves, baseball cap, two nalgenes, ipod, solar charger, flash drive, photos, journal, addie book, sewing kit, travel toiletries, 5 books including spanish-english dictionary, raincoat and pants, combination lock, small backpack, alarm clock, sleeping bag and liner, head lamp and extra batteries and bulbs, flashlight, batteries, duct tape, leatherman, 2 boxes of granola bars....all in one extended trip pack and rolling duffle.

All of this I could have bought in country. Bold are essentials for me. Don´t bring white undies or socks. The solar charger doesn´t work. T-shirts are a dime a dozen here and I wish I had slippers, a thermarest, and an ipod charger. The medical office doesn´t give you tampons in the med kit. Pretty much everything else and the kitchen sink is included....condoms too. Although you may not get it the first day...so bring sunscreen, tylenol, some tampons, and pepto.

I know I was worried about:

food: The food isn´t awful in Bolivia. Lotsa pasta, meat, and potatoes and sometimes unidentifiable organ meat. Where I live veggies are readily available

illnesses: Haven´t been drastically ill yet. Diahrea is mostly normal. The med office is spectacular.

language: Work your little ass off. Speak to everyone you can. The training staff is spectacular. But some days you will want to crawl into a little English-speaking hole.

being left to fend for myself: after three months of being watched, this takes some getting used to...but yooooooou can doooooooo it!

living conditions: I have a flush toilet and a cold shower in my OWN bathroom, big room, cook for myself.

Best advice: talk to someone who is a current/returned volunteer. It is OK if you hate being a volunteer and want to go home. Several spectacular people from our group have decided that Peace Corps is not for them and we still love them. Be patient and flexible.

Not sure this was helpful. But it depends.

So this may be the direct result of working with an Adventist organization who start the day with a prayer but I thought I would share the following with y´all. I thought it was inspirational and directly related to my current experiences.

St. Theresa's PrayerMay today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

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Otherwise, today I met the director and teachers at a nearby school and was given some tasks to complete in their schoolyard garden, and relating to garbage disposal. I also went to the Distrital Educativa but the Director, like everyone else in my town, went to the campo. Tomorrow I, like everyone else in my town, am going to the campo to meet some more teachers and see what sort of programs my organization has set up there. I´m actually quite excited about this because my lack of transportation has prevented me from working where I´m really needed.

That is one of the things about my Peace Corps experience thus far (three weeks) that bothers me. I for one am not working with people who really need help (that I´ve discovered). I do realize that I have the benefit of an American education that has allowed me certain experiences and advantages that I can use to help people here. Things that I don´t even think about such as experiential education, different perspectives, view towards women etc. But I was kind of expecting a stereotypical campo experience, with no electricity or water, where little children follow me around all day, huge and exotic insects, and I have to explain my prescence every few minutes.

Instead I have electricity (unless they´re bloqeo-ing) and water (before 7PM) in a pretty well-off town of 3000 with several other gringos. And every few weekends I can go to the only five star hotel in Bolivia and eat and swim to my heart´s content. Although in my hotel (not the five star one) there was the largest spider I have ever seen. I got someone else to kill it but he only succeeded in amputating three legs. The rest of the spider was nowhere to be found, a situation I was not satisfied with. I changed rooms.

I´m not sure I can explain how my expectations and experiences compare.

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If anyone cares I have not shaved my legs in three weeks and unfortunately my genes have conspired to give me Jewish leg hair on Irish legs which as of yet doesn´t grow in the same direction. I am not feeling empowed by my defiance of American ideals of beauty. Simply hairy.

Also whoever stole my flipflops I will hunt you down.