Library-Approved, Call Me a Local

And BRING IT, Park City. 

I had a really hard time when I first moved to town, as I'm sure most of you would have already concluded from earlier posts, texts, phone calls, general ire on the internet. It was brown, there is a LOT of money to put my measly salary in perspective, and I had very few acquaintances or friends to unwind with or understand me over the two months I went homeless. My closest family is 1500 miles behind me on that wide, flat highway, and I had really grown to love my home state of Maine, recently getting over the disdain most kids have for small-town America when I moved back there after college. 

Park City wasn't very accommodating either. I had a to-do list that just couldn't get done and it started to feel like each endeavor was a personal attack on my character, like the West was lumping me with Mass Holes and other New Englanders everywhere and didn't understand that girls from Maine are really just trying to find nice people and smile at everyone we meet. 

I tried on three different occasions to get a library card, being told I had to be on a lease (always made more challenging by the fact that most house-shares don't have all names on a lease), have a utility bill, offer up my kidney to the dark lord of the library system, even promise to name my first-born Park City in order to show my allegiance to the throne. It was a challenge and in my already beaten state, I felt every setback was a personal attack.

Aside from that, I brought all the wrong paperwork to the Post Office when I went for a PO box, was told I hadn't actually been signed up for health insurance at the beginning of November (contrary to what my paycheck was telling me), and found a mouse nesting in my trunk and nibbling all the split peas and dried kidney beans I was storing back there. Hanta virus haunted me, the thought of 1000s of dollars of chewed wires in my 18-year-old car kept me up at night, and I was working 10 hour days and struggling to find time for ME, which in my world means time to RUN MY FEELINGS OUT. 

Then, one day, after trying to have the time to do so for a full week, I stopped into the library with my utility bill and, being the true grown-up that I am, that utility bill had not only my name and my PO Box (still my work's), but my actual, physical, Park City town limits address. As in, I could prove that you could see my house from the library front desk. And the lady sitting there on that Saturday afternoon, the same I had spoken with to a cold response on those other occasions, smiled and truly welcomed me to the community. She let me have not only a card (FINALLY!) but even a book to read for pleasure (ha, like I'll have time for that) AND Martha Stewart's Pies and Tarts cookbook. As in, she welcomed me finally into this yuppy world of wonder. 

And then, that same day, I bonded with the girl I sit near at work by going to Costco on her card and joining up with some other coworkers at their house for football, ribs, and a frozen journey through the public transit system of Salt Lake to go to a pro hockey game.

So basically, I'm getting to know people, still in the office at 7:00 on a Friday night, but I do have a library card and just scored 24 boxes of only slightly-expired Kashi cereal from our chef, barely saved on its way to feed his chickens.

Barely expired yummies should always go to a starving Team Manager over chickens. Especially after spending $525 yesterday on some new ski kicks (Tecnica boots - why are the only comfy ones always the CRAZY expensive ones?!) and leaving work with a need every night to turn what little remains of that paycheck into 2-buck chuck or the nearest equivalent in this crazy state.

Flawed

It may just be what we call "human" or "normal" and to generalize might diminish the power of the feeling, but there is something about at least the first five years of our twenties that seems to be a pretty important universal lesson. 

I'm sure falling in love, having children, and growing old in a career/relationship/community come with their own lessons, but the past five years have taught me what I can only imagine and hope will be the base for a fruitful and satisfied life.

As a teenager I didn't know failure, at least not in any real sense. Sure, I was pushed out of a lacrosse program or realized I wasn't quite as good at the flute as my peers, but I was still selected for state concerts and runner-up to state swimming titles. I ran for Student Council and was elected, started a group in my school and was lauded as a golden child for human rights in the developing world. I even applied to a then-top-5 liberal arts college (I think the entire Class of 2010 is still bitter about that) and was accepted before even having to worry about a second choice school. 

In college I felt the nag of being slightly less "smart" when incorporated in the intellectual conversations of such an elite student body, but I passed out of Spanish language requirements, made conference-winning varsity swimming squads, and became director of volunteer programs and Senate committees. I'm sounding like a cover letter here, but let's be honest... I was accepted to the two most selective study abroad programs and while my GPA didn't make me one of the top students at that school, I was involved and rocked it.

The problem for all successful youths hit me like a ton of bricks when, at the end of college, I ended a 4+ year relationship with my best friend, graduated early and lived off-campus paying for all my own meals, and then moved to a city I knew no one. In the process, my other best friend disappeared, I realized I studied something in which I had no interest, and I moved overseas to follow a dream I always had, but that in practice proved a challenge in bureaucracy and the politics of an all-women-English-department in Spain.

The number one lesson I think my 20s have taught me so far is that I am not invincible. I am not the best person for every job. Life is challenging and not always fun. We pursue careers, follow loves around the world to find the love wasn't real, leave things we love behind to follow any combination of life, love, and money, and through it all are slowly learning that we are not flawless. We are not perfect and we will not always be successful. 

The challenge is in determining what timeline we have in which to work, what is most important, and what little thing each day is going to make us able to breathe, smile, and move on. 

I've gotta say: there have been days here I didn't get a morning sweat (run, bike, lift) in and I apologize to anyone that had to watch my scattered brain figure out the challenges of managing 95 athletes and all their coaches. So the plan is to keep running, take the time for that mental relief, and remember that I am flawed and you know what? So is every single person I'm working with. 

Escape from Paradise

In the college search, those eons ago, I created an extensive list, looked at student body characteristics, spoke with swim coaches, and considered where I might fit in best. In that entire process, while I trained and competed at Maine colleges, I never once considered applying to a school in state. I HAD to get away. Maine was boring and small and had nothing to offer young people. Most people I knew were looking out of state and the ones that chose the nearby ones, while not looked poorly upon, were just completely incomprehensible to me. I had to leave Maine, and I did. I spent four years in Minnesota, a summer in the southeast, 7 months in Washington DC, and a year-and-a-half in Spain before returning to the grand state of Maine. 

And coming back to Maine was eye-opening. Only by being away did I learn that I came from a pretty incredible place. Mountains, ocean, the most amazing lakes, rivers, and hidden places I'd seen, even after all my exotic travels.

Sure, there aren't many people or much going on in Maine, but it felt more like home and more spectacular once I saw some other places.

Fast forward to leaving Maine again recently, something I knew I had to do for my career, but also that felt like being torn from a home I had only just rediscovered. As I pulled out of Carrabassett Valley, Maine, New England and then the East Coast, I had the panic that comes with someone not quite ready for a family realizing she wants to raise her hypothetical family there. 

So I'm here in Utah, a place many people I know have ended up or spent some time in because it is known to be another natural beauty with a lot of great things to offer. People I meet tell me it's awesome, that they came here twenty years ago and still love it, that there's just so much to do and so much beauty to be had, and they really believe it.

That brings me to asking them, "where are you from originally?" or "where were you before Park City?" And I'm sensing a trend: They're from Philadelphia, Iowa, New Jersey, MASSACHUSETTS. Wonderful places, sure, but they're not Maine. Their license plates say something like "Garden State" when we all know they are a toxic cleanup site or "Birthplace of Aviation" which is a nice way of saying a great person was born there, and we'll take ownership of his assistant brother, too. Exceptional things to strive for, but not Vacationland. 

Well goodness, if I were from "The Spirit of America" I might not feel such a sense of pride either. I'd head out in search of somewhere a little more exciting or just plain better, too. These are the people that love these relatively great places I've gone to, that really settle in and fall in love with a place. Maybe they're more positive generally, but they also don't have the quintessential rocky coast of Maine burned into their cognitive formation, or haven't grown used to hiking through what we refer to as "wilderness" truly without seeing other humans. There is a reason companies celebrating the natural world like L.L. Bean started in Maine and families like the Bush clan spend their summers there. The wilds of Maine formed such artistic and literary genius as regionalist author Sarah Orne Jewett and N.C. Wyeth. And there's a reason I awake in the night in a hot, sweaty panic thinking of the day I might have a Utah license or license plate.

For people who grew up in a true paradise, I wonder if we will ever find a place that compares. Sure, Maine lacks in social life, job opportunity, and general relations with the rest of the world, but it looks like this and makes good, down-to-earth, neat people. 

I miss it, and I'll try to make a new home here, but I do hope that my kids won't have to grow up between the yuppy world within these town lines and the Mormon world of this state. It's a strange dichotomy, let's leave it at that. 

Now that I've realized this, I'm going forward to explore and understand Utah, but Maine will always be the homeland tearing at my heart when I get a little down.

What If I Want It All Now?? (Priority Issues)

0. Little White Dog AKA Tuukka AKA Coosa AKA Love of My Life
1. Job I Have a Generally Positive Outlook On
2. Place to Live - also hope to be able to afford it and not fear being murdered or wanting to strangle roommates at any point. And hopefully 
3. Skis - the freer the better.
4. Boots - will pay, but they'd better keep me from ever being cold.
5. Opportunities for Free Food - community organizations, leftovers from events, volunteering, etc.
6. Marathon Training - Ogden, May 16, 2015, here I come! Ideally without musculo-skeletal problems.
7. Other Training - I do have access to two pretty lovely facilities, one being based around the entire concept of Excellence.
8. Weddings (Times 3) and Reunion - general attendance on all fronts, next summer is going to be a doozy. Hence the spring marathon, keeping interference from controlled, but likely excessive substances, minimal.
9. People I Enjoy Nearby - I don't want to call it "friends" or "good relationships", I'm too old to be so naïve, but I do like good company and having a bustling social life, and I like to be thought of when things are going down in my vicinity.
10. Exploration, Transportation, Smiles, Etc.

Still struggling to accomplish some of the early ones and while that doesn't necessarily mean unhappiness, it's definitely categorized as uncomfortable and unsettling.

Keeping the Wheels On

When I was in elementary school a good family friend - one I always looked to for the best of adventures, the most exciting family vacations, and as the only boy friend I was "cool enough" to have at the time - was in a bike accident in which he was going down a hill and the front wheel came loose, toppling him to a crushed helmet, a reconstructed face, and probably some other damages that Ten-year-old Me didn't really process. 

With my current car, my beloved 1997 green whip and actually any other car I've ever driven, I have an irrational fear of tire issues. I often circle my car before leaving the grocery store just to make sure everything looks alright. Flats or just losing the tire entirely. The first issue I ever had with a car, my first call to AAA, was due to my tire being torn off the side of the wheel when I was pulled out of a snowy ditch during a blizzard with the high school boyfriend, becoming a mean, burnt up flat tire as I drove to Sugarloaf. Upon arrival in Park City a few weeks ago, I had a sound grating and whining from what turned out to be a wheel bearing needing replacing. 

And then there is just life. The part of life where you're going along smoothly, feeling like you might just have the ducks in a line, that people respect and value you, you've attained a job or at least a life that you feel is at the very least acceptable, and things are alright. The greatest problem with such a situation is it very often is like any vehicle I've ever maneuvered. It can be old, new, shiny, or busted and there is always the potential for exactly that which I am experiencing currently.

The job is new and exciting, exactly the right direction for everything you've dreamed of. The new friends are inviting you to meet their friends, you're exploring a new area with them, and it seems your friends living 2,000 miles away just might even visit. There is free food at least once a week, making the measly salary seem OK.

And then you start to see and hear the wheels shaking. You wonder if you'll be able to manage the rent, food, gas, car expenses, health insurance, and afford any social activities. The job stress is following you to the gym, making you obsessive with checking your emails and wondering if you're doing enough to prove yourself as the new kid. Those new friends seem to have other friends and not be too interested in inviting you places and you wonder how long you will be the outsider in the new town. 

The wheels are to the point of falling off and every day feels like a challenge to bare-handedly hold them on, building calluses, strength and character that I just hope to have an opportunity to use in my new life. I wonder if I'll see the day when I have it all under control or if it will always just be a balance between all the tires, and I just have to hope I'll get more tires and better maintenance to spread the wear and tear out. Driving an 18-wheeler isn't what I had in mind at Career Day, but they don't seem too phased when their tires explode on the highway.

By the way, that's another irrational tire fear of mine - that my Honda's tire will shred and blow up OR that the trans-America truck I'm passing will burst a tire as I pass it on the interstate. I might be paranoid, but life has made me this way.

You Could Wear Leggings, You Know.

It harkens back to a profound line expressed in film, in which the protagonist remarks to the object of his desire, "I see you're drinking 1%. Is that because you think you're fat? 'Cause you're not. You could be drinking whole if you wanted to."

I recently returned from a workout in my (also old) gym shorts, with the typical chill setting in as my sweat began to freeze. In order to comfortably make dinner, I threw on my favorite long athletic pants, pictured here:

My delayed background to this story: I am currently living in the house we rent for US team athletes to come to town and train using state-of-the-art facilities with their teammates and trainers. There was just one Olympian shacking up in our place at the time. 

He comes into the kitchen, "Nice track pants." to which I respond "Thanks! I've had them since the 7th grade! They can do this!" as I lift and stretch and pull them out to demonstrate the parachute nature of the old threads. He chips in "Why don't you grab some of the leggings our sponsors give us? You can wear leggings you know? Like, some people can't pull it off, but..."

AW THANKS! So, I grabbed a pair of the nice, tight, compression-style leggings. Know how many times I've worn them? Zero. Look at those Adidas stripes! And the stretch and give!

Can I Pay the Rent in Outerwear?

It amazes me how tough the housing market has been on a girl who's just off the boat from the East, after thinking for the 2,500 miles across the USA that September must be a great time to look for a home in a western ski town. Winter folk haven't arrived, summer people are set where they are and not looking to move before winter, probably landlords are desperate, right?!

WRONG. 

geeksandcleats.com

SO BLATANTLY AND UNCOMFORTABLY WRONG. Because you all know how averse I am to being wrong (Leo, year of the Dragon, born on a Friday... I could continue).

So what I'm saying is: It's not a great time to find a place to live. And not even in the "There Is Nothing for Rent" way, but more in the "I thought I could afford these X number of places and then I got my first paycheck and realized that come November health insurance will be taken out of this, too, and then how in the world will I afford anything in a 20-mile radius". So I expanded my horizons, prioritized the need for some extra cash for the big parties - errr... weddings - I have next summer, and have looked farther out of town. 

And most importantly, I've learned that while I will be eating whatever free food I can get, whenever I can get it, maybe, just maybe I can find a landlord in this yuppie town that will accept outerwear or granola bars as payment for rent. I know I would, if I owned a multi-million-dollar home.

Next project: buy my own house and charge rich northeastern kiddos exorbitant rent for my high-end, conveniently-located ski lodge home.

One Full Episode

I survived the cross-country move, and while we had our moments, Dad and I really were able to enjoy something that came unexpectedly and way too fast. From the night I realized I was leaving the Valley to the night Dad and I sat in a Salt Lake City brewery, only 17 days had passed. 17 days of golfing in paradise...

climbing my mountains with my bestest of friends...

snuggling my BEST friend...

and driving across more corn fields than I ever want to see again.

And the worst part wasn't even the corn. There was a moment, as we passed the biggest 2-dimensional dinosaur drawing I've seen since the Jurassic Park ride in southern California and my lip immediately split open, that I wondered what kind of barren wasteland I was moving myself to. That was also the moment I realized this heavy drinker had already finished 2.5 liters of my standard 3-liter car water kit. This thought was reconfirmed at the Utah Olympic Park where I met a very nice lady originally from Illinois who told me, "Oh honey! This is the greenest it's been in years!" and I stifled tears and washed them down with some less-than-Rack-level nachos (and almost cried again).

Since these moments of what I'm going to call Desert Despair, I've come to terms with the brown. The leaves are changing and the less-exhilarating colors of the West are getting me pretty excited for the snow to fall, something I usually dread. And there has been a self-imposed, Dr. Kelsey prescription written that seems to cover all my needs.

One episode of any hour-long show (with the occasional extra episode, for any potential added benefits) is just what a mostly-friendless girl new to town needs. Unwind, clear the mind after the new job demands, and spread as much moisturizer into my parched, humidity-less skin. It's less that a full hour is needed to regroup and more that about four applications of body butter seem to suffice and watching Piper Chapman go through her prison sentence is like the icing that reminds me that no matter what, at least I don't have to get my body butter from Commissary. But I do still have to find a way to drink my snot on a run so that no locals passing me in their car notice.

Back To My Grind: What Doesn't Kill You

I'm notorious for bringing too much on myself. When asked if I can help with something or if I want to work at X, I pretty much can't say no. Call me Jim Carrey in that Yes Man movie, but that really is me. 

So this summer I planned on working not much at all. I wanted to run, play in the river, visit friends everywhere, and enjoy some lighter months. I agreed to work three days a week and have three full days between the two jobs. I soon added days to the waitress job and agreed to pick up a third location of employment, pretty much giving me no full days off. 

As I got more settled into these jobs, I realized I struggle with working in customer service from 8am to 10pm. I HAVE to run in the mornings before I go in, just to keep a smile on my face. I also heard a fabulous Miranda Lambert song the other day called "Platinum" in which she claims that "what doesn't kill you, only makes you blonder" with which I cannot agree more. 

It wears on me to be this nice to people all day, to support their vacations and their incessant questions, but through all the pressure and the struggle of working seven days a week with people in my face almost every minute, I realized I am turning my blonde on. I'm playing stupid way more than I'd like to admit, dumbing down my $200,000+ education and being "nicer" all the time. 

So, as the summer turns to leaf peeper season and I call in sick more times in one week than I have in the last year anywhere else, you'll recognize me for the high level of blonde I'm sporting, whether I actually dye it or I just emanate the personality. And really, I'm not working THAT much, giving me juuuust enough free time to actually dye my hair. Just maybe... 

Travelers Meeting Travelers

The final weeks of the adventure brought me through Peru with my family, meaning mostly big beds, sharing a room with my sister, and showering every day just because the shower was nice. When my parents went home and left us to our own exploits for a few days in Cusco, we moved back into the hostel scene, taking advantage of the $8 12-bed dorm, hanging out in common rooms and hostel bars, and what really caught my attention: travelers meeting travelers. 

It's the beautiful thing about travel. You can be in any hostel common room, alone or with travel companions, and if you want to make some new friends or adventure companions, they're there! I found nine of the best wine-touring, airplane-jumping, meat-buffet-eating friends in Mendoza, people I hope I will always be in contact with. I met the craziest Aussie and spontaneously rented a car to trust my life to him that same night. I joined tour groups to sandboard the Peruvian dunes. 

Travelers are spontaneous, open, and beautiful. No one showers frequently, they wear the same clothes every day, and just about all agree that that is OK. 

At the end of the trip, though, I found myself ready to leave and quickly learned it was time. I listened in on a conversation on a train in which two new acquaintances discussed where they'd been and where they were going. I had no interest in the conversation. In the hostel young travelers met up and went off to dinners or bars or daily adventures and I preferred sister time with our Irish brother. I had moved on. I was no longer part of the beauty of travel but onto the next thoughts and endeavors. 

And being back to my "Real Life" (a joke when you realize I lead tourists on zipline tours or serve them BBQ food and beer and really am Living the Dream) I realize it was acceptable to finish up in that way. All good things come to an end and it's not a bad thing, it's just life. I'll be ready for another trip one day, but nine weeks was perfect. 

Now I'd better start replacing some funds and make some Real Life friends. 

Watching and Mooching My Way Through Soccerdom

Before the World Cup started I saw an article on Facebook claiming that while 90% of the world would be watching this global event, only 1/3 of my beloved countrymen would be joining. 

I thought of my friend group, realizing that while most people I'm close with fall into that 33%, the split in spectators and difference in sports fans often comes down to global awareness and education. I went to a small college where most people I know not only studied abroad, but studied abroad with required research projects on the Masai or signing language contracts while living with a host family in Europe. We love the world and we love the world's game. 

Traveling in a powerhouse continent for this beautiful sport, I was never at a shortage for places to watch a game. I unfortunately left Argentina just as the pursuit began, watching the first group games from Lima. Staying with my sister I didn't have cable or a TV "at home", pushing me to find a bar. After traveling for so long I never hesitated to just plop into a place, as many locals do. You don't have to buy a drink or a snack or have a single friend with you, unlike anywhere in the States. 

I found myself at a hostel I wasn't staying at for about half the games, picking new names of staff members there each time to claim "I was visiting". Julio, Mike, you name it, I was their guest at one point or another. I drank the free coffee and bought nothing from the bar. 

During another stretch I had a view of the Pacific Ocean to my left out the door as I sat in an outdoor courtyard with a bar and TV. In between games I plopped into the ocean with my surfboard, checking back in on scores when the waves were minimal. 

I watched in fancy hotel lobbies, airport bars, garden patios, and our own hotel rooms. I occasionally bought food, sometimes took a seat, often pretended I was from one country or another depending on who was playing, and nearly cried for many nationalities and disappointments (my teams are as follows and in this order: Spain, USA, England/Argentina). I painted my face with national colors, wore colored hats, and draped myself and my beverages in a few flags. 

South America was the perfect place to watch this World Cup. I met dozens of fans making their way east to Brasil through Argentina and followed their crazy journeys to soccer/fútbol paradise, living vicariously through them. 

My only regret? Being back in the US for the final three games. I found more disdain and hate for soccer and for the countries playing in these games here than I've ever found. I realized how closed-minded so many of my countrymen are, being labeled as the crazy liberal who thinks soccer a "real sport". 

For the record, old man and friends and acquaintances I had to hear it from: when you complain about how "boring" soccer is, how they're whiny and the game is slow and "why aren't there stoppages or commercial breaks?!" I want you to think on what I see. I see people who fear change, who perpetuate a closed-minded North American opinion of superiority and therefore inability to join this global society. I question your ability to appreciate competitive pursuits, thinking your fanaticism for American football has more to do with the Doritos commercial at the next down than the beauty of a game or the finesse of the athlete. Soccer is beautiful, in the same way that hockey has few goals or basketball has points at almost every change in possession. It's a dance, slow moving at times with incredible bursts of touch and strength. It's a game everyone can play, in all parts of the world, creating a true stage of nations. And I've said it before and I'll say it again... If you don't like soccer, you must not like music, dance, or foreplay. 

Wear Through ALL the Clothes

I've always had trouble with defining happiness or how to determine if I am happy, a common problem for one who grows up in the capital of over-analyzing the emotion and basing all life's success on whether or not we are happy. 

What I've found, in living in other countries or looking at family and friends who have obviously mastered the thing, is that definition has more to do with it than anything else and too often people in the US have created unrealistic expectations for themselves. 

As I've traveled I've recognized specifics that have made me incredibly happy, if only for the few days surrounding the experience. One is the people I meet, though I often become sad when we part ways after a few days of adventuring together. 

The one concrete happening that has never failed me yet, and been tested in "Real Life" back in the States, continues here on the road, too: wearing through my clothes. 

I love giving my underpants a full life and ditching them when the ventilation outweighs the practical purpose of covering my bum. 

I get my kicks from seeing the soles of my shoes bordering pure slippery sheets of rubber, allowing me first to slide down the well-worn stone streets of South America and then to leave them in a bin on some street corner. 

And more than anything, I love that a pair of pants I've worn teaching in Spain, traveling Europe, waitressing in Maine, and on at least 50 of the last 60 days backpacking Argentina, Chile, and Peru finds their final resting place in Lima. 

If that doesn't make someone happy, I'm not sure what will. 

Before I come home I have at least two other articles of clothing I expect won't leave the country, and when it happens, I hope you'll all be able to picture how big my smile is. 

Worshipping the Sun at Disneyland Peru

We are fresh from the most expensive, most touristy, and most impressive site I'll be visiting in my travels this trip and I can't say enough how important it is that everyone visit Machu Picchu at some point soon. 

I'm aware that I sound like a broken record, the same album played by the Peruvian-born, San Francisco-raised woman bringing her son along on her sixth trip there, but Machu Picchu is becoming more official, more expensive, more built up every year and while it will only help the preservation of the town, it continues to lose the magic. I loved it, but I am very much in-tune with the fact that I took a train for over $100, a bus up a hill with 50 other foreigners, and followed arrows around a rocky hillside for 10 hours in order to feel that my $50 entry was well-spent. 

What I mean to say by all this realism is this: amazing sites are expensive, can be busy, and likely will continue to be limiting in the freedom they allow travelers, but they are popular for a reason. Machu Picchu is an incredible demonstration of the history of this amazing region, of the agricultural research and feats of engineering of the Inka times. It's a must-see for anyone interested in history, nature, rocks, or the most amazing places in the world. 

There are so many llamas to feed bananas to and adorable chinchillas pooping on the rocks. And despite the lack of bathrooms inside the site, it also has some really great nooks that I would have loved to use as a bathroom, so I recommend not doing the visit with my mum. 

Toss Me That Smallpox Blanket Over There

Before coming on this adventure I was forced by my lovely and loving mother to go to the travel doctor for a chat and some needle time. I humor her because to her the thought of me lying on a Brasilian beach sipping caipirinhas or roughing my way through Bolivia is an instant invitation for yellow fever, typhoid, and any other collection of diseases that her nursing background forgets aren't actually contracted just by looking at someone. 

At that appointment my doctor, also a very worried older individual, warned me again and again of the rampant bug varieties itching to make their way into a poor blonde girl from Maine. I again humored the poor old guy and heard off-hand his suggestion to get a tuberculosis test when I got back, wondering why I would need that if I'm not traveling to Russia or Middle Ages Europe.

I have to say, I've woken up on more buses than I'd like to admit to the old man behind me hacking up a likely-bloody lung or finding my lunch table snuggled rather close to the table of a thickly-coughing individual. 

I'm no doctor, but while there are many diseases I know I haven't contracted, I wouldn't be surprised to find bloody lungs upon my return to the USA or that those bus blankets I grab frantically in the middle of the night have way more in common with the biological warfare strategy the British so kindly introduced to the Native Americans than my own fuzzy blankies back home do. 

At least I'm not suffering from the combination of altitude problems and stomach bugs plaguing my parents and sister. I'd rather grab some TB to share on my flight home with whatever cute undergrad I'm seated with, he likely making his return from a one-month backpacking tour of South America, thinking his pre-college meningitis vaccine must cover all manner of possibilities. TB! Everyone's doing it!

Between a Rock and a Riverbed

Of all the wonderful people I've met on my travels anywhere in the world, the ones I find myself reminiscing on and wishing I had nearby later on tend to have a few characteristics: resilient, hilarious, flexible, and willing to do anything. My recent exploits with a Tasmanian reminded me how lovely disasters can be. 

On a Saturday night, the night I arrived in Salta in the north of Argentina, the Brits I'd spent the day eating meat with suggested the best way to see the area was to rent a car and get to the small towns south and west of Salta. I started jumping into conversations around the hostel, trying to find anyone that wasn't leaving the next day. A bright-eyed, eager-looking Aussie chirped up, saying he'd be interested, but that he had already booked a tour with the hostel to the same area. We tried to cancel his reservation or get his money back, with no luck, causing me to think he'd rescind his offer, but he said "that's OK! Renting a car will be way cooler anyway!" We found two Israeli girls who expressed general smiles and enthusiasm for the idea and said we would figure out the details when they returned from the grocery. Tasmanian and I realized it was 8:00 on a Saturday evening and if we were going to get a car at all we'd need to do it before 9:00 and especially before Sunday when most things are closed in any country sharing a history with Spain. 

Tas and I RAN into the center, hitting every rental place we could find in the 15 minutes before most closed. As we arrived on car rental street we realized we didn't know each other's name or where we hailed from, a common occurrence among travelers. The first was out of cars, the second wouldn't rent for fewer than three days, numbers three through six weren't open Saturday evenings, and the seventh was open and had several lovely Chevrolet Classic's available for our pleasure. 

We rented, handing over all his personal information and hopping into the ride, at which point my companion mentions "Wow! This will be fun on the wrong side!" A minor oversight on my part before trusting my life to this guy, but he seemed like fun, so why not!

Back at the hostel we couldn't find our Israeli compatriots, but we told the front desk to let them know we would leave at 8am (so it would be more like 9) and went out for dinner. In the morning Tas informed me that the Israelis had bailed. Before taking that for what it was and just eating twice as much money as we had planned, I decided to fight a former Israeli soldier (verbally) and then hit the road. I lived, at least!

Only once in the two days did I realize we were driving on the left side, and not as a joke, as we pulled out of a turnoff back onto the road. I kindly pointed out that while this place may be dreadfully dusty and look an awful lot like parts of Australia, we were not in fact in his country, to which he responded "Oh of course not! If we were there would be a lot more damn 'Roos around!"

It was a beautiful first day, we spent a solid part of the afternoon eating goat barbecue, enjoying the regional "viagra"-flavor of ice cream (comes from a plant, we're really not sure and it didn't seem to have the expected effects), and pretending we cared about the 2000 year old Incan ruins when really we just wanted to look at the incredible succulents selection - Cacti are really neat. I even cut into one just to see how succulent they are. Things were beautiful. So beautiful that I got a standard-driving lesson, which I passed with flying colors, and we coasted right into a nice family-run hostel where we had our own kitchen. Imagine what happens when two people this silly end up together on the road before they actually know each other...

Day two started out beautifully: we were on the road early, into the beautiful Argentine desert sun, weaving between rock formations I've only dreamed of on long, winding dirt roads where I got to drive again so the GoPro could be held out the window. I pretty much nailed it again, other than trying to go from stopped to third... Sleep apparently took my edge off. What should have been a 4 hour trip took us 2.5 and we were ecstatic with the good time we were making. We took a turn off towards a remote lake on a dead-end road, driving along a beautiful river...

...until it dawned upon my driver that we might have a little bit of a problem...

So things could have been better, but we laughed about it and his mechanic/oil-drilling background made it smooth and easy to fix. We decided to head back towards town now that we had no spare for another incident. Coming out of town we failed to notice the following hidden trick of the road

and found ourselves going up, up, UP what ultimately was nothing more than the riverbed it appeared to be. The man of our duo explored up the river to find that it only got worse until it finally linked up with a bigger road, one that would undoubtedly give us another flat, so we started to turn the car around in the riverbed. What seemed like a great idea and an easy fix put us quite literally with a large rock under the back left (just-replaced) tire and the low front bumper wedged into the rocky riverbed. I couldn't tell you how we got out of it, but I think I'll always believe in the intelligence and ability of the Australian people.

It was an incredible adventure, with all the beauty of cactus country and new friendship. I hope all my adventures continue to find someone so carefree, humorous, and light-hearted and I hope that in the face of companions that lack that fun I might be able to whip my Ginger Charms into being more of a Fun-Creator. Something to strive for, at least.

Four Blocks Down, Take a Left, It's 113 Meters Down on Your Right, Just Past the Tiny, Artesanal Bakery

If we are to generalize, which is more fun and effective than most other bigoted pursuits I've tried, there are peoples in the world that just are better at certain things. 

We all know Vikings were exceptional at raping and pillaging and spreading their seed. How else would my family have received the gift of red hair in the British Isles? 

Italians just make better coffee, it's a fact based not only on flavor, but also on price and the joy of watching Italians march up to a bar, order a coffee, shoot it back, throw down 80 cents, and leave all in the matter of two minutes.

United States-ers have a perfected sense of entitlement and empowered idealism paired with general cynicism and self-centeredness that isn't rivaled anywhere in the world.

Argentines I've met, though, have their own very unique quality that I haven't found to have exceptions. All Argentines I've met are first and foremost very proud to be Argentine, whether they agree with the current or recent politics or think the country is headed in the right direction. Politics in Argentina polarize, whether in agreement with current leadership or not, or if the economy right now with the state of inflation is a problem or not. 

And what's not to be proud of? Their national food is based on at least four cuts/forms of meat being consumed with a nice hunk of bread at any given meal. When snack time rolls around they not only do Italian-style coffee, but slather baked goods up with dulce de leche and/or chocolate. It's a beautiful, patriotic country, but the best side of Argentina doesn't become clear until an Argentine is asked for directions.

"Where is the bus terminal?" we asked a hunched-over, elderly woman taking her dog out to the bathroom in a no-name town outside Córdoba. 

"It's behind you, you'll take a right at this intersection, go one street over to the one-way street, go down that in the opposite direction you're facing three blocks until you come to a roundabout with a big cross in the middle. It's just past the cross in the next block, you'll see the buses."

Wow. Not bad for the senility that inevitably comes with that ripe old age. 

"Do you know where I can get a nice parrilla barbecue meal?"

"Sure, the best place I know is back on ___ Street. Go down this street 9 blocks until you get to ___ Street. Take a left. Keep going until you go past the police station on the corner of ___ and ___. Turn right and go down about 100 meters, it's called ___."

And my personal favorite! When an Argentine for some unforeseen and terrible life circumstance can't tell you how to get somewhere:

"How do I get to the post office?"

"[looking deep into my eyes, showing the cloudy, pre-tear eyes of utter panic and disappointment] I... I don't know. I'm incredibly sorry. I do not know where that is. I'm sorry, very sorry. Good luck."

I love you, Argentina, I just love you to pieces. My arteries are happy to be away from all that red meat and sugar, but I don't know what I'll do without your people.

If It's Not Adam Sandler, It's Vin Diesel

Consistency is something I've always enjoyed. It goes hand-in-hand with efficiency and I enjoy knowing what to expect. When I travel, I tend to find that expectations either make the reality disappointing or are just so irrelevant that expecting anything is a waste of energy. I let most things happen to me, meaning I eat strange plates of meat parts, including feet, or stay in shared houses with a whole bunch of working expats, surprising them when I leave after two days. Going with the flow is the motto, and if you aren't, I like to believe you aren't traveling right. 

South America is a continent where it is especially impractical to have expectations. Buses will not arrive on time, though in countries like Argentina they do at least leave on time. I meet people and change travel plans on an hourly basis, and at any moment the street food I love to enjoy might just come back to haunt me. 

There are exceptions. There are set meal times and set types of food you eat for certain meals. Do not expect to find ice cream that comes close to the caliber of ice cream in the USA. In Peru, you will likely enjoy another of the best sauces of your life with whatever the meal may be. And more than anything, when you board a bus, of any price range or any company (as you get up into less-southern regions; Argentina had some great surprise blockbusters on board), you WILL be watching Adam Sandler or Vin Diesel in all their glory. Don't worry about which film, just know all Adam's humor will be lost by the double whammy of dubbing AND subtitles in Spanish and Vin will kill a lot of people or drive really fast. 

And that's just the kind of consistency one sometimes needs after six weeks on the road. 

Ice cream that almost cut it, "queso helado". 

Purgatory

Have you ever had that feeling that you just kind of don´t exist? That you´re lost in the mix, a place no one knows where to find you? When you´re in your in-between, do you also find that you´re freezing your buns off and might be dying of carbon monoxide poisoning while also wondering what will happen if the unsanitary food stands happen to run out of sausage or steak? No? Well I guess all hells look different, so purgatories must as well.

I had a lovely time in Chile, especially when the rains stopped and I could see the mountains around Santiago, a rare sight due to constant smog. I heard the border had been closed due to snow, but by Friday when I was ready to head back to Argentina I was told that it was "now open", so I grabbed a small, normal-size-seat bus and headed East. 

I met a very nice, but not Spanish-speaking whatsoever Brit on the bus who I promised to help get through the border crossing with all the stamps he´d need, joking that he shouldn´t mention he´s British when crossing into Argentina (Falkland Islands/Islas Maldivas - you can research that on your own). Little did I know that this meant I would also be helping him order steak sandwiches, talking to the bus driver about how we might be dying/sleeping on this bus tonight, and getting his bags searched over the course of the next 12.5 hours.

We arrived at the border with hundreds of cars and dozens of buses. At first we were only told that we would need to be back on the bus when we saw the bus pull up to the building, at which point I went and froze in a line for the dirtiest governmental ladies room I´ve ever experienced. Poor Brit waited for me through all this, and when I got to the toilet I had stage fright anyway, but I did manage to kill a half hour in the wait.

Next we got food, which took a bit of time for his lomito, but since I´d already eaten half a package of crackers and two yogurts on the bus to quench my writhing bus-sick stomach, I wanted something "lighter" and opted for the neighboring restaurant instead to have the classic choripan. The woman was decidedly gruff with me, but sold me my choripan and gave me a slip with "chori" on it to take to the window and wait. I waited a good half hour until finally she came over to organize the process and help her husband who was cooking the orders. This meant asking "how many people have milanesas?!" and then making all nine, including the woman who had just paid. Then for all the "lomitos" then the hot dogs and then the ham and cheese sandwiches. I was the only one with a choripan, so I waited another fifteen minutes until a man came up with his small children behind me and added two more to the choripan order. I´ve never thanked anyone so profusely or from the bottom of my heart. He brought the glory of the chori to me!

Luckily that process had taken up over an hour and I´d thoroughly frozen my new British friend through to the bone. He is straight from six months in Australia where apparently it´s actually never cold... Remind me why I am in South America in their autumn??

Back on the bus we warmed up and eventually went to the windows to have our passports stamped out of Chile and into Argentina. Then came the waiting game for the bag searches and the full entrance into Argentina. Our bus moved into the building, joining the dozens of cars and a few buses ahead of us, all with motors running off and on and therefore emitting their beauty and refuse into the air. I started to get sleepy and my good Brit said, "Yep, you´re definitely dying of carbon monoxide poisoning" while I watched him freeze in his light "jumper" (sweater in those parts of the world).

We waited at that border for 6.5 hours, arriving to Mendoza at 11:30 at night, me wondering if I was actually still alive or if my shivering and breathing of fumes might have actually killed me.

In short, the border closes to all nightly crossings on May 31, but May seems to be an off-and-on month for the beautiful mountain pass. It´s worth the crossing, any time you can do it, but this was a week ago and a friend tried to cross this morning with his father and returned home when they found it closed. Always an adventure around here!

I Know You Wouldn´t Guess It

But this guy does speak Spanish. Fluently. I´ve called myself a blonde, a ginger, a "blinger" and it´s true, I don´t look South American or Spanish. Please, though, think about how stupid you look when you´re speaking to me in one word, forceful tones when I respond to you with a fluid sentence and explanation of what it is I need. Here´s the case:

Valparaíso, Chile, hole-in-the-wall restaurant with an English girl I´ve run into in a couple cities. We´re looking to try the chorrillana, this beauty I showed you earlier.

Here goes the conversation, as translated by moi:

Me: We´d like the chorrillana for two. I´d like a beer and she´d like a wine and a water.
Angry Lady: Wine isn´t part of the deal.
Me: Right, I know, but she´ll pay additionally for the wine and have a bottle of water as part of the deal.
AL: We have Coca Cola, Canada Dry, Fanta, and a lemon soda.
Me: OK, but can she have a bottle of water and the wine?
AL storms off and returns about 15 minutes later with my beer, a little bottle of wine, and a glass of water. 
AL: Here´s water. Is this OK? 
Me: Ok, I thought maybe she could have a bottle of water and it would count as the drink that comes with the meal?
AL: BE-BI-DA (demonstrating the universal sign of drinking with her hand). Not water. BE-BI-DA (once again with the hand sign). 
Me: I understand what a drink is, I just thought maybe a water that comes in a bottle could be that drink you speak of...
AL: BE-BI-DA (hand sign). Not water. Water costs more in a bottle. 
Me: OK, no problem, but I do speak Spanish.
AL: HARRUUMPH.

A bit later, once we´re almost done with the meal and have tried for 20 minutes to hail the Angry Lady who seems to be ignoring us...
Me: If another drink comes with the meal, can we have another beer? I´ll have the beer and she´ll have another glass of wine. 
AL: Wine doesn´t come with the meal.
Me: I know, so I am going to have the beer that comes with her part of the meal.
AL: OK, beer, yes, I´ll bring it.
Me: Wait! And a wine! If I´m having a beer she´ll have another glass of wine!
AL: ANOTHER!? (Looking at poor Ishbel with the judgiest of judgy eyes)
Me and Ishbel: Yes, another (GLARING BACK).

Not sure what I did to deserve such treatment, but the poor lady... Maybe SHE doesn´t speak Spanish? Must be hard living in Chile, I´d imagine.