Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I'm not sure whether it's because I'm the lone blonde with a strange name in the neighborhood, or if it's because I tend to frequent the same establishments on a pretty regular basis, but people around here are starting to recognize me. The woman at the laundry place where I take my clothing greets me each time with, "¿Hola amiga, cómo estás?" and doesn't need to ask my name anymore when she writes out the receipt. At the panadería across the street, they know exactly what I'm going to order when I walk in - 4 little loaves of bread and 2 empanadas (my treat on bread-buying day). The people at my favorite internet cafe set me up on the same computer each time, know that I need "tiempo libre" due to all the correspondence I've been keeping up, and of course all remember my name too.

I've never really lived in an environment like this before. I'm used to being an anonymous number in a university's database, a nameless customer in an oversized supermarket, an indistinguishable cog in a giant mechanism. All of a sudden, I've found my own city-wide version of Cheers. People remember where I work and ask how the music lessons are going. They're interested in my life back home, and ask about how I like Cusco, and offer ideas and suggestions for thing to do and see. This is the kind of environment people look for when they move to small-town Middle America, and I managed to wind up with it in the middle of a South American city.

And then, of course, there's El Viejo. El Viejo is this little hole-in-the-wall bar just off the Plaza de Armas that we've basically adopted as our official hangout. It's dim, smoky, small - and friendly as all hell. The bouncer knows us all, waves when we walk in, and sometimes takes a break to dance with us when a particularly good song comes on. The bartenders know which drinks we like, who's a beer drinker and who sticks with cocktails. They even makes sure to save us our usual table.

All this, of course, is just an attempt at creating some sort of home in a strange land thousands of miles from our families and friends, where the language and the customs are hardly familiar, and where the scary expanse of cityscape can only be narrowed by finding something good and sticking to it. Still, why mess with a good thing? We've got our little system that offers some homey comfort, and that goes a long way toward giving us a sense of security. Little kids have blankies. Big kids have their favorite bar.

I'd like another amaretto sour, please.

Do, a deer, a female deer, Re, a drop of golden sun...

I've finished my first week of work at the juvenile detention center, and I decided to postpone writing this entry until now because I have a terrible habit of viewing everything through rose-colored lenses and wanted to make sure I had a somewhat accurate impression of this place before writing about it. It's still only been a week, and my impression is still open to change, but so far I feel very blessed to have been placed here.

This center is miles away, both literally and figuratively, from juvenile detention centers in the U.S. Security consists of one guard at the main gate and some barbed wire on top of the walls. There are no cells here. The boys have high school classes in the mornings, and in the afternoons, they take elective courses or work in workshops where they learn skills like carpentry, pottery, shoemaking, and cooking (and they work they turn out is incredible). There is a big soccer field in the middle of the center, and the boys compete in local city leagues with churches and schools. We're even allowed to hug them in greeting and farewell, or when they do especially well in class. Sometimes, it's hard to remember that these boys are here because they did, in fact, commit crimes.

I work in the afternoons as a teacher of music (piano mostly, though we'll probably include some vocal work too) and poetry. The boys call me "Profesora Lorena" because they like the Spanish version of my name better. I have four in my class, and they're all very sweet and eager to learn. Because we only have one keyboard, we made to-scale diagrams that they can all follow along on when somebody else is playing, and they crack me up the way they all try to offer each other advice while practicing. Occasionally there's a bit of boasting and one-up-manship, but I've made it very clear that this is one thing I will not tolerate in my classroom, and generally they're very good about helping each other instead of competing.

After our class, my friend Ali and I combine our two classes to work on "periodismo," or journalism. The boys in each of our classes who are the best writers are working on putting out a newsletter about life at the center, and they're in the middle of working on stories about everything from the soccer championship league at the center to who received the holy sacraments on Christmas Eve. So far, they haven't done much, but it's only been a few days and we had a lot of logistical things to work out first. I'm excited to see what they turn out.

So in other words, this may just be the best job they could have found for me here. I get to combine my love of music and words with my raging idealism and my teaching skills, and I get to have fun in the process. Not half bad.

Adventures in Domesticity

I just want to make something clear right now - when it comes to cooking rice, I am utterly incompetent. Sometimes I even screw it up even when I'm using a rice cooker. Don't ask me how, because I haven't a clue, but it must be sort of like those kids who manage to make an ugly fingerpainting. It takes a special brand of incompetence to accomplish that.

I moved into my own apartment on Saturday and, as such, no longer have the fabulous Leo and her cooking to provide for me. Thus thrown to the wolves and my own devices, I decided to take the advice of my traveler information packet and try to "discover the Latin American version of [my]self." This meant dragging my poor friend Ali with me to the Mercado de San Pedro, which is basically the big central market here in Cusco where you can buy everything from wheels of cheese to baby toys to dried llama fetuses. I bought a little green grocery-shopping bag to carry all my goodies with me, and then lugged them home to try and feed myself.

Okay, so I was pretty chicken the first night. I just made some soup and some coffee and figured I'd leave it at that. Hey, at least I figured out how to turn on my itty bitty stove. That counts for something, right? And this morning wasn't much better - just hot tea and some bread with jam. Still, dinner and breakfast are pretty paltry meals here. I skirted the issue of lunch for two days, eating out with friends rather than try and do the impossible.

But today, I got brave. I decided it was time to try and cook some rice. Since I don't have a rice cooker in my apartment, this meant doing it the old-fashioned way, in a pot. The last time I tried this, I ruined the pot I was using so, needless to say, I was a bit daunted. 45 minutes later, my friends, I had amazing pot of rice with onions and, although it was just the slightest bit soggy, it was ever-so-delicious and I was very proud of myself.

To celebrate, I bought empanadas for dinner.

Oh Sing, Sweet Nightingale

When I was about 4 years old, I went through a phase where all I wanted was to be Cinderella. I'd wear my hair pulled back with a blue ribbon and try to mop the floor and refer to my bedroom as "my attic," and although my mother was patient with me, I'm sure it wasn't the easiest of my phases she had to deal with. I outgrew it, sort of, and moved on to pretending I was other people, but Cinderella always had a special place in my heart.

Yesterday, I was taking a nap when all of a sudden I was woken by a huge thunderclap and something that sounded like grains of rice being thrown against my window. Turns out Cusco was jealous of Los Angeles' little hailstorm, so we had one of our own. Only problem? My host family's living room is sunken down a little below ground level, so when the rain kept coming and coming in torrents, our living room started to flood. Eventually, it looked like a little swimming pool in there, with the rug beginning to float and the hardwood floor looking decidedly soggy.

Leo and I panicked a little bit. There were plugged-in electronics everywhere, 3 inches of water on the floor, and more water coming in through the patio door. Eventually, she got a good idea, went outside with a shovel, swept away all the ice blocking the door, opened it, and started sweeping the water from the living room out onto the patio. My job? Mopping up the little puddles with a rag and bucket. Without realizing it, I started humming the song Cinderella sings while she's wiping the floor. I caught myself in mid rag-wring thinking, "I'm glad this family doesn't have a cat."

And that's when I realized that I can move to the other side of the world and pretend I'm a grown-up all I want, but I'll still always be a 4-year-old at heart.

But I'm a Big Girl!

Ever since I can remember, I've been somewhat obsessed with doing things on my own - picking out my own clothes, making my own PB&J sandwiches, tying my own shoes, that sort of deal. Once I went away to college, the whole independence thing really took off. I enjoyed being able to buy my own groceries and come home whenever I wanted, and although I was still receiving quite a bit of support from my parents, I still felt like a pretty self-sufficient person.

For the last two weeks, however, I have had somebody cook each meal for me, do my laundry, sweep my bedroom floor, clean my bathroom, and remake my bed after I make it each morning. I haven't been this coddled since I was a little tyke and, to be honest, I'm not quite sure what to make of it. On the one hand, it's pretty standard for middle-class families here to have a maid/cook, and I guess it's just part of the cultural transition. On the other hand, only obscenely wealthy people in the US have live-in household help, so obviously I've never encountered anything like this before.

At first, I didn't quite know what to do. Should I offer to help? Should I just stay out of her way and let her do her job? The awkwardness was nearly palpable. I dreaded lunch time, when I not only had my meal prepared for me but served to me one course at a time. Middle class girls from the United States are only accustomed to such service in restaurants, not in their own homes.

Eventually, I struck a balance. I let Leo bring my food to the table, but I take my empty dishes to the kitchen. I wash my own dishes after breakfast and dinner, even though sometimes she protests. I let her do my laundry, but I've given up on the multiple outfits each day that I normally wear so that she doesn't have as much clothing to wash. I try to keep my room tidy so she can sweep more easily, and I make sure not to spit toothpaste everywhere when I brush my teeth. It's a delicate equilibrium, but for somebody who's so used to doing everything on her own and who is so unaccustomed to having somebody else take care of her, it will just have to do.

Sexy Woman

Today, we ventured up the mountain to Sacsayhuaman. Now, of course I've read a poem about this one too but, to be honest, I wasn't quite as excited about it as I was about Ollantaytambo. Maybe it's because the mountain is bigger, and at a higher elevation, and I've been sick the last two days. Basically, about halfway up, I wanted to cry.

Sacsayhuaman is an old Inca city at the top of a mountain near the north end of Cusco. After years of destruction, all that remains now is the humongous temple (see photo), a water storage bin, a mini stadium, and a few other scattered ruins. These stones were brought from a quarry 30 km away, and as our beloved guide Edward likes to tell us, "The very small Cusqueñans were good at carrying very big rocks." Mostly, the rest of us think it's a bit of insanity.

Still and all, we made it to the top, and the view was incredible - as expected. We decided it would be wise to take a group photo, simply to prove that we'd actually made it. Cross one more hill off my list of hills to climb, I suppose. What's next? Kilimanjaro? Mount Hood? Everest? Oooooooo.

Some friends and I are going out for Chinese food tonight because we miss it. I'll update on whether it's any good here or not. Maybe.

The Drums of Ollantaytambo

In one of my Spanish literature classes last year, we read a poem about Ollantaytambo. I don't remember much of it, because it was a huge survey course and we read a whole bunch of literature in those ten weeks, but what struck me was the poem's percussive rhythm. As I later learned, that drumbeat cadence was intentional, because Ollantaytambo eventually served as a stronghold for the resisting Incas when the Spanish invaded. We all know what happened with that.

It didn't start out with such a sad history, though. According to legend, a general once fell in love with the king's daughter. Naturally, the king didn't take too kindly to his soldier wooing his little baby girl, so, being the headstrong lovers that they were, the general and the princess ran away together. They settled at Ollantaytambo, exactly halfway between Cusco and the jungle in the Urubamba valley, where the winds blow with ferocity and the river twists along the valley floor. There, they built a fortress on the mountainside, and the general and his men managed to hold out for ten years. Eventually, though, they lost, and the king's men took the general back to Cusco as a prisoner to be executed. Before they could execute him, though, the old king died, so the general and the princess were allowed to live together from then onward. The general's name was Ollantay, and "tambo" means "place of rest" or "refuge" - hence the name.

I visited Ollantaytambo with some people from my school yesterday, spurred in part by my insatiable love of history but, even more, by the memory of that drumbeat poem. I wanted to see the stones that had been a stronghold of love and a bastion of last resort. Blame it on my raging romanticism. Still, I trekked all the way up that mountain for the sake of poetry and was well rewarded. You can't exactly see how high it is because that first photo was taken from halfway up, but at this altitude it was definitely a task not lightly undertaken. The stairs going up the mountain were old and crumbling and uneven, and we had to wind around the temples and the palaces and the food storage bins, but once we got to the top, the view alone was worth it.

This photo of me was taken from the soldier's lookout and, although it's hard to tell, there is a steep drop of several hundred feet no more than 6 inches behind me. Apparently it was designed this way so that, should a soldier slack off and fall asleep, he would fall to his death. If he got smart and sat down to sleep, it was his buddy's responsibility to nudge him over the edge. Those who know me and my fear of heights will notice that I am hanging on to the walls very, very tightly, in part because the wind was blowing pretty hard by that point and in part because hell, who wouldn't hold onto a wall for safety if they could?

Afterward, I wanted to try some cuy for lunch (dude, if I'm going Inca for the day, I'm going all in), but the restaurant where we ate didn't have it on the menu. Oh well. Another day, another guinea pig.

Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family:
Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.

My Peruvian family has been one of the best parts of this trip so far. They're warm, loving, welcoming, and loads of fun. I figured some character sketches would probably make it easier to explain my life here a bit better.

The father, Gilbert, is 40 and a civil engineer who works for the city. He has a bristly goatee and gives everybody a big kiss when he comes home. He seems to be the more lenient parent, so the kids usually go to him when they want something. I like that he puts others before himself, serving himself last at the table and taking the smallest chair. He thinks that watching too much television is selling your imagination to advertisers.

The mother, Cecilia, is 38 and works a few different jobs. She has a degree in molecular biology from the university here, but, as she put it, job openings are sorely lacking in the biology field in Cusco. She's the disciplinarian parent, but she never seems to be in a bad mood. She has the shiniest, most beautiful hair I've ever seen. We sit in the kitchen and drink tea together while watching novelas.

Mariana is 10 years old and my little shadow in some ways. This is good, because she helps me out whenever my Spanish vocabulary is lacking. She's my best conversation partner because she speaks very clearly but also still somewhat slowly, and whenever I make mistakes, she corrects me but always does it gently. She likes to dance and sing, but is otherwise a pretty mellow person. Her entire bedroom is pink.

Marcelo is 8 years old, and he's a total handful. His parents enrolled him in karate during this summer vacation, hoping to get some of the energy out of him, but now he just likes to practice his karate in the living room. He's a sweet little boy though, fond of telling stories and giving big hugs. He has a mild speech impediment where he subsitutes "l" for "r," so I have to listen very carefully when he's talking or I get confused.

Leao is also 8, and although he's not one of their biological children, he's very much a part of the family. He and Marcelo were pen pals in school a couple years ago, and Marcelo's class went to visit Leao's class for a little while last July. The two hit it off so well that Leao came to visit and stay with the family for the duration of the summer vacation this year. He sleeps in the other guest bedroom downstairs. Leao doesn't talk much, but he has the cutest little crooked-toothed grin ever.

Leo is the cook/maid/everything. She keeps everything running on time, and I've never had such amazingly good food as hers. She's nearly as shy as Leao, but occasionally I can get her to say a few words.

And me? I'm the one who comes and goes at odd hours of the day, who insists on helping with the dishes, who consistently but happily butchers the Spanish language, and who is having an absolute blast.

And The Rain Rain Rain Came Down Down Down

There's a saying here in Cusco, as there is in many parts of the world, that if you don't like the weather, all you have to do is wait ten minutes. Over the course of one day, I have seen sunshine, pouring rain, lightning, a stiff breeze, back to sunshine, and then some drizzle. Some of the other students at the language school have mentioned that they have trouble figuring out what to wear in the mornings, especially since it gets awfully cold inside our classrooms. My solution? Well, carrying a kitty around would be my first choice because they're always warm and cuddly, but failing that, layers seem to do the trick.

Another great option is blankets. I have four of them on my bed. Inside our classrooms, there are fleece blankets enough for each student and the teacher, so when we get too cold, we grab warm blankies and wrap ourselves up in coccoons. There's also a little cafe right in the middle of the school, so I like to grab a nice cafe con leche during our break (2 soles buys a drink in an actual tea cup with saucer, and sitting out in the courtyard with all the flowers makes me feel very civilized).

The native cusqueños have come up with a solution of their own - kissing. Seems like, everywhere I look, there is at least one couple locked in a tight embrace, lips locked together like in a 1940s movie. Niels thinks it's endearing and sighs wistfully when he talks about his girlfriend. I'm unsure about it, to be honest, but I guess if that's what it takes to stay warm...

Nah.

The Wheels On The Bus Go Round And Round

Transportation here in Cusco is, to put it gently, a bit of a beast. If you're not a resident Cusqueño with your own car, you basically have three options to get from point A to point B: walk, take a taxi, or brave the bus (called a combi here). Each comes with its very own special set of risks.

Walking has been, for the most part, my transportation method of choice. After all, I'm on a limited budget here, and Lord only knows when those 2 soles it takes to ride in a taxi (the equivalent of, oh, $.60) might come in handy. Actually, I just like it because it's good exercise and a chance to take in a bit of the city. Thing is, walking in Cusco is a mildly hazardous activity. For one, the amount of air pollution is pretty terrifying (think billowing clouds of black smoke pouring out of delivery trucks) and makes my eyes water in the morning. For another, crossing the street is a bit like running a gauntlet, mostly because traffic rules here, as in Rome, are "more like a suggestion" than actual laws that anybody need follow. In other words, those nice little lights with three colors? Yeah, completely useless. The dogs, as mentioned previously, are a constant presence, and I'm just waiting for one of them to go berserk and bite me in the leg. Then of course, we have to take into account that it's the rainy season and thus, the potholed streets are full of muddy water that the millions of taxis can splash onto the sidewalk without any warning whatsoever.

Speaking of the taxis, though, those things are quite the adventure. I've only ridden in them twice - once on my way from the airport to my house, and once with some friends on our way from the market down at the bottom of town to the Plaza de Armas up at the top (hills at this altitude toward the end of the day are quite daunting). These taxis are basically just old Corolla station wagons, and when the gears shift, the cars jolt like they're about to roll over and croak. The seats in front have seatbelts, but if you're riding in the back seat, best hold on for dear life because you're liable to be bounced out the window by an exceptionally large pothole. Did I mention the doors sometimes fly open if you forget to lock them? Not that it's happened to me, mind, but my host mom gave me fair warning.

And then there are the combis. I've yet to try them, mostly because they scare the hell out of me. Cusqueños appear to like Toyotas, because the combis are those old Toyota vans that kind of look like kitchen appliances on wheels. As far as I can tell, the main goal of the combis is to fit as many people inside as possible, sort of like a rolling game of sardines. They pull up to the curb with a little boy hanging out the slider door on the side, yelling something in Spanish so rapid that I still can't decipher it, and then, before I have time to register the fact that a new combi has arrived, it's left again. I think I might get hurt if I tried it. I need a little longer to "find my Latin American self," as my program so kindly advised me.

In the meantime, I have an umbrella, a pair of Ugg boots, and a waterproof Patagonia jacket that, lo and behold, actually IS waterproof. Walking will do just fine.

The Dogs. Oh Man, the Dogs. Also, The Food.

So here in Cusco, there is a small problem, and that problem is affectionately referred to as "los perros." That's all anybody need say. The dogs. See, these dogs don't like to stay inside their little yards. In fact, most of them don't have little yards - because they don't have owners. There are oodles of cute little puppies roaming the streets all by their lonesomes and lemme tell you, it takes a lot of effort for me to keep from scooping them all up and bringing them home. Only the potential wrath of my host mother prevents my "ooooo, puppies!" side from taking over.

Still, each morning as I leave my house and stroll down the street to my school, I always have one or two canine companions for at least part of the trip. I've heard rumors about these dogs being a bit loco but, if personal experience is any indication, most of them are pretty harmless, even sweet.

On the food front, this is country after my own heart - dark coffee, dark beer, and potatoes with nearly every meal. The cup of coffee I had on my morning flight from Lima to Cusco was easily better than any cup of American coffee I've had up until now (we'll ignore the Italian coffee that I drank by the gallon, because that's in a category of its own). I had asparagus soup with french fries in it for lunch yesterday. Sound gross? You should have seen it. A bowl full of weird green stuff, with yellow strips floating in it, but oh man was it good. In fact, I've yet to eat anything here that I don't like, knock on wood.

And hey Mom, I ate lentils with my lunch today - and I LIKED them!

Survival of the Fittest, or, Adventures in International Travel

Picture this: a lone American girl, with a very large backpack, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, sitting at a table in a cafe in the airport in Lima, working on Sudoku puzzles. Not too out of the ordinary, no? But wait, kids, it gets better. As that lone American girl sits there working on her puzzles, all of a sudden a voice comes over the loudspeaker, asking (in Spanish, of course) for a "Señor Clark Laurent" to please report to the customs officers. Imagine, furthermore, that said American girl is fully cognizant of the fact that her luggage tags say "Clark, Lauren T." Picture the look of panic that spreads across her face as she realizes they are, indeed, paging her and not some strange Frenchman whose name is oddly familiar. Now watch her gather everything in one big swoop and go racing back through the airport, pausing to ask permission of at least 10 security guards to pass back through every single checkpoint she had cleared just an hour before. Imagine that.

Now imagine the look of relief on her face when she finds out that nobody had stowed illegal substances in her luggage and that, instead, the airline simply wanted to make sure her luggage was going to be put onto the proper connecting fligh. Ah, my friends, imagine that sweet relief. Just imagine.

So I managed to arrive safely here in Cusco and basically, it has met and surpassed all expectations so far. My host family is warm and welcoming. The children are loads of fun to play with (little Mariana is watching me type this at the moment, but I swear I would have said that anyway!) and my Spanish appears to be better than I give myself credit for. I even got over my personal space paranoia and kiss people on the cheek in greeting now, which I know would make Mary's mommy very proud of me. Also, I just now figured out how to make an apostrophe on this keyboard. Go me!

Expect massive blog fodder in the weeks to come. Cusco is full of things to write about.

Countdown!

I figure it's appropriate to start a travelogue with the fact that I can't sleep. Please note that it is my last morning in Ventura where I can sleep as late as I want, in my own bed, with my fuzzy blankets and my space-age memory foam mattress topper (tested by astronauts, body heat activated, ooooo!) and my stuffed Stitch, and yet... here I am, awake at 7:30. Technically I woke up when the sun rose, but my powerful skills of denial allowed me to wallow in bed until about 7:20. If there were a wallowing Olympics, I think I might win first place - unless Melinda entered, that is.

Of course, all this isn't entirely without just cause. My flight leaves in just over 24 hours and, not gonna lie, I'm starting to get just a tiny bit scared. At the moment, my level of fear is hovering somewhere between that of a little kid learning to swim for the first time and, well, a poacher facing a herd of stampeding elephants. It tends to vacillate.

My internet access in Cuzco won't exactly be regular, seeing as how I won't have my computer with me (stupid shift key) and will therefore be relying on internet cafes for my Facebook fix. Don't worry though, kids; just because I can't stalk you as regularly doesn't mean I won't still be stalking you when I can.

Off to see just how many pairs of shoes I can fit into two pieces of luggage.