Baci Abroad Blog
Reporting from Shenzhen, China, in the midst of #coronavirus fears, rumors, and new norms
Hello, dear friends and family,
I am snuggled up in my apartment tonight, writing as my second batch of chicken bone broth cooks in my instant pot, and the cats lounge at my feet.
I am pretty tuckered out tonight, largely because I ran a kick-ass 10k along the boardwalk with my friend Ann. This weekend I was supposed to be in Hong Kong for the 9Dragons race -- Alli was going to run the 50k, and I was slated to run the 10k. Understandably, the race was canceled, but my runner's lungs were still craving a little race pace. As Ann and I ran, masks (mostly) on, the scene was quiet and quite lovely. Along the boardwalk, instrumental music plays out of speakers in the bushes. Guards were posted regularly along the boardwalk to ensure runners, walkers and those strolling along were indeed following the mandate that everyone wears masks outside.
Some of the new protocols set in place this week have been strange to get used to. Just today my building stopped allowing visitors in, so my friend Katie, who came by for a bit, was not allowed to enter. This is disappointing, but we still were able to head out on our favorite hike nearby and enjoy coffee at our favorite cafe.
Altogether, I appreciate the measures that China is taking to prevent the virus from spreading further. I now get my temperature checked some 3 or 4 times a day as I enter and re-enter my apartment. Every time they put the temperature gun to my head, the apartment security is very kind. Honestly, I am thankful these are the only kinds of guns hanging around here. The biggest gripe in my day was actually the fact that when I blew my electricity yesterday, I forgot to turn on the water heater again ... the water was running mighty cold after that run.
This is a time it is especially useful to be inclined towards the introvert end of the spectrum. I love my solitude. I have many books, podcasts, Netflix shows, and a Shutterfly book that I started three years ago to attend to.
Earlier today I met with my colleague and friend Clayton to collaborate about how we will work on online platforms to deliver curriculum to the students. As of right now, we will be working online until February 17th.
I am largely ignoring much of the media. If you want to hear more raw truth, I encourage you to drop CNN and FoxNews, and tune in to Harvard Health and NPR. I logged in to Twitter tonight to find that what was trending for me was #coronavirus. Not surprising. Just below that, though, was the #NoMeatNoCoronaVirus and I was like I just cannot with you opportunists right now.
I am fortunate to be part of a community here that is one to offer support, outreach and just some laughs to one another. My principal and director have been close at hand when I have needed to offset some anxiety with a conversation. Those of us who stayed in Shenzhen rather than opting for Thailand, or other destinations, have formed a group chat. Only honest and useful updates are posted to the chat, which was started by an elementary teacher who has continued to offer family hikes to look for bugs and enjoy nature. My friend Megan, also an administrator, has arranged for a viewing of the SuperBowl tomorrow. We are #shekoustrong because of this caring community. I feel so blessed to feed off of this community, and also give back to it.
I plan to offer daily updates here at lettersfromasojournista. No fake news, no bullshit, just what is happening from here in the bubble of Shekou in Shenzhen, China.
For tonight, I sign off with a picture of Ms. Silvermoon Free Solo, shortly, Silvie.
Be well, everyone. Sending love from Shenzhen.
In Singapore, fan-girling hard
When I was 11 years old, I won first place for the fifth grade in a school wide writing contest. This landed me a place in an old school white limousine and lunch at TGIFriday's (I think--it could also have been Perkins or Baker's Square). I remember writing in a tiny notebook in my bedroom when I was in grade school, trying to imitate the authors I was reading, creating stories of protagonists and their beautiful horses. In high school, I wrote poetry dripping with angst and emotion. Poetry made its way onto my bedroom walls in sheets (and so many years later permanently onto my arm).
It wasn't until I moved abroad, though, 20 years after that 5th grade award, that I realized how integral writing was, is, to my identity. In the last six and a half years, I find that unless I write regularly, I struggle to process my experiences deeply. I feel a bit lost and detached from myself. I close my eyes to see myself floating in a dark amorphous space that begins to take clearer shape when my fingers finally have time to connect with my keyboard.
So here I find myself today -- as a wild rice chicken casserole bakes in the oven, as Silvie has just knocked over the full garbage, again -- tuning in to myself, and reflecting on meeting an incredible writer in Singapore last weekend.
I first encountered Roxane Gay when a friend forwarded an instagram story to me. The Grammer (like the Tweeter) was talking about the characters in Gay's Difficult Women. I bought the iBook pronto, and found myself immersed in story upon story of women in the midst of tragedy, ambiguity, fear, hope and growth. As international life would have it (that is just slightly cringy -- I hear the privilege in all of this), I was at a conference in Nanjing as I was reading the book. Noting my newfound enamorment (the New Baci Dictionary hits print in June) with Roxane Gay's writing, a couple of friends who live in Singapore told me that Gay would soon be making an appearance in Asia for the Singapore Writer's Festival.
In moments like this, I feel entirely inspired by Mark Twain's words: "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." I am thus less in touch with what I remember from reading Rich Dad, Poor Dad, the book my own dear dad bought me when I started to have to consider the notion of adulting. (Let's be real -- the sobrinas aren't expecting for there to be any money in my will to do anything more than support the cats.)
So, aYOLOing I went. My dear friend Ceci was present at this moment, and she endorses all things spontaneous -- within seven minutes, I had a hotel and plane ticket to Singapore for the festival, and a ticket for a seat in front of Ms. Roxane Gay.
As I sat looking up at this queen, I was moved by so many of her words, not just those she was reading from her book, but those that kept echoing truth throughout the auditorium. "You don't have to find your voice. It's already there, you just have to allow yourself to access it," said Gay in her soft but firm voice. As a writer, as a woman, as the me who is working in so many ways to evolve, I found comfort here, a reassurance that I did not have to go rummaging through so many boxes sometimes, yelling "Marco" into an internal void, hoping to hear "Polo" singing back. Gay's words align with my mindfulness practice, with yoga and meditation and coming to see that we already have what we need inside of us; it is about sitting in enough stillness to feel it.
Getting in touch with my own Divine Feminine, it's been a journey, one that will continue until the end of my days, but I have felt that power rising, rising in my breath, rising in my heart, rising in my voice. In a time when Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's We Should All Be Feminists is taught in international classrooms (mine for one!), where Emma Watson becomes the voice of the HeForShe campaign, some are asking about what we are asking for from men. Gay's response: "Just be a fucking feminist, which just means women are people. " Mmmm, yasss, I murmured. I love when we stop mincing words.
At the end of Gay's session, the audience was invited to a book signing outside of the auditorium. I had purchased three of her books before her talk began, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body, Ayiti and An Untamed State. Employing my greatest efforts to avoid my own greed, I had decided to have Ms. Gay sign Ayiti as it was the only hardcover book that I had purchased. As I approached the table she was seated behind, I smiled shyly and began stammering about how I had come from China to see her, that I had just really discovered her writing. To my surprise, and delight, Ms. Gay looked up at me in her own surprise and said, "You came all the way from China?!" We engaged with one another for a few more moments and then the cameraman asked if he could snap a photo of us. I yammered a yes, looking at Ms. Gay to see what she thought about the question. Somewhere in the internets, friends, this photo exists. I have yet to find this golden picture, but I'll be looking until I do.
After the snap of the photo, I mumbled a few more words of thanks to this incredible human. I walked with legs of Jell-o towards my friend Ana Maria whose mouth was also agape. Best day ever, I said, wearing my biggest grin.
For the past week, I have been immersed in all things Roxane Gay. If somehow this blog makes its way to your computer, Ms. Gay, my most heart-felt congratulations on your engagement. My deepest gratitude for your strength, your writing, your voice.
And, as I close here, now from Shenzhen, I wonder what would happen for each of us, if we heeded some of my favorite words of Ms. Gay's from that sunny day in Singapore: "Open your lives. Open your hearts."
To Ghent We Went ... and Amsterdam too
I first have a request: anyone who has heard of Ghent, raise your hand. I'm squinting through space to count about three hands raised. Mine is among those three hands now, but three weeks ago I thought that Ghent was the name of our street that our hotel was located on in Brussels, thus I booked Mom, Gram and I train tickets from Amsterdam to Brussels. Ghent, though, is not in Brussels, but located about a 30-minute train ride beyond Brussels.
Before I go on about our time in Ghent, and what a fortunate mistake our hotel booking was -- though, of note: Mom said she did not mistakenly book a hotel in Ghent, that she meant to book a hotel in Ghent because she read that Ghent is quaint and cute to which I replied, "Why did you let me buy train tickets to BRUSSELS then?! ... but I digress ... -- I think you must see the way that we traveled to Ghent.
When we arrived to our lovely Belgian town -- after having passed through a Brussels that looked a bit rough around the edges -- we were delighted to find an old Medieval city, or, as a resident of the city named it: a very modern city in an old jacket.
Perhaps one of the best things we did in our cozy host city was to take part in a free walking tour. One of the most fascinating facts we learned from our congenial guide was that Ghent used to be the 2nd largest city in Europe -- from the 12th - 15th centuries. I'm tucking that tidbit away for my next trivia night.
Also of historical note: During the middle ages, beer was safer to drink than water, so having your pint at the local watering hole could simply be considered health care. I wonder if I could take this up with my insurance company today?
As an English teacher, I find the etymology of words and phrases quite interesting. As we meandered about the town, Liam (or Brahm) told us where the phrase "stinking rich" stems from. Let's take a moment to make some guesses ... and while you are crafting your response, another scene to take in ...
So, stinking rich? Well, the wealthier you were, the closer to the alter in the church you were buried, but graves were not closed off properly, thus the flesh would begin to rot and smell up the space. I think I'll stick with being potpourri poor. I believe this phrase was first coined in 2007 when friends would leave flowers at the door of humble, poorly paid teachers.
In addition to being a bit smelly, we also learned of the torture rooms inside of the castle in Ghent. As I have learned about history, there have been eras that have seemed rather appealing. The 1920s, for example ... like, I think I would have loved to have been a flapper. A resident of Medieval Ghent, though? Hard pass.
So, that was Ghent. We're glad we went. I did not add up all of the money that we spent. And so, to you I toast tonight, Ghent, with my dark Belgian chocolate in hand. Cheers!
Before we arrived to Ghent, we did spend four days in Amsterdam. Gram is our guest writer for this part of the post today. She spent a bit of time journaling each night, capturing the moments of the day. This is what she has to say ...
Saturday
Interesting hotel. Trying to discover heat. Fans blowing cold air. Need wool socks.
Our room is small for three, but the shower is really nice. We could shower together. 🤔. Our hotel, the Linden, is a quaint hotel located in the center of Old Amsterdam. It is perfect for our needs, as the narrow streets are lined with restaurants, pastry shops, clothing and gift shops, and bars. We are able to walk to most other sites from here.
Waiting for Jamie to arrive. Anne is napping. Not much sleep on the plane. (Something I wish I would have acquired from my mother is her ability to sleep. For long hours.)
Outlets need converters in order to charge devices. Hoping Jamie will figure it out. (As it turns out, I did not bring my converter, thus failed at being of help here.)
Jamie arrived around 7:00. She was starving. We walked to a restaurant and had a delicious meal. Anne ordered a Dutch dish—mashed carrots, potatoes and onion with a meatball in the center. Dad would have loved it. I had pork tenderloin with pepper gravy, and Jamie had meatballs with salad. (Meatballs with peanut sauce are where it is at.)
Sunday
Slept til 9:00. Showered and hit the streets. Anne and I did a canal tour for an hour. Very informational. The architecture reminded me a bit of Boston. Amsterdam was founded in the 1200’s. That is a long time ago!!! The canals are man made, and many of the buildings were built in the 1600’s.
Anne and I bummed the streets. Went into a couple shops—high end. Anne tried a pair of boots, but they didn’t have her size. I wanted a sweater, but it was $$$$$$. Not in my budget. We stopped at a pub and sat at the bar. The owner, George, gave us a piece of his pizza. So good. I had wine.
In the afternoon, we toured the Anne Frank house. As a taxi driver said to us later that day, “Why would a tourist want to pay to see her house when she isn’t there, and leave depressed?” Good question!!
We dined at an Italian restaurant, but were disappointed. I had lasagna—no meat and no noodles. Different and not what I as looking forward to. Anne had steak, and Jamie ordered a salad and tomato soup. We will do better with selecting restaurants. (Good thing we found our true Italian in Ghent.)
Monday
This was an exciting day. We did a bus and water tour—visiting three provinces of Holland. Our first stop was populated with wind mills. A miller who worked one of the mills showed us how logs are cut into lumber. Other mills in the province are used for making grain and Linseed oil (which I purchased at a shop.) A mill can also mix paint.
We bused to our next stop where we learned how wooden shoes are made. There were hundreds of shoes hanging from the ceiling to dry. They need to dry for three weeks before they can be finished—sanded, polished and decorated.
From there, we boarded a ferry where Jamie and I quickly ordered a beer. I chose the beer of the land—Heineken—Jamie ordered Robuust. 😃 Oh yes, Anne had apple pie.
At the third province, we learned how cheese is made, and purchased enough to increase the weight of our luggage by a few pounds!!! Oh my 😖. The cheese was delicious, and we couldn’t resist. We ate lunch at one of the restaurants—fish and chips which we shared. Following lunch, Jame and I snacked on pancakes with fresh fruit—covered in chocolate!! We didn’t see the sign, “Don’t fed the birds.” So, the birds were happy.
A final lesson for us on this tour was a demonstration on how waffles were made. These are not like the waffles we make at home, but very thin cookie-like waffles filled with caramel or chocolate. They are good, but we didn’t buy them to take home. They are available at our hotel for our enjoyment. (Gram is writing about Stroopwafels -- check out this page for where to find the best in Amsterdam.)
From here, we boarded our bus and traveled back to Amsterdam. Anne rested, I walked the streets and Jamie found a workout class to attend.
Jamie chose an amazing restaurant for dinner. The food was excellent!! The cocktails were pretty good too. (Gram is talking about Morgan and Mees. It was Ashley's suggestion and it did not disappoint. It was quite posh.)
Tuesday
We slept in again, then leisurely showered and dressed for another rainy day. We shopped as we walked to see the Red Light District—so I could say we did—then had lunch at a restaurant Gina suggested. We then taxied to the Van Gogh Museum where we spent an enjoyable period of time learning about Vincent’s life and art.
In the evening, we taxied in the pouring rain to Central Station where we met Jamie’s Gustavus classmate (Ashley) and her male friend. From the station, we boarded a ferry which took us to an area where we had dinner. To get to the restaurant from where the ferry dropped us off, we walked quite a distance—again in the pouring rain. I had no idea what was in store for us when I put on open toe sandals for the evening. That walk required RAIN BOOTS!!! and a raincoat. It rains horizontally here, so an umbrella doesn’t help much. We were wet and cold when we arrived at the restaurant.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was warm and friendly, and dinner was accompanied and complimented by fun conversation.
Following dinner, we called a taxi to take us to our hotel. It was late, and we had had a full day.
Wednesday
We are schlepping our heavy luggage and boarding the train to Belgium. Despite the sunny sky, it is once again raining. (And this brings us to the very beginning, a very good place to start ... )
In closing, the trip was picturesque, with a good dose of adventure, and plenty of charm.
At one point, as Gram and Mom were walking down the middle of the street, taking their lives into their own hands, I turned to Gram and said, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Come up on the sidewalk." It seems, though, that we did land somewhere over the rainbow.
What does 'expat' have to do with it?
A few days ago, I opened up a message from Mom to Linds, Cass and me. Within the blue iMessage bubble, I found a photo of the four of us getting pedicures six years ago on that date. It was the eve of my move to Ecuador.
It is interesting to read Mom's caption here. At the time, I hardly knew how I would last two years abroad. And now two years has has turned in many more. There is just no predicting ...
The little clock with the arrow going around to the east transported me back in time. I remember coming home from our spa time to opening up two large suitcases in the living room. Piles of clothes were strewn all over. My mind was running amuck about how to even begin to fill the suitcases. And this is where sista-friends always come in first. Linds and Cass developed a system and set to work stowing away the pieces of my life that made the cut to travel south with me, beginning my life as an expat.
So much has changed and evolved and shifted since that evening. Here is something that has not: I still cannot be left to pack my own suitcases. They end up a scrambled 70 pound -- no hyperbole here -- mess that one or both of my sisters has to unpack and repack before I lug them through security.
Those first months in Quito, Ecuador, as a newly minted international school teacher, were exciting in many ways, and excruciating in others. The pain of missing home -- so visceral that it could knock the wind out of me. I had some sanity savers, though, in the friends that I was making. And as Trini, my madre in Spain, had been my earthly angel in my study abroad experience in college, Analuisa, my Ecuadorian cousin in spirit, became my South American angel.
I had met Analuisa many years before, when we were both primary school children when my Aunt Abby and Uncle Tony became her legal guardians. As she became a member of the Baci/Marquart crew, what I remember most in thinking back to those times was what she taught us. She would make empanadas, delicious crispy half moons filled with meet and vegetables, to add to the table for holiday meals. Analuisa also taught the North American chiquitas how to line dance -- she was bound to have better rhythm than us, she hails from a village that salsas day in and day out.
And so it was, that when I arrived to Quito as a thirty-year-old woman, her family embraced me, offering me delicious guaguas de pan and colada morada on the holiday for Día de los Difuntos, and smiling as I spoke to them in broken Spanish.
During my time in Ecuador, I would be fortunate to also join Analuisa's family for her niece's quinceañera in Mascarilla. During this day, I saw how Ana's family joined efforts to prepare a feast for guests, I was a parishioner in the church as the special ceremony took place, crowning Meli a young woman, and I was a delighted but shy participant at the dance later that evening.
walking towards the church ...
looking muy guapo outside the church....
about to step into the ceremony that will mark Meli's passage from childhood to adulthood
The time Analuisa and I spent hanging out together in the city or taking a trip to Mascarilla to visit her family cut through the loneliness and saved my sanity in those most intense months of culture shock.
And then it was, some six months in to my life as an international school teacher, that I reemerged from the confusion, anxiety and stress of culture shock. It would be many more years before I would feel that I was really on steady ground as an expat.
When I was home this summer, during an evening with a dear friend and fellow English teacher, I identified myself as such. "What's an expat," she inquired. "An American living abroad," I replied. I immediately thought of Gertrude Stein and Earnest Hemingway as scenes from Midnight in Paris played across my mind.
As an American passport holder, I chose to move abroad, taking advantage of the privilege afforded me simply because of where I was born. While I struggle with where the Unites States of America is along social, political and philosophical lines, I certainly was not forced out. As a white American, I do not generally feel unsafe within the border of the USA. And I do feel some sense of power to make positive changes were I to choose to live in the United States.
I chose to venture from home in search of adventure; my sojourner spirit had surfaced. With an education that an upper-middle class life afforded me, I was able to land a good job abroad. And thus I get to sit comfortably in a category called expat.
In my experience as an expat at an exceptional international school, I have access to extensive services. I am offered daily assistance on how to navigate banking, housing and my visa. As an expat, I am left rather unjudged at the fact that I know fewer than 200 Mandarin words. As an expat, my working conditions are comfortable and safe. Due to my own privileged circumstances, I can utter things like, "the world is my oyster", feeling empowered to live in just about any country of my choosing.
I do not mean to cast a simplistically fairytale filter onto living abroad. For so much of my time abroad, it has felt like I have had dozens of tabs open in my brain, slowing my processing system to the speed of the super-sized snails that I now see slowly glide across the sidewalk in Shenzhen. At the end of so many days, even getting up to file my nails has seemed an exhausting task.
There can be many initial frustrations to living abroad, and at moments, situations may feel insurmountable. When my close friends Alli and Charles moved from Quito to Shenzhen, Alli found herself on the corner of an unknown street outside of Ren Ren Le (a store akin to Walmart), uncertain of how to flag a taxi, unable to tell the driver the name of her apartment in Mandarin, and so weeping in frustration. Anyone who has lived in a foreign place can recount many experiences like this.
It also warrants acknowledging that an altogether positive time abroad is not every expat's experience. There are spouses that are left alone while their partner travels, those that turn to excessive drinking in order to distance themselves from the difficulties of living and working in foreign lands and expats who have been transplanted by their work rather than a whole hearted-choice. There is resentment, affairs and dysfunction in the memoirs of many expats. I am fortunate that these are not part of mine.
Today, as a rather content expat, I am sitting at a new eclectic cafe that has opened near my apartment as a friendly rain falls outside the floor to ceiling windows, contemplating the privileges of my life while so many thousands of others around the world are having vastly different experiences because rather than expats, they are considered part of other categories: the asylum seeker, the refugee, the immigrant and now the evacuee.
I am remembering back to the year that, as a young girl, Analuisa's visa was revoked, and she was not allowed to return to the States for that school year, for unknown reasons. I am thinking about how more recently we spoke about her returning to the States to visit her North American family, but again, she was not granted a visa for no clear reason.
Recently I was reading an article in The Atlantic entitled, "‘Expat’ and the Fraught Language of Migration". The article provides reflective questions to ponder when considering the connotations that accompany the labels we put on different groups. Yasmeen Serhan asks her reader, "But what defines an “expat”? Does it matter whether you are coming from a richer country, or how long you intend to stay? At what point are you an “immigrant” instead?"
When I think about my own experience as an expat, and what I know about the experience of immigrants -- namely through reading fiction and non-fiction and listening to various podcasts -- to other countries, especially the United States of America, one of the stark contrasts in the nature of the experience is the expectation of assimilation.
Often when an individual or family moves from the USA to a foreign country, they are welcomed into, or at least have access to, an expat community in their host city. Between my own experiences in Ecuador and China, and those of my friends who have lived in places from Doha, Qatar to Aberdeen, Scotland, there are many reports of feeling at home away from home when we have connected with these communities. We celebrate holidays from our passport countries together, enter atmospheres where we hear the familiarity of our native tongues and participate in cultural events such as Fantasy Football drafts.
While peoples labeled asylum seekers, refugees or immigrants may find communities with others from their native lands in their new places of residence, these communities and gatherings are often met with suspicion, resentment or outright hostility. Whether it be on social media, or between neighbors, words of resentment arise towards Latino immigrants when they are viewed as taking away jobs from 'bona fide' Americans; there is a rhetoric of suspicion surrounding immigrants from predominantly Muslim countries; outright hostility rears its head when the sentiment towards Asian and Somalian communities, who are perceived to have overtaken the community in numbers, reaches the boiling point.
Asylum seekers, immigrants, refugees or expats, whichever the category we are all people born in one land living in another. But semantics matter. In the 21st century, political candidates are hotly debating the topic of immigration, not the topic of expatriation. Prior to living abroad, I reflected on my privilege less, largely unaware of how deeply it has affected the way my life has looked in the past and now in my present. Prior to living abroad, I voted in presidential elections, but as a less-informed citizen. Prior to living abroad, I did not understand the very privilege of saying, "I'm just not really interested in politics."
My current life is largely a tapestry of beautiful moments created with and by kindred souls that I have connected with for a few moments, or for many years now. But there is also a shadow side to my life outside of the United States. It is connected to the shadow that has been cast by my home country onto the peoples and places sometimes just across the border, sometimes all the way across the world.
This weekend I began listening to the memoir Notes on a Foreign Country by Suzy Hansen. As a former expat, Hansen reflects on what she is learning about the United States' role in offering aid to foreign countries, and as she is about to embark on her time abroad as a resident of Istanbul, Turkey, she asks herself, "But what would I learn of America that was beyond good intentions, beyond sympathy, beyond the luxury of time? What else was there?"
As Hansen went on to learn, as I have been learning, what else was there? So much more.
As Hansen recounts her conversations with her new friends, colleagues and those she interviews in Turkey, she goes on to discuss the sense of betrayal that many countries feel towards the United States, the "abuse from America for material gain." It is through her "newly recognized ignorance" that she describes the feeling she has inside as "A persistent dull ache, and a tooth that would never be the same."
My time abroad has led a blind patriotism to wane within me. Perhaps, in the best of cases, the government in office has good intentions, but often the actions of Americans towards fellow Americans, and peoples living within the borders of the United States, as well as America's actions towards foreign lands leads my heart to leak sorrow.
Ignorance is bliss, they say. But how would it serve me to go back to a time of ignorant bliss?
In moments I can find myself sinking in the quicksand of despair, but I do not, in the end, find futility. When I listen to my students discuss global issues, when I consider the selfless actions of so many of my family members and friends, when I look at the goodness in my nieces, I think that there must be hope to hold on to. That even if the fabric of my homeland's government is frayed and flawed, the hearts of so many individuals surrounding me have the capacity to weave together a tapestry of truer love.
The last six years have lent themselves to a great deal of reflection that a government and its people can represent different idealogies; the corruption of a government is not indicative in many cases of the humanity of the people within the boundaries that are governed.
I once again find words from L.R. Knost moving: "It's not our job to toughen our children up to face a cruel and heartless world. It's our job to raise children who will make the world a little less cruel and heartless." I think that it is only through our own education, and educating our children, whether they be those in our classrooms, or those in our homes, that our eyes will be opened to our calling to bring light.
So then,
“Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.”
― L.R. Knost
Tonight I am here typing, reflecting about the care and love shown to me by strangers in new lands. I wonder how we can all do a little more to offer empathy towards those we encounter who have voyaged outside of the known, by choice or by circumstance? To those living in a space that may seem less than inviting and be devoid of the sounds, smells and hugs of home, I wonder how we can each extend compassion?
note: My colleague and good friend, Faye Krouse, was instrumental in helping me process my thoughts, feelings and words for this post. While when writing about my own experiences, my words flow rather freely, I found myself a bit stuck in composing this post. Faye, thank you endlessly for engaging in so many discussions about life and writing with me. Cheers, dear friend.
A Sojourn Into the Past
I am sitting at River Rock Coffee in St. Peter, Minnesota, sipping a sparkling water spiked with ginger and lime. A few crumbs from my tuna melt sandwich have managed to escape my hungry grasp and still lay on the plate in front of me. Gazing at an empty bowl -- which moments ago was filled with lentil curry soup -- I follow the direction of the spoon I placed precariously in the white ceramic and look up to see Erbert's and Gerbert's, my favorite sandwich shop when I studied at Gustavus Adolphus College nearly two decades ago.
I'm tripping today, down Memory Lane. I am thinking about how Freshman year, it was such a novel experience to be able to pick up the land line in the room I shared with Hannah in Rundstrom, and call for delivery. Boney Billy, that was the sandwich du jour, every day, for me. I giggled each time I placed my order for this turkey sandy.
On the way into town, I passed the Dairy Queen where, on a snow day in February, Katie and Jenn and I drove the short distance from campus so that we could stock up on Blizzards and hunker down to binge on Sex in the City as all classes had been canceled. We reasoned that since it was already so cold, we wouldn't get any colder from the ice cream.
Across the street from River Rock Coffee is now Chinatown, a Chinese restaurant. Isn't it ironic, Alanis? This summer, our red-haired, porcelain skinned Natalie, nearly 10 years old, proclaimed "Let's talk about what we'll be doing in 20 years!" to her 3 sisters. Unpredictable I think now. When I sat in this cafe nearly 20 years ago, not in my most wild, random, or far out dreams would I have predicted that I would be a resident of China, inhabiting a city of more than 12 million people after attending college in a town of under 12 thousand.
Stepping onto a worn path
After my lunch, I made my way, slowly, up to campus, stopping at one of the many boutiques that now line South Minnesota Ave, the Main Street of St. Peter. As I perused the clothes and accessories at Generations Boutique, I noticed a pair of earrings nearly identical to ones that I had purchased this spring at a market in Bangkok, Thailand. It's possible, I thought, that they were made by the same hands. It is a small world, after all. I've learned this time and again, as I have traveled so far from home to find connections that bring me right back to my roots.
As I drove closer to Ring Road -- the road that circles all of Gustavus, the road that entreated Anah and I to take many night runs -- I looked for my old house on Walnut Street, notoriously called The Mouse Trap for the many rodents that took up residence with my 4 girlfriends and me. I didn't spot the small rundown house on the first go round, but another drive of the street brought me in front of the small, white abode. As I got out of the car to take a closer peak, I squinted back into the past and heard the squirrels racing in the roof above my head in my bedroom with the slanted ceiling. I remembered putting my glasses on when I would wake up in the morning during the winter time to note that they were fogged up from cold; poor insulation and college girls trying to save a buck equated to teeth-chattering temperatures in our house in January.
When I finally stepped foot on campus, I parked near the cafeteria, the place that sealed the deal on my decision to attend Gustavus; a Baci girl's gotta know that the place she is hunkering down for four years serves decent food. A nostalgic ache set into my belly.
I walked through Lund Center, stepping onto the indoor track, where the girls volleyball team was practicing, to reminisce about the hundreds of laps I had run during our indoor track season.
I stepped into Christ Chapel, a serene space with bright light that filters in. I sat down in one of the pews in the back of the chapel and thought about all of the Wednesday services I had attended. I remember feeling a little more calm after a 20-minute service in the midst of harried days of classes and essay writing. On Wednesdays, the service ended with a singing of the Lord's Prayer. It was a melody I had never heard before, and which I cannot conjure today, but I still remember the way it soothed something in my soul. As I stepped back into the bright light of mid-day, words from L.R. Knost returned to me: The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.
The words lingered as I crossed paths with the Center for International and Cultural Education. This was the office I had burst into at the beginning of my sophomore year, eagerly signing up for a semester abroad to begin my junior year.
A great deal of darkness and light would lace itself through the months leading up to that semester, and during the entire time I studied in Barcelona, as anxiety coursed through my veins -- I had leapt so far outside of my previously established boundaries.
Weaving through the center of campus, looking at the lush greenery, the buildings I recognized, the ones that stood more recently renovated, memories kept materializing before me.
Except for a sparsely attended football game, and an occasional skateboarder, campus was so quiet. I walked through Old Main, which had housed many of my Education courses. My movements rustled and echoed in the hallway, lonely sounds as I thought back to the chatter of the lessons that I had participated in with other future teachers. I was certain then that I would be teaching America's youth, unaware of the international seed germinating inside my belly.
Some time passed as I kept wandering about campus. A visit was not going to feel complete without a run of some sort. I thought that I might find one of the old paths that extends into part of the town behind campus, but my memory failed me. While moments rushed back to me in waves, anything to do with directions has receded into an abyss in my mind.
I settled on a run around Ring Road, this time under the hot, hot afternoon sun rather than the light of the moon. As I jogged past Linnaeus Arboretum, I noted how much more time I would have spent there during college if I had found meditation sooner. I suppose I preferred to stay quietly in the center of things then, rather than explore the outskirts. I decided to step off of Ring Road for a moment and explore the arb more today, so inviting with its many benches nestled into zen spaces. I passed the building where one of my English classes was held and thought back to reading the American Transcendentalists with Don Scheese, or Scheesey as Kel and I endearingly named him. I love the likes of Emerson and Thoreau, but Scheesey, I am only a little sorry to say that what I remember most from that course is the day that Nate Waters somehow connected keg-stands to our reading. As a teacher now, I empathize with your annoyance; as a student then I am still giggling under my breath.
It's been a beautiful day of exploring my old campus haunts, and I am typing again from River Rock Coffee, now sipping an oat milk matcha latte.
And I'm thinking about how much things change. And how much they stay the same.
Sojournista writes from her cozy apartment in Shenzhen, China
My fingers are freezing above my keyboard today, not so much with writer's block, but with new tech user's block. I have a handful of stories that want to pour out of me right now, but my brain is abuzz with all of the new gizmos and gadgets that accompany this new blog space. Two weeks ago (now 6 weeks ago -- I had stage fright for many moons), I purchased this webspace to house a blog that I am carrying over from Google's Blogger -- I felt that it was time to take a leap, to take ownership of my very own space and to hold myself even more accountable for developing my identity as a writer and a storyteller.
I have been blogging for the past 6 years, inspired to start writing to tell my friends and family about the life that I was building abroad. The stories from my time living in Quito, Ecuador, and traveling through several countries in South America, as well as my first years in Asia are housed here.
While I currently live as the only human in my small abode, I now have two cats who keep me company. When I moved to Shenzhen, I adopted my first cat who I endearingly named Patacon after one of my favorite Ecuadorian foods. Our family of two became a family of three when a new kitten seemingly dropped from the heavens onto my 17th floor balcony. Silvermoon Free Solo, who we call Silvie for short, has settled in to life in 17J quite nicely ... with brief periods of irritation when her adoptive sister tries to play leap frog with her with little warning. Perhaps the story of her harrowing days hanging off the cliff of the 17th floor ledge will be my next post here.
When I am not cat-momming by night, I am teaching by day. I love nerding out in my classroom, dressed as Offred from The Handmaid's Tale, honing acting skills that have been waiting for an Off Broadway stage. More than putting myself on stage, though, working with the students and staff at Shekou International School inspires me to set a stage for student voice.
This spring, my seniors took on roles from Friedrich Dürrenmatt's The Visit, my juniors -- both ladies and gentleman -- have now taken their turn as Offred, and my sophomores read excerpts from Romeo and Juliet.
So, perhaps the biggest take away from today's post is that I am a cat lady, English nerd and international explorer. #iownitall
I do also love to cook. And it's near to dinner time here in Southern China, so I am off to my kitchen to put together some chicken burgers.
Catch you back here soon, I hope.
Love and peace,
Jamie, a 30-something sojournista
Life with Chinese Characteristics, Chapter 17: Camping out in Cambodia
Well hello there, friends,
It's been quite some time since I connected with you here, and I am glad to be back to writing in this space.
If the title to this post has elicited images of me in REI pants crawling into a tent near a beach or in a jungle or whatever your ideas about Cambodia are, I have misled you. While in Cambodia, my Barcelona Bestie, Liz, and I did not sleep outside -- though we may have thought we were sleeping in a tent with the number of mosquitoes that kept us company some nights -- nor did we experience harsh living conditions (actually quite the contrary).
But I'm an English teacher. And I like alliteration.
And thefreedictionary tells me that camping out also means to live in a place other than one's own home for a period -- in our case, one adventure-filled week of living out of our suitcases in three different Cambodian cities.
To begin, we almost missed our plane to Siem Reap, which would have meant camping out in the Hong Kong airport for some time. China dealt Liz a curve ball in the form of #chinabelly. I'll leave it at that. Liz and I have actually missed a plane before -- to Dublin from Barcelona -- and we are familiar with the expensive repercussions of such a disappointing event, but luckily, this time we made it onto the plane and landed in our first host city as originally anticipated.
The first night of our vacation found Liz tucked into bed early at our lodging, the Saem Siem Reap Hotel, with me, ever the true friend, whispering nos vemos and slipping out the door to find some fine dining. Thanks to Aunt Linda's recommendation with honorable mentions to Google Maps, I found my way to Malis, known for its "living Cambodian cuisine." I ordered a delicious set menu comprised of six delicious courses and I wish I could show you some of those plates, but the camera did not eat first. I did.
While I was dining, sipping out of a fresh coconut, I reflected back to my middle school days. I had had a small part in the school play. I do not remember the name of the play, but I do remember the subject: the Khmer Rouge. I also do not remember understanding the content of the drama well, but I can recall understanding the tone to be very dark. Before landing on Cambodian soil, I read Loung Ung's memoir First They Killed My Father, and upon closing the book, I understood much more about the horrors brought upon thousands of innocent people.
I am reminded of one of the most powerful quotes I have read. Travel writer Mark Jenkins writes,
"Adventure is a path. Real adventure -- self-determined, self-motivated, often risky -- forces you to have firsthand encounters with the real world. The world the way it is, not the way you image it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind -- and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white."
During our week in Cambodia, Liz and I experienced first hand the beautiful kindness of countless people. As part of our itinerary, created by Xoa at AsiaTourAdvisor, we also visited Security Prison 21 in Phnom Penh. The experience grew our awareness of Cambodia's recent dark struggle. The lessons that come out of studying the regime led by the Khmer Rouge tell us less about Cambodia in particular, and more about, as Jenkins names it, the "bottomless cruelty of humankind" and what happens when people's desire for power is fueled by corruption and is deeply, darkly self-serving.
Alas, the trip did begin with a great deal of light and exciting adventure, especially as Liz woke up our first morning feeling much better than when we had landed the afternoon before.
Day 1:
After breakfast, our guide Vuthy met us to take us to Ta Prohm and Angkor Wat, two oft-visited ancient ruins of the Khmer people. Having trekked four days to see Machu Picchu in Cuzco, Peru, Liz and I were quite kiddy to be exploring another ancient civilization together. Rather than overwhelm this post with history, I'll let the pictures speak for themselves. (In truth, I don't remember the historical facts about the ruins, but I do remember vividly our delight.)
In truth, I don't remember the historical facts about the ruins, but I do remember vividly our delight.
The afternoon finished with Liz sitting down for her sak yant, or magical, tattoo. You'll notice in the following photos that this tattoo is made permanent using a needle attached to a bamboo stick. This was a fascinating, and rather hair-raising activity to view. Liz gave an offering before she sat for the tattoo, and the tattoo was blessed after it was completed.
Nothing will make you hungry like watching your friend summon her superpowers to sit for an hour of traditional tattooing.
We made our way to Marum for dinner.
A note on Marum: It is part of the tree-alliance organization that works to take youth off of the streets and equip them with life-long work skills. Tree-alliance has sprouted restaurants in many Cambodian cities, including one in Phnom Penh called Friends. We loved the food, cocktails and service in the tree-alliance restaurants, as well as the hand-made, fair trade goods in the attached stores.
Day 2:
I so highly recommend using a guide for this trip, especially those from AsiaTourAdvisor. I am receiving no kick-backs from lauding their services. I simply could not have imagined a trip of more ease when it comes to the logistics of travel. And in wanting you to have such a wonderful experience too, I advice you to seek them out if you are traveling to Cambodia, Vietnam, Myanmar, Laos or Thailand.
Vuthy arrived to the hotel on our second full day with bikes in the van. We were heading out to more temples, those of Angkor Thom, on two wheels. It's cool that we were getting our steps and peddles in so far on the trip because we weren't going to be skimping on the amount of Cambodian fare we were shoveling into our mouths.
After a morning and afternoon of biking, Xoa had booked us for a personal cooking class. The ambiance was refreshingly rural and beautifully authentic as we chopped farm fresh meat and produce to whip up green mango salad, curry and coconut soup.
Day 3:
On the way to the Battambang, "the leading rice producing province for the country," Vuthy took us on a high-speed, open-air adventure: a bamboo train. Now I haven't ridden the high speed trains in China yet, but I don't think they will offer the same hair-whipping, grin-plastering experience that the bamboo train did. If this was my mode of transportation to work everyday, I wouldn't need coffee.
Day 4:
We arrived to Phnom Penh the following day where we checked in to the Harmony Hotel. The infinity pool at Harmony proved a perfect place with a cool view for lackadaisical froggy laps in the afternoons.
The best part of this day was seeing a friend who had worked in Shenzhen and now works in Phnom Penh. Leti is a beautiful wife, mother, friend and fellow runner and she invited Liz and I to her family's home for wine before our dinner at Friends. Spending some time with her, her husband Eric and two young boys, Gael and Luke was a delight. I have written about it before, and I continue to marvel at how this big world is actually rather small in the way that our paths can cross time and again. With your wine or tea, let's toast to friendships around the world. ¡Salud!
Day 5:
This morning began in somber fashion as our guide brought us to Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. On a date last year, the man I was dining with noted that he would never pick Cambodia as a vacation destination because it would be a trip too laden with darkness. My experience was much too full of light to agree with him, though the genocide museum and Khmer Rouge Killing Fields are how he was defining Cambodia.
The museum was a difficult experience, but I feel drawn to understand the world and humanity in all of their truths. As Liz and I walked the grounds of the prison, which had previously been a school before the Khmer Rouge occupation, we read the stories of the prisoners, nearly all of whom were executed.
What can be learned from such a museum? I continue to ponder tonight. I do not know the answer entirely. I do think about how much the world needs each of us to shine light. This will strike you deeply as you look on into the cells where men and women were mercilessly tortured. Again I am reminded of striking words, these from writer L.R. Knost:
"Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you."
What is most difficult, perhaps, about visiting the museum is knowing that such atrocities continue in our world today. Do I feel capable of stopping them? I do not. But my single voice, my single light, combined with all of yours, they can shift energy, and bring goodness into dark corners and help to ease others' suffering.
When I walk down the street, am I aware of the woman on the corner who could use a warm smile? When I step into my classroom, am I ready to embrace my students, whatever their moods? When I am shopping online, am I considering who is making those clothes, and in what conditions they are working? No, I cannot stop a regime, but my decisions can bring mindfulness to the world, and I hang on to hope that through some sort of butterfly effect, they spread something light far and wide.
After our time at the genocide museum, Liz and I followed our guide to the Royal Palace, which was quite the juxtaposition to the prison.
We then continued on to the National Museum which houses "many fine examples of Angor Wat statuary" within its sandstone walls.
Day 6:
Another biking expedition ensued on our 6th and final full day in Cambodia. While the bikes we rode through the temples in Siem Reap were spanking new comfortable mountain bikes, the ones we rode through the Mekong Islands were not. By the end of our ride, I was wishing that all of the food I had eaten on the entire trip had gone straight to my ass to add extra cushion.
This complaint aside, the quick ferry to Koh Dach, or the Silk Island, offered us a glimpse of more rural life. Living in Shenzhen, and working at Shekou International School, I am surrounded by fast-paced life, bright lights and a great deal of technology. Koh Dach is quite the contrast to my everyday life, and refreshingly so in many ways.
As we rode along, uniformed school children rode their bikes and scooters past us, smiles plastered on their faces as they returned home for lunch. Men and women worked in a field under the hot Cambodian sun. And a woman drove a mobile market around -- with who seemed to be her grandson -- selling meat and produce.
Our final night in Cambodia was spent back at the National Museum watching a performance from the Cambodian Living Arts troupe. As we settled into our seats to watch Earth and Sky, a "magical journey through Cambodian mythology, ancestral traditions and village life" I felt the pulse of Cambodia. It was one of life and dynamic spirit.
While Liz and I did not camp out in Cambodia in any rustic sense of the phrase, we did settle in for an epic experience. With each trip that I take, I am grateful for the new layers of life that I become privy to as I am immersed into vibrant cultures and places.
Until next time, Cambodia.
Barcelona Besties in Peru: Machu Picchu
Liz, my Barcelona Bestie, and I serendipitously met on our layover to Amsterdam, en route to our final destination, Barcelona, almost 13 years ago. I feel I am aging my 33-year-old self right now. When did I get to the point where I could age myself? Oyy. Anyway, Liz is likely the reason I did not beg the pilot, as we flew over the Atlantic, to turn the plane around and promptly drop me back on American soil. Riddled with anxiety over being away for four whole months, there was some semblance of stillness, or at least a temporary calming of nerves, when we started talking and decided immediately that we would be friends.
As it turned out, we became the inseparable kind. We ran all over Barcelona, much of Spain, and we attempted to take Dublin by storm, but we missed our RyanAir flight, actuallyhad to stay at a four-star hotel in Girona as there were no more trains back to Barcelona, nor were any hostels open that night, and thenhadto dine at a fine restaurant, again, because that was our only option.
Liz and I have a knack for making the most of anything. Our latest adventure was in Peru and it began in a much more auspicious manner than the day we boarded the train for Dublin, and proved to be one of the trips of our lifetimes.
It has been just over a week since returning from Peru. I have stared at the photos an inordinate amount of times now. It is true that all we have is the present, but I have been allowing myself to relive those delicious moments of awe and grit and laughter and camaraderie. Where history mingled with the now, where the voices of the past seemed almost audible, and where Inkan spirits were nearly visible.
I think each moment does form some kind of intangible atom that adds itself to our being, changing us, while sometimes nearly invisibly, still, significantly. Machu Picchu was just one of those experiences that added many atoms I seem to feel vibrating within my body. It was a four day trek that I believe I will distinctly remember.
If I cannot, through the current of my touch, transfer the emotion and significance of what this trek was, how will I put it into words, so that I can share with you some semblance of the experience? So that you too can know something of the magic and the beauty of the scenery, and the endurance demanded of the trail. I think the photos will speak to you, and with some interludes, I will seek to add a bit of the humor, hardness and awe that we experienced on the 42 kilometers of Inka trail, from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu.
In the weeks leading up to the trail, as I was reading Kim MacQuarrie's The Last Days of the Incas, gleaning all kinds of fascinating--and very violent--history, I wondered what the trek would be for me. Spiritual? ... Sacred? ... Profound? It was all of those things, in a sense, but the word that really surfaced as we connected, step by step, with the ancient Inkan-laid stones was mystical. It was four days of mystery, awe, fascination ... where the divine felt ever-present.
In the evenings, when we would crawl into our tents around 8 pm, I cracked open the book I had bought at the airport on our short layover in Lima. Mark Adams' Turn Right At Machu Picchu: Rediscovering the Lost City One Step at a Time was worth the $25 my Maracuyá Sour saturated brain decided to pay for it. While MacQuarrie has me wrapped up in names and events of the past, Adams had me chucking aloud as he recounts following the path of Hiram Bingham, the man who rediscovered Machu Pichhu (for the larger world) in 1911. I was a very eager school girl by day, nodding my head enthusiastically as the guides would stop us along the trail to give a lesson about the ruins or the Inkas that I had just read about. This was the most authentic historical learning I have engaged in and damn did it make the trek so cool.
While Machu Picchu is the "lost city" (that actually isn't the lost city because the lost city, Vilcabamba, harboring the Inkan gold that was hidden from the Spaniards, is actually still lost) that was our Mecca, so to speak, on this particular trek, there are breathtaking ruins along the way, which is reason #37 why any able-bodied person should most definitely make the trek rather than take a bus to Machu Picchu City. You simply do not want to miss this ....
It was quite fortunate that we had new ruins to renew us each day; the trek was a good deal more difficult than I had thought. Thiiiis was in part due to being a terrible packer. Had you opened up my pack, you would have found high-healed sandals, a change of clothes for each day trekking, a pair of shorts, and then some other articles of clothing and chocolate that actually made sense to have along for the trail. I had packed everything for the entire Peru trip, including three nights combined in Cusco and Aguas Calientes, in my pack, and felt accomplished for it, until I took my 17th step on Day 1, with no fewer than 17 million to go, and felt the weight of that pack on my shoulders -- I had failed to actually try on the pack and it was now clear that it did not fit me right. But, suck it butter cup, and that I did.
I had a few moments of dread that first day when I felt the bruises already forming on my collar bone, but in the end, the extra weight contributed to feeling even more like a bad-ass lady when we played a game called "Guess the weight of Jamie's pack" and everyone gave it a lift ... with both hands.
There was reason enough, aside from a big bag, to feel like we had engaged in some real badassery on the trail. For one, on Day 2 you haul your booty up to 4,200 meters, or 13,799 feet, gaining 1,200 meters, or nearly 4,000 feet, in five hours.
You better get your game face on for Day 3. Because Day 3 is all down hill. And this sounds like a dream, exactly like the one you had on Night 2, but, in fact, it's not. No, Day 3 is a Gringo Killer. Better yet, say the 6,000 year old stairs, 3,000 Gringo Killers.
Until the cry came from my BB: Never. Give. Up! No, never give up. Because the finish for Day 3 is stunning.
So, the upside is that our third day had this really lovely, magical finish with that rainbow over the valley, and the downside is that because of Day 3 my knee replacement surgery just got 10 years closer, which means I'll be going under the knife like next week, but there are always trade-offs, aren't there?
I think we slept for about two hours this third night. It was the combined effects of a hard ground and anticipation of arrival to the sacred site, so when the cheery porters shook our tent at 3 am, their sweet buenos días was met with a couple of groans. The grumpiness did not last long, though, as Machu Picchu was now a mere five kilometers away. Within two hours, something began to materialize ...
We had several hours to traipse our tired but enthralled selves through the ruins of Machu Picchu City. Here is just a sampling of what we stumbled into ...
It’s a vibe.
As Liz and I planned our South American adventure, we decided to stay a night in Aguas Calientes, the town that "lies in a deep gorge below the ruins." It sounds refreshing, especially after four days of sweaty hiking without a shower, but I would not recommend it to a fellow traveler. Aguas Calientes is home to hot springs ... that house the grime of thousands of other dirty trekkers. The pueblo also boasts dozens and dozens of sketchy places to get a massage. We did enter one of those suspicious looking abodes to try to soothe our aching muscles, and indeed questionable massages are part of the title to this post, but it is nearing that bewitching hour, where if I do not fall asleep soon, there will be no sleep to be had, and you have been reading along for a good while now.
So all that I will mention is that you shall enter the massage parlors with caution. You will likely end up in a couple's massage with your bestie, lying on a makeshift massage table, in a room with ratty curtains that do not cover the open-air window, where construction workers are within an arm's reach, and, rather than listen to the zen music, you will hear the beating pop/hip hop mash-up blending with the voices blaring into a megaphone. It will not be relaxing, but ... but your calves will be back in working condition upon your exit. And they will agree to walk you to Indio Feliz where you will dine on the best fare of the trip.
As I close tonight, I did think that after a week of reflection and looking over photos I would be able to articulate the impact that the trek had on me -- how it is exactly that everything in me feels so awake. My heart, my brain, my soul ... it is like a fire has been stoked inside. But something is still percolating. I cannot quite name why the Inka Trail was what it was. But whether I can define it or not, the awakening exists. Sometimes we just have that sense that we were precisely where we were supposed to be. The connecting to nature and disconnecting from other distractions, experiencing the hardness and the humor with one of my soulies, the sense of ancient souls around me, it must have been just what I needed in that time and space.
Mark Adams has written it quite articulately: For the first time since dropping out of graduate school, I remembered an unpleasant weekend spent struggling to comprehend the philosopher Immanuel Kant's explanation of the difference between calling something beautiful and calling it sublime. Nowadays, we throw around the word 'sublime' to describe gooey desserts or overpriced handbags. In Kant's epistemology it meant something limitless, an aesthetically pleasing entity so huge that it made the perceiver's head hurt. Machu Picchu isn't just beautiful, it's sublime.
