Goodbye.

Saying goodbye is always hard.

Saying good bye in front of a bustling morning market, with rumbling car engines and women hollering about gelatina & tamales, to a woman who has taken amazing care of me for the past 2 months was almost impossible. There was no way to affectively communicate to her how much I appreciated her care and attention. With tear filled eyes I hugged her tightly and quickly hopped in the combi to avoid an explosion of decidedly non-macho behavior in Latin America.

I fell in love this summer. With my Peruvian host mom. Her laugh, honest and loud. Her love of her land, from chickens to cuy to peas to potatoes and culture.

Each time a Peruvian asked me, what was your favorite part of Peru, the answer is exceedingly easy: the people. Ruins are not really my thing. Weaving is interesting and impressive. The food here is good, but the the people, the genuine love and care shine through so clearly that I cannot possibly name any other reason why I'd want to return.

When you leave love behind, the love of a mother, a sister, a brother, of aunts and uncles, of a family, of dogs and cats and chickens and cuy. Of moonlight and dustclouds, love from cooking smoke and cold showers, you want it back so bad, I want it back so bad that you cannot really imagine it otherwise. A part of me feels like this was the first time a family has really loved me, unconditionally, directly, in ways American families, my American family doesn't. Why would anyone leave this?

The taxista who drove me to the Cusco Airport asked me how Peru compares with the USA. I told him that each country has things the other does not. I said that we do not value family back home, like you do here. I asked him, if his grandma was unable to live by herself anymore, where would she go? With him right? He said absolutely. Not like that at home. We ship 'em off to homes for the elderly, where we cannot see the descent into old age. I told that we don't live with our families from around age 18. That I live 3000 miles away from parents and brothers, that I am accustomed to not being around them. That we value independence more than we value families and that something is lost there, something precious. Something I saw this morning when the aging, dementia and arthritic tia bid me farewell.

She cant talk. Well, she kind of talks. She grunts and mumbles sounds that are Quechua in origin. She never learned Spanish. So, we hardly understood each other. We even fought a bit. For the past week she has had a really bad cough and I kept trying to get her to drink warm water to calm her throat down but she, as the old often do, has lost most of her taste buds and only likes extremely sweet or extremely salty food. Drinking plain water is a punishment for her. When I would try to get her to do so, she would respond by grunting loudly and trying to hit me with a stick. A kind of communicating.

Her dementia is pretty far along, so when leaving this morning, she was watching TV and I thought it'd be best to not bother her, but Katy told her I was leaving and she got out of bed, shuffled down the stairs, fast, to see me off. The fastest I've ever seen a 65 year old Andean woman with arthritis move. Ana Maria was stunned that she was moving this fast. She wanted to say goodbye and to ask for pills for her headaches. I was shocked. I was saddened. Im sitting in food court at the Lima Airport, eyes brimming with tears, because of an old woman who might not ever remember me again but whose face filled with genuine emotion when i was leaving today. What happened there?

I've never really lived with anyone older before. And that was touching.

I know how Dhyana feels now. When she talks about Alejandro's family. It makes sense in a way it never did before. We both come from broken families. Her's broken, physically and emotionally. Mine, together physically but broken emotionally. When you find a family that is together, something clicks, some stupid fucking evolutionary button or desire that you never knew you had pops into place and you see things clearly, maybe for the first time. That capitalism, the quest for individuality and freedom is destroying something greater and stronger than money.

Im alone in this airport. I don't ever want to do this alone again. I felt lonely last Thanksgiving, made a promise to myself that the next Thanksgiving I'd be with friends I really cared about and that I would put the effort into building those relationships for the next year. I'm moving back to Shotwell in a week, that is where my SF adventure started. In that backyard. I've built some amazing friendships last year. Laid some ground work for a family. I missed those people powerfully on this trip. I missed my home. I found another home. Found another family. Realized how much I love my real family. How much I love my friends and my home. I do not know how to reconcile the two.

My glasses clink on the polished metal table. My head rests in my hands with curls spilling over my fingers. Im so tired of being alone. And I am so happy to coming back home.

Cooking in Peru

Cooking is many things to me. Creative expression, tangible manifestion of emotion, a professional endeavor and an activity that brings me comfort and joy. Food builds bonds and relationships but presents as a challenge with students and host families. Who is the kitchen boss? What can I touch? Where can I help? Can I cook a meal for everyone? Luckily, Alejandrina and Ana Maria are thrilled to have me in the kitchen.

Peruvian food centers around potatoes and locally raised meat like chicken, beef, guinea pig, trout and occasionally pork. There are lakes in the Sacred Valley where trout is raised, so fish makes regular appearance at meal times. Carrots, onions and celery from local farms start most dishes, just French food. I've eaten papas boiled, fried, mashed, in soup and fermented. The fermented ones remind me of stinky tofu. Rich, stagnant, meaty and almost putrid. Intense. Picante food is uncommon here, but I love the heat and was missing it dearly. So the first thing I made was hot sauce with local chiles, garlic, pepper and white vinegar. My host mom, Ana, loves it and even Alejandrina, biggest cooking critic ever, likes it in her soups. Success!

I'm a dedicated sauerkraut maker. At home a pot is always fermenting away and I saw no reason to stop the tradition because Peru would be my summer home. I bought a head of cabbage on my way back from the hospital during the first week and Alejandrina immediately asked how much it was. 2 soles, about 66 cents, I said and she laughed cause cabbage shouldn't cost more than 50 Peruvian centimos. Sigh, la cara del gringo. Kraut draws its flavor from the cabbage and spices(cumin, garlic and pepper are my favorites) used and the reactions between local bacteria and said ingredients. In SF I eyeball the amount of salt to prevent rampant bacteria growth while achieving desired flavor and texture. Peruvian bacteria is a whole new ball game, so I aggressively salted to avoid getting stupidly sick. Two weeks into the fermentation process I tasted it and discovered that while not rotten, it was inedible due to the salt. Alejandrina tried some too and promptly spit it out. We all laughed heartily at this gringo's cooking attempt. After a few rinses with warm water, I returned the kraut-to-be and crossed my fingers that in a few more weeks it'd be edible, at least. Yesterday I tasted it again and its delicious! Crunchy, salty and pleasantly fermented.

Margarita, host sister, is a phenomenal baker and we've made a few cakes together. For my birthday she made two orange cakes. Yum. Who doesn't love cake for breakfast and then cake for dinner on your birthday? I loved it. For another volunteer's birthday I made a mint lime cake with candied limes and a mint caramel on top. Margarita and I made a strawberry chocolate cake for six volunteers's goodbye party. I made the jam filling and we both made the cake. She decorates in this marvelous Martha Stewart style and finished the cake with a strawberry carved like a rose.

Dark, leafy greens are one of my favorites foods and severely lacking in the diet here, so Ana told me that a neighbor of ours has chard growing on her farm, I flipped out. She brought home a huge armload of chard and I cooked it up with red wine, raisins and peanuts. Ana couldn't stop talking about how yummy it was and that made my smile go wide. Veggies are cooked thoroughly here so when they ate this chard, still crunchy, they were shocked, pleasantly. This chard was the sweetest I've ever eaten. I happily munched on it raw while cooking.

For another potluck I made a tomato salad with tons of basil, oregano, queso andino and fennel. Finding the fennel was fun cause its not eaten here but used in teas instead. There was a grandma at Urubamba's midweek market who had fennel fronds and when I asked about the bulb she looked at me like I was off in the head. I explained what it was for, she remained unconvinced and I bought the biggest stalks that she had.

Marga and I made pizza the other evening. Using my dad's tomato sauce(my ultimate comfort food) as a base, Marga rocked the dough and Tia and I did the the toppings. One pie had corn, basil, ricotta, peas and caramelized onions(another new favorite for the host family) and the other was topped with cherry tomatoes, sausage, oregano and a local hard cheese. The first pie came out a bit soft, but we configured the oven right and the second pie was smashing. Volunteers who live with a host family that owns the best pizzeria in town, were freaking out about how good it was. Both Marga and I were blushing.

Funnily, I expected this post to be short. Oh well, I'll undoubtedly cook a few more times before the end of the month. Missing the summers bounty in the bay is painful and I am going to go produce crazy back home. Fig jam, stone fruit jam, pickles, corn preserves and possibly ketchup are on the list of things to make this fall. I bet I can make some awesome ketchup. Heinz, I'm gunning for you.

Walking the tracks

As an angsty suburban teen I walked a lot of train tracks. So, when I found out you could get to Machu Picchu, for free, by walking the tracks, I lept at the chance and yeah, I've been to Machu Picchu.

I didn't hike the Incan Trail, take a train, a bus or fly in on a helicopter. I walked for 9 hours along the train tracks from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes.

Irregularly sized steps across varying degrees of gravel is tough terrain but I found a stride and enjoyed it. Walking through slowly changing scenery and listening to the soundscape change along with it.

Dodging tourist trains and waving at the people who are staring, slack jawed, at us as we scamper around the rocks alongside the tracks.

We left mid-morning and arrived well after dark with jello legs and went hotel hunting. I felt powerful after having completed that walk, in the way you feel after exercising the limits of your body and not your mind.

Aguas Calients is a shit hole. It feels like Costa Rica. Empty. Fake. Dirty. Used. A gaping hole where a culture once was. I wanted to ascend Machu Picchu and leave STAT.

Machu Picchu was amazing but boring? A place that doesn't feel special anymore. Just a line item to initial and move on from. What is up next? Ankor Wat? The pyramids?

Ariela ate a pot brownie and got stupid sick. We had to hospitalize her, give her an IV and spend 6 hours in a clinic while she rehydrated. She pushed the limits of my frustration in ways that I had not known were possible. Lesson learned: Never hike 8 hours with someone you don't trust on a gut level. Just don't do it.

Organzing with food

I am a bit of rebel. Troublemaker. Organizer.

Sometimes that means blockading a highway, riding in Critical Mass, offering a skill share, attending a vigil, supporting a political prisoner, hosting a community meeting or throwing a party. People often forget what essential, effective organizing tools food and good times are.

There is mixed and wonderful group of volunteers here. Not to mention the amazing, passionate and beautiful community of Ollantinos that graciously opened their arms for us gringos this summer. Those things can be the start of wonderful relationships, just given a spark and moment to connect. Ana Maria, mi mamita peruana, has the perfect house for gatherings with a large comedor, years of experience hosting groups of foreigners and an ideal patio for a bonfire. We hosted a beautiful despidida for 6 volunteers recently and my family threw a fantastic birthday dinner for me that was easily the best birthday I've ever celebrated outside of the states.

Tomorrow another evening bonfire will happen, functioning as a despidida and get together for everyone. These potluck parties, drinking extravaganzas, are magical moments of friendship building, community strengthening and laughter making machines. In those moments and experiences you find and build trust with people and relationships. With that trust people will support you when a change needs to happen or when someone has to stand up to the system. Sometimes I wish the left would do their organizing at dinner parties and potlucks. Imagine the progress we could make while drinking and eating deliciousness.

Visitors

A favorite thing of mine while traveling is having friends and family come visit. Hint, hint everyone. The co-founder of the Centro de Idiomas, in Nicaragua, Dhyana, became a cherished friend of mine during that year. We bonded over our love of food, coffee, conversation, people and a commitment to bettering the world that we were born into. She is one of those people that I think about and am like, damn, she is so awesome. You know how we all have those idols or role models who do the things that really impress us? Or the things we would like to be doing ourselves? Dhyana is one of those people for me.

I emailed her in late May to say hi and see where she was, what she was up to and to fill her in on my adventures. I freaked out with joy when she wrote back to say that she was working in Peru this summer! I must of looked like a deer in the headlights of awesomeness at that moment. She is working for the Peruvian Ministry of Education and had time off towards the end of July. We planned to hang out then.

Dhyana came to Ollanta, which was wonderful because I was able to host and play tour guide, two of my favorite things to do. And sharing Ollanta, my everyday, mi familia aca and everything awesome about this place with her was great. She arrived a bit sick but my host family and I were able to dote on her. Insisting that she eat sopa de trigo and drink te de panti. Not tea made from panties, but from a little purple flower that is great for clearing up coughs and throat concerns.

We wandered around town, drank yummy coffee at El Albergue, made delicious brownies for my host family and the volunteers, and talked for hours and hours about everything. This might be, aside from her insight, intelligence and passion, the thing that I love most about Dhyana is that we can talk for hours upon hours and still have stuff to talk about the next day. Its phenomenal.

Getting updates about the Nicaraguan families I knew, our mutual friends, and Ocotal was great. It fed the fire that has been growing in my belly to visit Nicaragua again soon. My fingers are crossed for within the next year.

I'd like to raise a glass to toast those people in our lives who move us to be better, to work towards our goals and who make us feel genuine in every way.

Swedish tourists need help too.

"Coming home to Ollanta the next day was a relief. Exhausted, dirty, with sore muscles and burnt by both the sun and wind I was ready to lunch and then nap for a few hours. While drifting off to sleep, Abrahm, mi hermanito Peruano, hollered, "Demetrio! Te buscan!" What? Gah. I wrap a towel around my waist and step outside to find two volunteers, Chet and Oren,sitting on the stone wall outside my house. "Hey! Demetrius, someone is dying and theywanted us to come get you." Shit. Um….Ok. I splash water in my face, put on pants, grab myhoodie and head out. Whats going on?, I ask. "I don't know, Annie found some women in her hotel who is really sick." Awesome. Time? 3pm.

Walking to the market I have this realization: Choosing to work in healthcare means giving up a level of privacy in exchange for a skill set and commitment to society, broadly, and your community, specifically.

Amidst dust clouds from tour buses Oren and Chet give me the run down about what is going on. This woman is having heart palpitations, trouble breathing and tingling in her hands and feet. She is waiting outside the market with Annie and Chantelle. In my head, I was expecting a Peruvian woman. Why? No idea, but I was totally surprised to find that the person was Lika, a tall, blond, Swedish rock journalist on holiday.

We are now making a scene outside the market as Lika can barely stand, Chantelle runs and grabs a blood pressure cuff and we commandeer a market stall for some quiet space. I check her vitals. My guess is altitude sickness but I'm not a fucking doctor. A call with Rocio, the doctora I work with here, confirms my guess and we make a plan.

Lika needs oxygen, steroids and to get to a lower altitude. Ollantaytambo doesn't have the facilities that she needs, nor does Urubamba, so we need to get her to Cuzco. Ok, go to Cuzco, find a doctor and you'll be fine Ms. Tourist. Glitch: Lika doesn't speak any Spanish. French, English, Swedish? Yup! But Spanish? Nah. Awesome. A moment of silence passes around the volunteer circle as we all weigh the option of going to Cuzco tonight. I look at Annie, who started this mess, and she looks at me demurely as if to say, no way boy, all you. No one looks excited to take her to Cuzco. So I say, hey, what the hell a trip to Cuzco should be fun. We haggle with a taxista and then get aboard.

Ollanta is the last main train station before Machu Picchu. This blog is mostly written at that train station because the best coffee in town is at El Albergue. Daily about 10 trains passthrough town. When the trains arrive and the tourists disembark a massive traffic jam occurs .Ollanta is small and can hardly cope with the tourism boom and the strains it puts on the infrastructure. Local and national corruption guarantees a slow pace for improvement projects. For example, the main plaza is currently under construction, has been for months and while being worked on one of the roads in and out of town is shut down. The small, Incan sized roads complicate things and with every train arrival the town is plugged up for hours. A train had arrived half an hour before Lika and I tried to leave for Cusco. We waited in the taxi for an hour. Just as we got moving another volunteer, Anne Marie, knocked on our window looking for a ride to Cuzco. Anne did a quantitative analysis of the economic impact that Awamaki has on the weavers of Patacancha. It was great to have another person aboard and to discuss Anne's research.

We make it to Cuzco around 8pm, drop off Anne and book it to the hospital. We queued up forthe doctor. Lika had gone over her symptoms and story with me in the car but we recounted the tale to the doctor here. Checked her vitals again, listened to her heart and were able to check her oxygen absorption rate. Which was unsurprisingly low. The hospital doctor was in agreement with the diagnosis of altitude sickness. So, a shot of steroids was ordered up along with a few minutes on oxygen.

Intra-muscular shots in Peru are most often administered in the butt, specifically the upper right quadrant. Back home it is usually in the arm. Lika braced herself and the nurse administered the shot. Lika gave me a look that I know all too well. The "I am going to faint right now look," wide eyed, pallid and facial features laced with fear. Trying to keep her with me by talking didn't work, she blacked out, I shouted her name to wake her up and she came to. The next look she gave me was one of abject horror and then she clung to me like a limpet. We put her oxygen and I sat with her for about an hour as she recovered.

Scary right? It was scary for me too. I figured that she would be alright, but I didn't know and had to fake it the entire time. That was draining. I wonder if that fear would ever go away? Even with years of training will that nagging doubt of my own abilities linger with me?

Once Lika was recovered, we went to a swank hotel she knew of and crashed out by 11pm. Waking up in a fancy hotel with a hot shower and soft bed was nice treat. The breakfast buffethad real butter! Oh man. That was phenomenal. Lika needed some assistance changing her flight to Lima and then we got her situated for the rest of the day. I geeked a book from the hotel for the volunteer library at Awamaki and after a good hug goodbye, hopped a combi backhome to Ollanta.

Lares

Ollantaytambo is in a valley, the Sacred Valley, populated with ruins and scrubby trees. The climate here is moderate, similar to the bay with cold, foggy mornings, bright, sunny afternoons and crisp, clear nights. Pleasant in its familiarity. Lares is the next valley over and it is hot, damp, burgeoning with life and home to thermal baths. It can take 6 hours on combi and bus through Ollanta to Urubamba to Calca and finally Lares. Or you can hike 8 hours from Patancancha, over the pass and through the valley to the baths. We opted to hike.

Waking up at 5am to the sound of rain was nice yet ominous because at 2800 meters, in Ollantaytambo, rain is simply rain, but at 4600 meters, the pass to Lares, rain is snow. Ana Maria, mi mamita Peruana, forewarned me about snow and I even retreating to my bed for some quality book time but the thermal baths and challenge of the hike won out. Our group of nine left Patacancha under a soft rain and headed up the mountain towards the snow line. We crossed the snow line about an hour after starting and it became painfully apparent that none of us had properly prepared for snow. Everyone was in sneakers and a few were without rain gear. Luckily we had oja de coca, plastic bags to wrap our socks in and plenty of encouragement from to make it through.

Amidst the falling snow and our freezing toes we walked through beautiful scenery. Sighting brown, white, black and red alpacas and llamas on the hillside against the freshly snow covered hillside with their pivoting ears and cute faces was fantastic. It was spectacular. We worked our way up skinny llama trails until the herds of alpaca and llama flanked as we hiked and they ruminated happily amongst the rain and snow. A cluster of houses surrounded by sheep and barking dogs greeted us at 2 hours in. The land around the houses was dotted with mysterious dark circles that looked like a giant polka dot blanket on the mountainside. Perfect for stepping into to avoid a bit of snow, it turned out that these were urine stains from the llama herds. Awesome.

The snow descending heavily as we kept climbing. Happily sucking on coca leaves and rocking out to Lady Gaga to stave off the cold and wet, I took the lead on the hill. Looking back at the human chain behind me, dark little figures trekking in the snow, and then gazing upward at the pass and thinking, this is amazing. Cresting the pass first I celebrated with a little "I made it to the pass first" happy dance. Everyone made it up ok, we took a group photo, drank some water, chewed more oja de coca and started down the mountain.

Going down was treacherous compared with ascending. The transitioning from snow and rocks to mud to wet grass was rough. One of us fell about 20 times, everyone fell at least once and luckily all without any serious injuries. The landscape shifted from snow covered mountains to eucalyptus trees and bushes as we descended into the valley. Passing by houses, giggling children and vicious, territorial dogs we strolled towards Lares in rain soaked and mud stained clothes. Once the hot springs were sighted it seemed that each volunteer spontaneously beamed with joy. Thoroughly soaking our bodies in slightly scalding sulfurous water worked wonders for easing tight muscles after that hike. After a night in Lares with a good meal, hard beds and much laughter in the hotel we boarded a bus the next morning to return home.

No placenta left behind.

Waiting. Waiting. Taking inventory of the emergency pharmacy. Administering medication to sick babies. Nebulizing someone with pneumonia. Waiting. Waiting. Drinking mate. Drinking coffee in the dirty kitchen, three people on a tiny wooden bench. Eating cookies. Gossiping. A kitten mewls. Waiting. Waiting. Fixing insurance forms.

Knock knock knock. Doctora!

The couple is a dude who is freaking out and a woman breathing heavily, wet stains all down her sweat pants. We pile into the birthing room and send the dad to go buy needed supplies at a pharmacy. Deysi, la obstetriz, takes over. She calms the mama down, goes over breathing and what's specifically going happen during the birth. A quick check on the baby's process then a look at the clock. Part of her brain is calculating how much time until the baby must come out and the other is clearly thinking about going to bed.

The mom to be is not into it. She has been pushing for about 30 minutes now and is tiring out. The baby is still in there and mama is fading fast. Rocio, la doctora, tells momma that if she gives up the baby dies cause we can't cut anyone open in Urubamba. This motivates the mom to push enthusiastically and POP! Baby!

Healthy, 3.10 kilos, cute, eyes moving like crazy. All is well in baby world.

Mama is still having issues. The placenta came out quickly but during the birth there was some tearing and now we've got some blood flow to deal with. Deysi starts cleaning and suturing. After the external lesions are sewed up there is still bleeding. Turns out that just inside the vaginal opening is a small lesion. More sewing. We are now an hour into the birthing process and new momma is losing blood still. I've got no context for whats going on, so a part of me begins to worry but Rocio and Deysi are calm, so I do not sweat it. We get a speculum and dilate her to see what is going on inside. More blood comes pouring out and as we are swabbing inside with cotton bandages a 1 inch piece of placenta appears. Well, that is that. The bleeding stops. We are done.

Deysi wipes her brow. That birth took about two hours. She is tired. Im wired, adrenaline pumping hard at all the new information to process. Take away: Never forget to get all the placenta out!

Don't freak out.

You'll never find a bloody cotton ball on the floor of a hospital hallway back home. A midwife would never leave the birthing room filthy with a trail of blood from door to birthing table to trash can and back out the door. The hospital gowns soaked in sweat, urine, excrement, vomit, blood and other bodily fluids that pile up in a big white bucket behind the emergency room are to be washed later. But after a few hours of midday heat those gowns emit a distinct stench that infiltrates your nostrils. As a volunteer, I acknowledge that I cannot change these things. This is the reality of the situation. My role is to support, not criticize, and to work, dutifully, alongside my mentor while learning and observing todo de lo que hay.

Im going to tell you some stories. Don't freak out. During a recent night shift a drunk 55 year old man arrived, bleeding from a nice 3 inch scalp wound received during a bar fight. We cleaned, then stitched him up. As he rose from the ER chair his hair left a bloody paintbrush stroke across its top. We let it be for the night. Our following patients were told to simply avoid the stain.

One midday shift was defined by a 38 year old male victim of a traffic accident with heavy bleeding from a head wound. He was instructed to wash in a sink by an emergency nurse. A common washing technique here is to wet your hair, run your hands through it and then shake it out. Apply blood to this situation and you get a beautiful splatter pattern on the walls which has remained there for the past 25 days.

Just after luncheon last week a 65 year old woman was brought to us, unconscious and convulsing. We took her vitals, got an IV going and tried to arrange for emergency transport to Cusco plus a bed in an intensive care unit. The first bed was available at 8pm. We crossed our fingers and hoped she'd make it. She died in our ER at 6:30pm, just as the ambulance arrived. She first convulsed that morning at 8am. The family let her be because they had to work on the farm that day, had not signed up for the free government subsidized health insurance and did not have the money to bring her to the hospital. When she hadn't woken up by the afternoon and they decided to bring her in, it was too late. Maybe with new technology and more staff we could of saved her. Maybe if we had an intensive care unit in Urubamba, maybe if Cusco's ICU had more beds, maybe if the family had brought her in earlier. Maybe.

These things do not happen because no one cares, people here are dirty or do not understand basic healthcare. These things happen because, just like at home, healthcare workers and the underclasses are overworked, under paid, under valued and disrespected. The staff aft La Posta bust their asses daily take care of the people in the Sacred Valley. The 65 year old unconscious, convulsing woman without the free government insurance? She, nor her husband, had documents on them. The husband did not know his, or her, national identification number. Magali, the coordinator of insurance in our posta, searched for their children, found them and got the woman insured within half an hour to guarantee that emergency care, ambulance ride and ICU care would be free. Rocio, my mentor, called Cusco every 30 minutes to plead with the admitting doctor there to get a bed for our patient. We did everything we could with the time and resources we had. This is a patient I'll never forget.

The gentlemen with head wounds were cleaned and stitched up professionally and promptly. But with lines 5 people deep all day long outside the emergency room, no one had time to clean. There is one dedicated person on the janitorial staff. She lives at the posta, works 16 hour days and does a great job cleaning but is overworked and underpaid. Rocio works an insane schedule, that I mirror, and hasn't been paid in 4 months.

The money indicated for hiring more staff, paying the existing staff, purchasing new equipment or building improvements often vanishes. The posta was severely damaged by the intense rains that bombarded the valley earlier this year. The money given by the government for repairs ended up in officials' pockets and we got shiny new plywood consultorios and no replacement equipment. Empty boxes of gloves, syringes and medications lie around as reminders of what we do not have. If a patient needs an injection, the prescription they receive has gloves and a syringe on it as well.

With what we have people get care, get cured and return smiling and appreciative for the healthcare providers of la posta. I was bear hugged yesterday from a newborn's papa whose birth I assisted with. It was quite surprising, felt amazing and has kept my smile big and bright all day. The care here is genuine and effective. When you consider the challenges faced, it becomes even more impressive.

Healthcare is not sterile, pastel colored rooms, pristine lobbies and shiny new machines. Sometimes it is bloody cotton balls, bright red splatter stains, dirty gowns and messy rooms. That is our backdrop here. Everyday we kick ass, make patients smile, help babies come into this world and get kids with broken legs to laugh as blood runs freely from their wounds.

The ruins of Pisac and us.

Deep breathing. Step after gigantic step. Pausing for a second to survey the Sacred Valley as seen from Pisac. Back to climbing. Steep. Land terraced 2000 years ago for farming to my left and right. Ascending 600 meters just shy of an hour. Cresting the top and realizing there are three more peaks filled with ruins behind this one. I clamber around the remnants of a temple. Plop down on a stone wall as the same sun that spurred growth in Incan crops warms my back.

Grass now grows in perfectly cut stone walls. Wind pushes through stone passage ways and carries seeds in search of little dirt deposits to call home. Whispers of clouds pass over head, teasing us with cool shadows. The wet season brings rain and cooler temperatures. Those seeds take root, grab all the soil they can and push little rootlings between precision cut Incan stones.

I see all this. Giant stones shifting as wind, water, sun and plants take back the space once occupied by the Incans. Those stones will become dust and memories of this place will exist in words and stories. Un dia nos va a tocar a la misma. What will be said about us in stories? What will be remembered?

The Routine

The routine, my everyday.

A funny family of six and their noises. A combi starting, Ana yelling for Abram, the dogs barking, people shuffling in and out of the bathroom, yelps from the cold shower and the occasional restroom tune.

We all start with bread and tea, sometimes chocolatada(cacao milled with oats) for breakfast. There is the occasional cheese and the ever present, super sugary pineapple jam. They brew coffer here using the sock method. Hang a sock through a wire hoop, add coffee and hot water, strain, add sugar, drink.

A groggy walk through town. With my headphones too often in, catching up on podcasts, news, science health and food ideas or slyly rocking out. Watching everyone wake up, or noting that everyone is already way awake, and that I've been sleeping in again. This is an agricultural town. People are up early to get to the chacra and then return home and to go to another job. Ana gets the some farm time in and then opens the store down town.

Porters for the Incan Trail gather in the square around mamitas selling coffee, poncho and pancito. Blowing on their hands to keep warm and shuffling the weight of their packs back and forth.

The Urubamba bound crowds mug the combis, everyone angling for a good seat. As a 6'2" man in a country designed around people a foot shorter than myself I know all the combis and all the good seats to keep these tree-trunk legs from cramping on the 40 minute ride. A ride defined by school kids, all rowdy, stinky, boisterous, giggling and laughing while displaying little flashes of adult behavior. This is my morning lesson in patience and schoolyard slang.

The walk form the bus depot the health center brings me past Starwood resorts, basketball courts, tire repair shops and a fancy, air conditioned gas station with it's imported booze and chocolate just feet from the women hawking chicha de quinoa or roasted fava beans(delicious!).

The health centro is U- shaped, located directly across the street from the main gas station and alongside a huge Wednesday market where you can buy everything from piglets, chickens, leggings, panties, carrots, tomatoes or a dozen different kinds of potatoes. For record's sake, I've only bought carrots and panties.

The centro smells like a fake pine forest in the mornings. Norma loves it and cleans twice daily while no doubt dreaming of evergreen forests. The walls are unpainted, mostly plywood and the ceilings are high. Earlier this year there were devastating rains in Peru and the two ends of the U were ruined by flooding and rendered useless due to a massive mold infestation and weakening of the wooden infrastructure. "Emergency " consultorios - consult rooms - were built out of plywood in what used to be the lobby. Thankfully, the emergency room - topico and salon de partos - birthing room and the hospitalization/inpatients center were undamaged.

Most of our days, Rocio and I, are spent in the consultorio. A simple plywood box over dark, well worn, wood floors, a simple hospital bed, a stained movable curtain, a desk, a computer and four metal lockers define the space. That and three chairs. When I started volunteering with Rocio we had to hunt for an extra chair every morning, a chair that would inevitably disappear by the afternoon. It took two weeks of chair hunting and meeting all the staff, explaining what I was doing, before the chair remained in the consultorio semi-regularly. I've liberated a few chairs in the afternoons here.

We see about 20 patients in the morning and 20 in the afternoon as well as any emergencies that need attending to. For comparison, the doctors in my current practice see about 16 a day. Imagine what is lost in the rush.

Day 1 at La Posta de Salud en Urubamba

When the first day includes an abortion, examining a cadaver for foul play, treating a spurting head wound, fainting teenagers and a boatload of sick babies who scream bloody murder when getting injections you know the summer is going to be exciting and educational.

Ollantaytambo

The best way to get to Ollantaytambo from Cuzco is minivan. I made it to the minivan station at 3pm. Bad idea. School had just gotten out. The ayudante squeezes me and 40 giggling, groaning school kids into the van. It was a tight fit for the next half hour till the kids emptied out and I found a seat.

The landscape around here is mountainous dotted with small shrubs, rock slides, Incan ruins and dusty switchbacks trailing off into the distance. Eventually this valley, the Sacred Valley, takes you to Macchu Pichu. Since the late 70's villages in this valley have become towns and towns have become little cities thanks to tourism dollars.

Ollantaytambo, my town till August 25th, is the last stop on the train before Macchu Pichu and boasts its own beautiful ruins. Geographically important to the Incans because it's easy to defend and has plentiful rich agricultural land. Good reasons still, the ruins and agricultural land are propelling the Ollantaytinos into the 21st century. Many tourists stop here and many townsfolk have businesses catering to them. Woodfired pizza ovens? Italian espresso machines? Is this San Francisco?

Getting to town and settling into my family and life here for the next two months is exciting. I cannot wait to get to the hospital and get to work.

Peruvian Home

Home, sweet Peruvian Home.

For the next two months I'll be living here in Ollantaytambo, Peru. It felt good to arrive and finally meet the family and see the town that will have me as a guest till August 25th. Exciting and relieving.

My room at my host family's home in Ollanta, looks out to dry mountains, dotted with Inkan ruins and dusty horse paths. A river runs below them, carving out the valley, dirtied with pollution from the all towns in the valley. A beautiful beach with grey sand, ideal for sunning, would be ideal for swimming if the river was clean. The growth rate and lack of environmental awareness/education is a horrendous combination. The people of this land are rapidly and unconsciously destroying it, along with corporations. All in this mad dash to profit from tourism and the globalized economy we share. Glimmers of its beauty are apparent from a distance: snow capped mountains, terraced hill sides and fingers of blue wood smoke reaching for the sky early in the morning. But the beauty of my host mom's smile, my host sister's excitement about Lady Gaga or the camaraderie that comes from drinking beer with my cousin can only be felt from a few inches away.

The host family is wonderful and the house a shambling collection of bits and pieces. The kitchen and dining area are adobe with tarped ceilings and dirt floors. Currently visiting the dining area is a Virgin and a daily prayer group at 5pm. Cooking to the sound of old women reciting Ave Marias is novel and slightly creepy. In the kitchen you'll find about 40 guinea pigs running around, squeaking and eating alfalfa. Called "cuy" here there are source of protein; fatty, gamey and totally edible. Guarding the cuy is dirty little white kitten who spends it's days napping near the fogon - a wood fired stove. The fogon sees the most cooking action, soup, rice, potatoes, but we occasionally use gas. Nearby the family has farmland with peas, alfalfa, a grumpy old cow, more cuy and plenty of wood for cooking fuel. Just outside the kitchen is the chicken coop and the yard. 9 hens freely roam under the sun and rooster's watchful eye while laying an egg every few days or so. Three, small in size but bursting with bravado, dirty white dogs - Yogi, Oso and Pelusa - guard the complex, barking late into the night at every moving shadow. They chased a huge pig out of the yard last Monday and I laughed so hard as they did. The living quarters are two stories high, cement and rectangular. Cool during the hot days and cold during the cold nights. I'm on the bottom floor, in the largest room that I've ever called home. Such a change from the tiny SF boxes people call apartments.

The family is Ana Maria(mom), Alejandrina(neighbor), Margarita(sister), Katy(sister), Abrahm(adopted son), Rueben(cousin) and Goyo(adopted son). Ana Maria is the president of a 2,000 member women's association that formed to fight injustices happening to women in Sacred Valley. In addition to being politically rad, she farms, runs the family, operates a store downtown and is great to simply talk with. Alejandrina cooks and cleans but lives up the road. A bit surly, but with a deep, fleshy laugh that warms my heart. This leads me to do silly shit in an attempt to make her smile. Margarita works for the municipality but spent 6 years in Italy studying to be a nun. Realizing she wanted a family, she kicked the habit and returned home. We bake cakes together and generally act like brother and sister, punching, stepping on each other's toes and teasing each other about enamorados. Katy is in high school and literally jumped for joy when I busted out the Lady Gaga. Abrahm is 8. He spends his time spinning tops, playing in the dirt and complaining about doing chores. We have much in common. Rueben drives a combi, collective van, between Ollantaytambo and Urubamba. He just broke up with his wife and is living with us for a while. Goyo is working on a local political campaign and the national literacy effort. He is in and out of the house. The mix of people is well balanced, woman led and pleasant. The time we spend in the smoky, squeaking kitchen drinking mate, eating and joking is comforting, healing. I feel at home.

Fireworks and Urine

1:30am Cuzco arrival time. Hail a cab. How much to Hostal Royal Frankenstein? 20 Soles($1 = 3 Soles). Ha, no, 5 Soles. Silence. Well? Ok.

Welcome to the Gringo Capital of South America. Where the local culture is trampled and foreigners are walking dollar signs. Quite different than Bolivia, where tourism is still establishing itself. Here, and throughout Peru, tourism helps many, many people bring home the bacon.

My week in Cuzco coincides with Inta Raymi, a month long celebration of Cuzco's history replete with fireworks, traditional dance, reenactments of ancient battles, platos tradicionales, lots of drinking, and day long parades. My first night in town was marked by a light and sound show - luz y sonido - in the plaza de armas which was packed shoulder to shoulder with locals and foriengniers. Not being a fan of crowds, I grabbed a bottle of Chilean red wine and climbed a few hills looking for a quieter spot. Roof of an elementary school? Perfect. Up I went to wait until the fireworks began. Unbeknownst to me, the school roof was located just below the launching zone. What followed was ten minutes of exploding heaven. Being an early July baby, I've long associated my birthday with fireworks. Thus my deep love and need to watch fireworks at least once near my birthday. If not, I get really cranky, just ask my old partners. Watching the sky explode with flaming rainbows and glittering silver willow trees while drinking red wine on the roof of a Cusqueno elementary school made for a damn good, if early, birthday celebration.

The rest of my week in Cuzco was passed wandering around the touristed and untouristed parts of town. Geat conversations with an older chap about Peruvian, American and international politics. All politicians are greedy and will do whatever they need to do to increase their power was the consensus. Yup. Got sick for a few days. Bound to happen. Watched a lot of World Cup games. Soccer doesn't have any where near the appreciation it should back home. Mid-afternoon drinking with a random assortment of internationals and everyone hollering at the TV screen is fun.

The night before the Cuzco's big reenactment of its was una locura. The little plaza right near my hostel was packed with people selling caldo de gallina, pollo asado con papas, chicha, rum and coke(pre-mixed) and beer. The smallest beer being sold was a 40 oz, so I bought one, grabbed a cup and sat down to drink and people watch. A guy, Mario, invited me to join his drinking circle, so we shot the shit about art, philosophy, the USA, Peru, travelers and girls, as boys are wont to do. A woman came by selling beer and we bought a few more 40's, a large drunk man then got right into her face for a second and Mario whispered in my ear that they are married. Large drunk guy hears this, fills a cup with beer, throws it Mario's face and kicks him in the stomach. Taking that as my exit cue, I step away, thank everyone for the good time and leave. Walking away I noticed that the streets were sopping wet. Walking past a set of port-a-potties, the men were using them, just not as designed. They simply urinated on the outside of them and created a rapidly flowing river of urine down the street. It was as if a storm drain had overflowed with urine. Chuckling to myself, I noted that Black Rock City's human waste disposal system is better organized than Cuzco's.

Tomorrow the city reenacts ancient battles and I board a combi to Ollantaytambo!

A lot of bus

Thursday night, 10pm: Leaving Cochambamba for La Paz, then Lake Titicaca and Copacabana before the border at Desaguadero, afterwards lies Puno and finally arriving in Cuzco at 1:30am on Saturday.

A lot of bus.

A lot of beautiful scenery, particularly the terraced hills ringing Lake Titicaca. Incan terraforming visible everywhere on gentle slopes and dangerous descents. Blue water and fierce sun at 3,800 meters above sea level gave me the worst burn of the trip yet. Well worth it.

After getting stamped and processed at Desaguadero, the Peru-Bolivia border, 7 additional people joined the already full bus that brought us there. Naturally this created a scramble for seats with 7 people, not all of them new, having to sit in the aisle for the next 4 hours. During musical chairs an American woman, the last to re-board the bus, was told that she was going to have to sit in the aisle. Her response, in English, "I'm not from the third world, I don't have to deal with this shit," hung heavy in the air for a few minutes till a young man from Colombia gave her his seat. Would I have given her my seat? Not at all, this is part of the party. I gave the man from Colombia my seat half way through the ride because he shouldn't of had to bear the privileged traveler's burden alone.

Is this cold of me? No. Traveling is hard, you have to constantly adjust to new situations and decipher implicit norms on the fly. This experience changes you, softens your straight lines and wears down those mental rough edged expectations you carry. That is exactly why I travel. For the metamorphosis it induces, however large or small.

Phew. That has been demasiado bus for me. May my primary form of transport for the next two months be ambulation or bicycle.

Starry Nights

A bus filled with 29 sleeping souls and me rumbles across Bolivia's dirt roads. Listless, I stare out the window and notice the stars. Stars unseen from the north. Stars kept invisible by the light pollution. But here, as if I was lounging inside the Hubble telescope it is just darkness, stars and myself for miles around. Crystal clear pin points of light create a glowing spider web of fantastical shapes in the sky and I stare, giddy like a child with my secret prize. A quick glance around the bus confirms it's mine as I nuzzle up to the window, pull my blanket tighter and wonder what stories the Incans shared with these stars.

The White City

A dusty, bumpy, crowded, stinky midnight bus from Samaipata to Sucre reminds me that not everything is a small, peaceful mountain town.

Sucre, the White City, shares the capital role with La Paz and is a historically wealthy town, packed with colonial buildings, ornate, well preserved churches and a large, shady central plaza. Why the moniker? Because the buildings around town center are maintained in their original colonial paint color. The effect conveys power, cleanliness and purity, but that posturing falls apart two blocks off the plaza. You'll find mangos, queso criollo, chicken feet and beef heart next to each other at a gritty everyday food market where lunch is a buck and taking in the scene is free and comfortable.

Cochambamba next! Then on to Peru!

Samaipata

In SF life is non stop. Work, choir, school, bike coalition, jam making, farmer's markets, dates and friends. Before the volunteer job starts in Urubamba, I have a single goal: relax. Samaipata, 3 hours southwest of Santa Cruz was the perfect place to do that.

Buried high in the mountains Samaipata is the closest town to "El Fuerte", an Inca Fortress cum ceremony site cum intersection of Andean and Amazonian cultures. The dark green hills are dappled with fog and the climate is comfortably cool. Abandoned ruins, a not oft touristed town makes for a tranquil hideaway. You run away to Samaipata when the world's tide comes in too fast. Thus the preponderance of ex-pats here. Voluntary refugees from Europe who open tour agencies, french bakeries or bars called "La Oveja Negra". Making finding a good croissant easier than a good internet connection in this Andean mountain town.

Not just a town for Incan fortresses, cheap produce, and french pastries but also a beautiful street dog population. No flea ridden, dread locked, dirt covered, scabbed, pus dripping and drooling mongrel curs roving the streets. Instead Dalmations, Saint Bernards, chocolate labs, poodles, and golden retrievers. Is this were all the beautiful dogs of our childhoods run away to?

Bus Stations!

It's been three years since Latin America was my everyday. Slipping back into those sandals should be easy, ya? Wrong. Bus stations = complete chaos:

"Hey! Im on the 5:30pm bus to Santa Cruz. Where does that leave from?"
"Ok, Its that bus there, Trans Copacabana in Gate 3."
"Thanks!"

I get on the bus, put my stuff in my seat, check in my bag. An attendant shouts, "Hey, wrong bus!"
"What? It says Santa Cruz and Trans Copacabana."
"Yeah but this is Trans Copacabana 1 Em and you want Trans Copacabana S.A."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."

Five minutes later, a Swiss kid and I are chatting and the exact same thing happens to her. I point this out and she gives me a seriously suspicious look. Im like yeah, you want Trans Copacabana 1 Em. This is Trans Copacabana S.A. Trust me.

Informal information distribution a success. High five!

It's 5:25pm. Im staring at gate 3 like a possessed person, willing the bus to arrive. I check with the ticket company. "Is my bus here?"
"Yeah. Its at gate 5."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."

Forgot how deep the informality runs.

16 hours later we arrive in Santa Cruz. Easily the longest bus ride of my life, punctuated by the same cell phone ringing every 20 minutes, the driver changing the movie three times, passing like this was Nascar and in a vain attempt to sleep I take half an Ambien which turns out to be half a Prednisone. Slick, Demetrius, way to give yourself headaches for 2 days. Sigh.

Wouldn't be anywhere else but here right now.

Sausage, marathons and shiny skirts

Travel makes me a different person sometimes. Is it the different sets of longitude and latitude coordinates or the living under foreign cultural norms that produces a novel set of behaviors? Quien sabe? The amazingness is noting how these subtle differences translate into the default world. A kink there, a bit more freedom here and slight tweak to the entire color scheme. But if the changes translate back home, are they actually changes in behavior? Or just behaviors that receive extra emphasis in certain moments?

Did I feel different walking around La Paz? Engaging in one of my favorite traveling activities: walking around with no plan, no destination, just observing what is. Like how the American Embassy, with its high walls, barbed wire, video cameras and armed guards, is different than Spain's Embassy, with a facade reminiscent of a large brown and white victorian house. Maybe I felt less encumbered.

Passing the time strolling from the top of La Paz, down El Prado, on a Sunday morning, a guy passes me wearing a number like one would see in a marathon, then another, then another and another and all of the sudden I'm swimming in marathoners freshly finished with a race at 12,000ft. Impressive. Wandering through the red faced, huffing and puffing throngs I found my prize: street food. The popular post marathon snack in La Paz? A deep fried sausage sandwich! Opting for just meat and bread, as my stomach is still adjusting to the local flora and fauna, it was an excellent mix of hot, crunchy, juicy and spicy. A perfect pick me up after a long morning walk, or a marathon, at 12,000ft.

Nibbling on my sausage I found a public health and environment awareness fair! Booths for local activist groups, NGOs, government offices, people passing out free seedlings and presentations about a vast array of topics, including global warming. Demonstrations by kung fu groups, a performance by the local goths, Bolivian punks pushing pamphlets and an aging dirty English gutter punk hippie preaching veganism. There was a fair amount of graffiti denouncing meat eating around town, so was it just him or is there a local interest in veganism? The health fair and the marathon were great snippets of La Paz life.

Oh, ladies, if you are ever wondering what to wear on a sunday in La Paz, a shiny, multi layered ruffled skirt is the correct answer. I'll happily bring one back for you, if you'd like.

La Paz

Flying over Bolivia the thing that strikes you is how brown it is. Light, medium, dark brown and gray must of been the only available colors the day the goddesses painted this land. There are jungles here but you couldn't see them from the plane. It was almost depressing for a second but then my sheer giddiness overcame me.

La Paz is also the highest capital in the world at 12,000 feet. Catching your breath here is hard, just a few stairs will take the breath out of you and the hostel has me accommodated on the 3rd floor. So far no altitude sickness though! Upon arrival at the hostel, a cup of instant coffee inhand(welcome to South America!), I climbed to the roof for a gander at this marvelous city. While staring at La Valle de la Luna, in the distance, a beautiful Siamese cat danced along the roof, dark paws padding along the rusty tin roof and cream colored body contrasted beautifully against it's background. The cat didn't heed my call, no shock there, and dashed off to chase a bug and disappear amongst the rows of tin.

On the flight to La Paz I sat next to a woman who is going to be shadowing pediatricians in La Paz all summer through Children's Health International. Their programs looked interesting during my research but were too expensive, not interaction based, lacked a practical focus and were devoid of the commitment to strengthening the community that Awamaki prides itself in does. The biggest question bouncing around my head is how is Awamaki going to shape up compared to their promises and my expectations? The later can be checked but the former is out of my hands.

La Paz rests inside a perfect half circle atop this mountain as if Pachamama finished her soup and walked off without her bowl. The walls are lined with red brick houses and winding cobblestone roads that drift down to the center of town. At night they light up with white and blue lights. The city was originally divided by the Rio Choqueyapu, the Colonialist Spaniards settled on one side and the indigenous people were forced to the other. I explored the indigenous part today, checking out Catedral San Francisco, originally built in 1567, the Museo de Coca, which gave a fascinating cultural history of coca and then the Witch Market, where Llama fetuses were available for purchase.

Grandmas from South and Central America are my favorite people in the world. The grannies selling veggies at the market today were shocked that 1. Spoke Spanish and 2. was buying vegetables and 3. knew how to cook them. The produce was beautiful. Purple, white, yellow and pink potatoes, chard, carrots, quinoa along with a picante chile went into a soup for the next few days. And where there is milk there is cheese, in this case queso criollo, farmer's cheese, salty and moist, delicious spread on bread or crumbled in pasta or atop a soup. They had hard cheese, queso para freir, too but I'm not the largest fan of fried cheese. Those grannies had a pretty solid laugh at and with me and they'll definitely have my return business if more veggies are needed this week.

Tunderclouds above Miami

JFK airport at noon on a Thursday is a dull place to be. American Eagle to Washington DC is the first leg of the trip to La Paz, Bolivia and this terminal was clearly an afterthought. The ceilings are 20 feet lower than the main terminal, the chairs ripped and worn, the fluorescent lights flicker with a need to be replaced and the faded navy carpet has a mixture of potato chips, gum and baggage claim stickers ground into it. Here I wait to board the smallest plane ever. My ticket says group 3 which means there will be space for my bag. With increased fees for checking bags, everyone and their mothers, especially their mothers, are trying to pass off monstrous bags as carry-ons and my wee little messenger bag has to fight for dear life for just a spot in the over head bins.

JFK to DCA is a success. The 3 hour layover should fly by with books, delicious food from home and tons of writing to do. Walking up to the gate there I see Katherine, a Peace Corp volunteer from Nicaragua, and we last ran into each other at an ecoturismo project outside of Esteli. Apparently we have a knack for running into each other unexpectedly. Good thing too, cause not an hour later our flights were canceled due to thunderstorms in Miami and DC.

Sweet. Stranded in DC. Just the way things should be going. Luckily Katherine and I managed to get rebooked and caught up over beers and burgers that night. There is a silver lining in every thundercloud.

The following morning after more conversation and yummy oatmeal, along with the last good espresso for three months, at Northside Social, I headed to muggy DCA, managed to get a flight to sweltering Miami and finally boarded a plane to La Paz at 1:45am. 48 hours after the journey started I am taxi bound to my hostel.

Goodbye!

Goodbye SF!

It was a whirlwind wrapping up SF this time. From finishing a nutrition final just before departure, getting everything moved and stored, drinking that last beer with a friend and fixing all the loose ends dangling around. It'll be a challenge to see if the bay feels like home by the end of August.

Goodbye NJ!

Time with family and friends. Many great meals cooked and shared with people I love. And this strong sense of being completely done with NJ. Reassuring yet frightening. Where is home if where I grew up no longer feels like it?

Goodbye NYC!

Consistently giving the bay a run for it's money NYC - mostly Brooklyn - did not fail to deliver this time. A wonderful meal at Fatty Cue, delicious coffee at Blue Bottle and stiff drinks and good talks with friends at Union Pool. My last night in SF I met a man on the bus who said NYC can devour a person whole, while SF can be devoured. An apt description.

Looking forward to the next legs of this journey. The flight down, La Paz and how I manage to arrive in Cuzco by the 25th of June.