Confessions of a Free Agent

Warrenetta Banks, Office Manager at the Lower Ninth Ward Center for Sustainable Engagement & Development, asked me to write something for the community's monthly newsletter. Here goes:

Whenever I meet someone new in New Orleans, they can usually tell from my accent that I am not a local. They almost immediately ask: “Well…what are you doing here?!” I am consistently delighted that the only answer I have to offer is this: “I’m a volunteer – I’m here to help.”

It’s an answer that is always greeted by a big smile, and often by an even bigger hug. The warmth of every welcome is a gift, and I have received so many of these gifts since arriving in the Crescent City. These gifts are the reasons why I came in the first place. When friends and family in New York and Los Angeles asked me why I was heading south to New Orleans, I responded: “To give as many hugs as possible!”

I am twenty-six years old. I am blessed to be at a turning point in my career as a business manager with adequate savings to sustain me for awhile. After traveling for six months in South America, Europe, and across the United States, I felt a very strong calling to engage in public service by directly connecting with people who need help. These connections will prepare my heart to make good decisions about how to spend the rest of my career. I ask myself: "What are my strengths, and how can I apply them in ways that create peace, joy and fulfillment in my life?" Invariably, I cannot have those things unless I am participating in the creation of peace, joy and fulfillment in the lives of other people.

Without fail, the second question that everyone asks me is: “What organization are you volunteering with?” My response is unconventional, and my unlikely path makes this experience so much fun. By answering in this way, I am maximizing both my impact on the city and the personal growth that I experience during my stay: “With no organization in particular…I am a free agent!”

When embarking on this journey, I reasoned that a parent non-profit organization should not need to incur the costs of administrating me. I am capable of managing my own calendar. I have an inquisitive mind and enjoy reading blogs and surfing the web. I have been learning about a number of wonderful initiatives. My car provides mobility, and so often I just show up at a volunteer office with a smile, extend my hand, and say “how can I help?” I understand the importance of networking and community building, and so I strive to introduce myself to as many people as possible. Referrals through people who I meet at community meetings are providing some of my most enriching experiences.

I have been in New Orleans for three weeks and have donated my time thus far to the St. Joseph Rebuild Center, Green Light New Orleans, Common Ground Relief, the Holy Cross Neighborhood Association, the St. Bernard Project, Blanket New Orleans, and the MRGO Must Go Coalition. It is fascinating to see how grassroots community organizers are turning this city around and making life better for themselves and their neighbors. It is inspiring and enlivening to watch and participate in this process. Along the way, you have made me feel welcome as one of your neighbors. I am so blessed to have had every warm smile, wave, and embrace that you have given. I feel your faith running through my blood and know that this city will always be a place that I consider home. My hug tally is off the charts.

Eurotopia, and hello NOLA!

I got way too caught up in having fun in Europe to have time to write about it...sorry...

I'll give you a short laundry list so that you can feel bad for me about how hard my life is.  After Italian Brucetopia, there was:

• UEFA Euro Cup madness in Vienna, in which the German and Spanish uniformed fans overtook the city in complete jubilation and intoxication and I almost got thrown into a fountain after the final...
  
• Shopping, sightseeing and spa time in the thermal baths of Budapest
• Exploring the Roman Emperor Diocletian's Palace in Split, Croatia and finding out that my hotel was actually inside the palace walls
• Lying on the beach in Brela, letting the water lap up my legs, and looking at this all day
• Three days of beach partying (and all-night partying) with both the international jetsetter crowd and the rowdy backpacker crowd on the island of Hvar
• Finally outgrowing the nerve to sleep in hostel dormitories when I realized one morning that I was on top of two half naked twenty-year-olds who were sleeping in the bottom bunk...you could almost call that a threesome, no?
• More beach time, exploring, and outdoor living in the gorgeous, ancient, walled city of Dubrovnik                                          
• An eight hour ferry ride-turned-cruise with 15 new friends across the Adriatic from Croatia to Italy
• Pizza, rice balls, and friendly samaritans in the southern Italian city of Bari.  (I ask for directions and these five teenagers say, "We'll walk with you!"  I say, "Oh, that's ok!" and they say, "But we have nothing better to do!!")
• Rowdy street kids, loud grandmothers, careening mopeds, and THE MOST AMAZING PIZZA IN THE WORLD at Da Michele in Napoli.  Marone.
• Nighttime magic at the Spanish Steps, Piazza di Campo dei Fiori, and Trastevere in Rome, along with the best gelato I have ever had.
• Already feeling missed in Italy, even after a few short days.  (My brother's friend Raphaele writes to me:  "Katie! I with pizza maker, Michele!  We cry for you!!!  Make a return to Napoli soon!!!!!  baciiiiiiiiii")

Europe in the summertime let's your whole body smell a year's worth of roses.  I know that I am so, so, so lucky.  2008 really seems to be my year, doesn't it?  Alas, my Euro-extravaganza is over, but I am really, really happy (and feel equally fortunate) to be where I am now:  the great city of New Orleans, Louisiana.  

I decided to come down to New Orleans to volunteer once I heard from my dear friend Alex about how much this city is STILL in need of Post-Katrina help.  Alex jumped on a bus at the Coachella Arts & Music Festival and spent ten days volunteering at various stops across the country, including New Orleans.  He told me stories of people who were still struggling such incredible hardships to get their lives and their great city back in order.  Simultaneously, it occurred to me that I really want and need to exercise my heart muscles in a dedicated way before I make any decisions about how I will spend the rest of my career.  It seemed immediately obvious to me that I should go to New Orleans and not leave until I feel like I have made it better.  You can think of this experience as "heart fitness."  Put another way, I want to give as many hugs as possible while I am here.  I also want to figure out a way to best match my skills, knowledge and talents with the city's needs.  

I have been here a week and feel like so much is happening for me already.  My mind is working a mile a minute, constantly, about how to build smart businesses (and non-profits) that will help this city and it's people.  I am six days into this experience and have already volunteered for three different organizations, with two other appointments set up for tomorrow and the next day.  It is a huge help to be starting this experience with Alex, who has already spent a few weeks in New Orleans and knows the ropes.  My next blog will be about some of the people I have met and things I have seen.  I promise I will try to find time to write again soon.

Love, Katie

Bruce is the BOSS

One of the main reasons that I wanted to start my trip to Europe in Milan is that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band was scheduled to play there on Wednesday, June 25th. I was planning on meeting my family in Vienna for the UEFA Euro Cup 2008 tournament and had a few days to play with beforehand. Basically the logic goes: Bruce is touring in Europe this summer. Where is he playing between June 23rd and June 25th? ITALY! Hell yeah.

I was sorting all of this out at the last minute, as I only decided to go on this trip three weeks ago. I was driving across country when I realized that it would be prudent to procure a ticket to the show in advance, and so I got my brother Mike to help me scour the internet. Really, there´s no point in going to a Bruce show in Europe if you´re not on the floor, and so that was a mandatory condition. Mike found an ebay auction for exactly the ticket that I needed - the seller was in Spain and could no longer attend the show. We won the auction for a reasonable price, and as I was logging into paypal to transfer the payment on June 16th, I wrote the following note:

Note:We MUST have this ticket in New Jersey, United States by Friday, June 20 because we depart for Europe on Sunday, June 22. If this shipping method is insufficient, please choose another method and contact me as soon as possible! Gracias

The seller responded with a friendly thank-you email that involved tracking information, and so I assumed all would be fine. But of course, things were not fine. Registered airmail doesn´t get from Spain to New Jersey in one week. I tracked the damn envelope on Thursday, June 19th and learned that it had arrived in New York at 3:31 PM the previous day. But on Friday morning, there was still no additional update. Hence began a really long and involved detective process that involved me calling USPS, then the Customs Office of New York, then USPS again, who was trying to tell me that I had to deal with Correos in Spain, at which point I tried figuring out the direct phone numbers for all of the post offices at JFK International Airport. All of this crap was leading no where. My mother, the post-exec big time balla at a big-time Wall Street bank that she is, entered the scene. We got the damn Postmaster of Long Island involved and still could not track down this envelope in time.

So, I flew to Milan without a ticket. I was running late on the night of the show and had to cross some t's and dot some i's in order to make everything happen. I had to take the metro, transfer, get off, and then figure out how to walk to the San Siro stadium, and then scalp a ticket. Remember that I don't speak Italian...

I manage to get myself onto the second metro, and I see this really hot, tan, buff Italian guy with a gym bag get on the some train. We kind of make eye contact, but then I sit down and a bunch of people stand in the way of me continuing to admire McDreamy-o. At the next stop, however, the people clear, and McDreamy-o and I make eye contact again, and then we smile, and so he comes over to talk to me. Now he discovers that I don't speak Italian, and his English is pretty basic, and so the conversation goes like this:

McDreamy-o: "Whata ara youa doing here in Milano?"
Me: "Ah, I am going to San Siro for a concert to see Bruce Springsteen! And I need a ticket!"
McDreamy-o: "Ah, I ama sorry, my English isa nota so gooda. What stopa you take-a?"
Me: "Lotto. Going to San Siro. Need biglietti! Bruce Springsteen! You know?"
McDreamy-o: "Ah, youa needa biglietti? Here, pleasa, taka these-a!"

And he hands me two metro tickets. Oh dear. So I'm like, "No, no that's ok, I need a biglietti for San Siro!"

And he says, "Noa, noa I insist! For San Siro!"

And so I can't refuse, so I take the metro tickets, and now I am laughing hysterically but am also like, shit, I can't miss this freaking stop, and literally right then we are pulling up to Lotto, and so I run off the train, and McDreamy-o follows, and now I am am worked up and sweating (it is HOT) and nervous because of the time, and this guy keeps trying to talk to me, but meanwhile, I spot two scalpers who look like they have tickets, and so I am like "Wait! Hold on!" and start trying to talk to the scalpers, while this guy starts trying to tell me where he works and that he wants to see me later, and he gets a little piece of paper out so that he can write his number down, which he does by balancing the paper on his mobile phone. And meanwhile, me and the scalpers are trying to communicate about the tickets, i.e. "Quanto?!" "80!" "No no no - cinque zero, cinque zero!" (meaning 50), and then I realize that I need to figure out whether or not these tickets are even on the floor. Pope (my amazing, incredible host) had taught me how to say "prato," which means "floor," and so I am screaming "Prato, prato, prato!" and these guys are ignoring me, trying to get my 50 euros, but finally I point to McDreamy-o (who I now know is named Claudio because I am holding the paper with his number on it) and the scalpers stop trying to bullshit me, and they back off because their tickets are indeed NOT prato. Shit. So now I am running up the stairs, and Claudio is running after me, and as we get to the top of the metro I am like "Dove San Siro?!?!" And Claudio goes: "Thisawaya! No - thatawaya! No......thisawaya!!" SHIT!!!! So so funny.

So then I spot a man and a woman holding tickets and wearing Springsteen shirts sprinting out of the metro station, and so I yell "Ciao Claudio!! Baci!!" and blow him a kiss, and try to catch up with this couple who is boarding a freaking bus (bus?), and I nearly get elbowed in the face because as soon as I step onto the bus behind them, they jolt around to LEAVE the bus because, as it turns out, we had all just boarded the wrong bus. And I didn't even know I needed to take a bus. I am hysterically laughing, and so are they!

I make friends with the couple as we cross the street to wait for the right bus, and in true Italian fashion, it comes ten minutes later than it is supposed to. The concert is literally starting right now, and I still don't have a damn ticket! I am in knots, and the adrenaline is so intense. As soon as the bus gets there, me and the guy start sprinting (leaving his girlfriend in the dust), and he starts helping me negotiate with the first scalper I see. It is so easy. Prato? No problem. 46 euros. I give the scalper a 50 and a huge hug, blow baci to my new friends, and start running.

The music had just started - Summertime Blues. I see a set of bouncers - "Dove prato?!" They point and I blow kisses! Next bouncers - "Dove prato?!" They point, and again, I blow kisses! I am so so happy. I am blowing kisses to all of the handsome ragazzi and am sprinting into the stadium. As I enter, Summertime Blues is ending and Bruce is kicking off song number due - Out in the Street.

I close my eyes and let myself feel it - complete and total overwhelming happiness. I don't want to be anywhere else in the world. I am an Italian-American Jersey Girl seeing the Boss in Italia. If I don't belong here, I don't know who does. And yet, Bruce makes everyone feel like they belong. I see a sign hanging from the rafters - "Bruce - One of Us."

He makes me feel so grateful, so human, and so alive. He is like my guru. He makes more sense to me than any other public figure. He brings me closer to spiritual elevation than any religious figure I have ever known...and so what if his message is my religion? What's so wrong with that?

"It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive!"

"Let the broken heart stand as the price you have to pay!"

"I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm!"

Face this world head-on and put yourself out there, and take risks, and feel everything that you possibly can. The minute you are tempted to lock yourself up and put up a shield, remember that you can't really feel the scintillating happiness of life without risking it all, and so dive head-on into the badlands. And let's all do it together. And, New Jersey rocks. That's all.

Haha! So, yes, the concert was one of the most awesome experiences of my life. I made so many friends with fellow fans. Some would try to guess the song after the first few notes...like, "Ah! Darkanessa!" So awesome. Bruce played so many fan favorites and even took requests from the audience. He draped himself in an Italian flag. He played ROSIE for crying out loud! He topped the show off with a ten minute version of Twist and Shout. I was quivering with bliss by the end of it all.

The only thing that could have possibly made the night better happened - Pope picked me up on his scooter and we rode home through the Italian summer night.

And then, as if the night could get ANY better - ripe, juicy watermelon at the kitchen table.

I am so blessed. Bruce is the BOSS. Love to everyone!......Katie

Permasmilo in Milano!

I have been smiling for three straight days. The structure of my face is probably starting to change...like the dimples that were already the tell-tale signs of my Italian heritage are now growing at age 26. Yes, 26 - I had a birthday last week, and I need to write all about that. But I am living a dream right now, so please, don't wake me up. Italy is like the ultimate seratonin stimulator. I stepped foot on Italian soil on Monday, and Mamma, per favore, don't ever make me leave...

OK, so even museum attendants are laughing at my goofy blissful smile. It's like I don't even realize that I am flashing a full set of teeth with my bottom lip dropped a centimeter or so because this is now my permanent state of being. Everywhere I look, I feel like I am ogling at a child with a helpless look of bliss, like "Yes, you are impossibly beautiful, and you have bewitched me."

MILANO! What an incredibly fantastic, remarkable place. Milan does not get even close to the love and praise that it deserves from foreigners and Italians alike. It is my absolute favorite city in Italy to date. The thing about cities like Rome and Florence is that they have a larger quantity of artistic, cultural and architectural treasures when compared to Milan, and so tourists tend to pass Milan over. Also, Milan is the economic center of Italy, so it usually gets described as a place for business, fashion and ordinary life, but not much else. These two points - having few tourists and no extraordinary agenda - are exactly what makes Milan such an amazing city. It's real - the authenticity and real people are everywhere - but it is still absolutely gorgeous, charming and culturally rich.

I landed in Rome on Monday afternoon and took a train from the airport to the city's central train station. I was mildly groggy and underslept and therefore kind of spacey, and I had to figure out how to buy another train ticket to get to Milan. It was hot, and the afternoon was getting late because my baggage took forever to appear, but then, that deliciously mouthy language starts tickling my ears from every direction. And I see a gorgeous, tan ragazzo walking by in designer sunglasses and looking like a million bucks, and I am not looking like a million bucks but he is still checking out my sorry ass, and prego, my day is looking up! And now that all of these Italian words and Italian men have wetted my appetite, I realize that I am absolutely starving and need to eat something stat. And then, the perfect lunch finds its way to me: barley salad with chicken, tomatoes, corn, carrots, fennel, celery, parsley, garlic and extra virgin olive oil. The ingredients were as fresh as you can imagine - and all of this, in a train station! The Italians have their priorities straight.

I am dozing on and off on the train ride, and whenever my eyes flutter open, the Tuscan countryside flashes by before me. I drift away again peacefully and happily because I know that whenever the train shakes me out of my slumber, the countryside will still be there. At one point I open my eyes and realize that all of the other eight passengers in my eyesight are also dozing peacefully. All of us, together. Logically: it was time for siesta, after all.

I am gathering my things as I prepare to depart the train in Milan, and a woman sitting diagonally from me, across the aisle, smiles and asks me where I am from. She then asks me if I am a dancer. I smile and answer, well, I used to be...but how did you know? And she says, you have beautiful arms, very toned and strong. I used to be a dancer too, so I know. Yes, I can see, you are very strong! And I smile to myself and agree - yes. I am strong. I can embrace the world.

I make my way to the metro and there is a Roman God in Dolce & Gabbana tighty-whiteys greeting me and welcoming me into the Milanese public transportation system. And then, as I exit the metro, the same Roman God bids me farewell, and I climb the stairs with my backpack and the warm night air blows my hair back and wraps Milan around me, and everything feels so right.

I then meet my amazing, incredible host Pope, friend of Jen and Cragin. Pope is so good at hosting "VIP American guests" that he should be on the payroll for the Tourist Bureau. I am so so lucky to be in such good hands!

When I hear Italian coming out of people's mouths, rolling off their tongues, the words lounging around the open mouth before the tongue clicks or the lips close and then open again so the final vowel can be sung, I feel so freaking good. Hungry. The iaggios and iammos and ienzas. My mouth starts to water. I need to know what they're saying, and I need to feel what it's like to say those words. I have a huge crush on the Italian language.

Every view down every street in Milan is so pleasing. A lovely curve. Perhaps a row of scooters. A window sill bursting with flowers. A grandmother on a bicycle. A beautiful young woman, fashionably dressed, eating gelato. Grandiose neoclassical architecture. Men in suits talking on mobile phones, laughing. Little girls in party dresses.

I have been to some incredible museums so far. The Pinacoteca di Brera was breathtaking - in particular, I stared at Bellini's Predica di San Marco for fifteen minutes. I was positively enchanted by an exhibit of nineteenth century sculpture at the Palazza Reale, especially Bartolini's La Fiducia in Dio and Canova's Danzatrice con le mani sui fianchi. Also, I saw a really cool exhibit that replicated Da Vinci's The Last Supper (because I didn't reserve months in advance to see the real thing) that used lighting techniques to create various effects and dissected different parts of the fresco on a separate projector. Today I went to the Ambrosiana Gallery to see Raphael's The School of Athens.

In a rare flat moment at lunch, I was whisked right back into euphoria when the owner of the restaurant, Papa Francesco, laughed at my last name and invited me around back to speak English with his friend in America over video chat on Skype. The friend lives in Queens and vacations in Florida, and the two of them have been friends for thirty years. After a minute or two, I was part of the family! I left with a "ciao bella!", kisses from the staff, and such a warm heart. I stepped back onto the street and decided to put Andrea Bocelli on my ipod. Walking around Milan while listening to Nessun Dorma was probably the most delicious dessert I could have ordered.

Sending molto amore from the Old World...baci! Katie

BonnaROO

It's a Cajun term that means "havin' a good time."  

Describing Bonnaroo as a good time might be the understatement of the year.  An exhilaratingly utopic carnival for grown-ups might be getting a little warmer.  And wait, where are the grown-ups?

My mental preparation for four days of amazing music and fun began with a gorgeous drive through the countryside of Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee.  While driving through Mainstreet, USA in McLeansboro, IL, my troublesome front undercarriage/bumper started dragging for the 27th time.  I pulled to the side of the road so that I could get out of the car and try to bend the plastic upwards to prevent it from dragging one more time.  I hear a "Hey little lady, it looks like you gotta problem there!" from two forty-somethings in overalls and trucker hats sitting on their porch, hanging out in rocking chairs.  "You need some help - let us give you some!"

Before I know it, Dennis is walking up the street to the local mechanic to get some wire, and Gary is inviting me into his shop so that I can "sample the goods."  The goods?  Gary owns a wine supply shop in one of the only two "clean" counties in Illinois, where it is illegal to buy or sell alcohol, and so people make their own in their basements.  And to make your own booze, you need supplies.  Fermenting bucket? - check.  Bottle brush? - check.  Having car trouble? - no problem.  A shot of homemade cider beer to take the edge off your afternoon? - thank you sir!  I love the internet: I found Gary's website and can check up on the business periodically.  My one regret:  not getting to meet Gary's partner Jim, aka "The Wine Daddy."  I am so intrigued.  

I got to Manchester, TN and was greeted with ginormous hugs from friends Alex and Jeff, who took me on like a little sis and hooked me up with press access for the weekend.  I am so lucky.  I am going to keep on trying to send positivity and love into the world and will see what comes up.  Good things have been having their way with me lately.   Everybody's happy.  

The first band I saw at Bonnaroo was MGMT, where I was hanging out on the side of the stage with the festival organizers and various artists performing that weekend.  I just cannot get sick of "Time to Pretend."  Found my two lovelies from home, Jen and Rebecca, and then proceeded to run around the festival like a kid with too many lollipops seeing Nicole Atkins (Feist on Broadway), The Felice Brothers (good-time Americana), Vampire Weekend (Peter Gabriel in Nantucket-Reds on vacation in Jamaica) and Lez Zeppelin (hot-as-hell lipstick lesbians playing Zeppelin covers).  The Lez frontwoman has killer pipes, and the entire band is f-ing good.  

Also, took two diversions to some of the extra special bonus tents that make Bonnaroo so special.  One was a huge disco, where the DJ was mashing up MIA with Biggie:

The other was the Rock-Star Karaoke tent, where Jeff did his world famous rendition of Bell Biv DeVoe's "Poison" and picked up groupies along the way:

Friday morning is when I kicked off my caffeine diet.  I do not know how I kept on my feet for so many hours throughout the next three days.  First was a strong set by Steel Train.  Jose Gonzalez, an Argentine folk singer who grew up in Sweden, was just plain gorgeous (in every regard). Next I ventured into the New Orleans tent, which was so cool that IT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED IN ALL CAPS, and which became my stomping ground for the rest of the festival.  They essentially built a jazz club in the middle of Bonnaroo with air conditioning, Abita Purple Haze and absolutely delicious Cajun food, along with incredible music from the club scene in NOLA.  Big Sam's Funky Nation extended me a warm welcome.  FEMA:  Fix Everything My Ass.  Big Sam:  now we're talkin'.  

Stephen Marley and clan were dope, especially the adorable four year old who was waving the Jamaican flag around during Buffalo Soldier.  The Swell Season were so sweet - I wish that I had seen their entire set.  The Raconteurs killed it as always, except that I still think that Jack White wrote better songs when it was just him and Meg...

Back to the NOLA tent where I saw Anders Osborne upon recommendation from my dad (impressive), who was the sickest, nastiest guitar player I have ever seen up close.  Damn.  Then, the M.I.A. hipster tribe dance party.  Then, a "nice" "shower" and nap time before more Anders and then the most important event of the weekend:  My Morning Jacket.  

The swells, the rain, the glow stick wars, the sly smile you exchange with a stranger...like, this whole thing feels soooo good....

I'm not sure how much more I can say, or how much more I remember.  Basically, if you haven't seen MMJ live, your life could be better.  

Saturday:  I can't keep listing every damn band I saw, but Mason Jennings played irresistibly simple folk (which sounds even better from the side of the stage) and B.B. King was even more legendary than I imagined.

  

Also, I detoured to yet another Bonnaroo idiosyncrasy that was SO DAMN COOL.  It is called the Silent Disco - DJs spin club music which you can only hear if you are wearing wireless headphones - and so everybody who walks by just sees a bunch of people dancing around in complete silence like they're out of their minds.  You think to yourself, "I want whatever they're having...", and then you actually can without needing to kill any more brain cells than you already have over the past 48 hours. 

 

Levon Helm (from The Band) and the Ramble on the Road - awesome.  Zappa Plays Zappa - ridiculously cool.  My daily 9PM shower and nap - so awesome and ridiculously cool.  Chromeo - super fun and kind of obnoxious.  Lupe Fiasco - my new favorite hip hop artist.  Kanye West - such a freaking chump.  

Sunday had two major highlights.  One was seeing this 22 year old kid named Trombone Shorty at the NOLA tent - hot DAMN!  I have never seen someone play the trumpet and trombone like that - circular breathing that went on for minutes and minutes.  His style is like a jazz/funk/rock hybrid.  His cover of "Let's Get It On" was delicious.  His cover of Green Day's "Brain Stew" had me three feet in the air.  

The second was getting to sing karaoke with a live band.  Yup, that's right folks - I get to say that I performed at Bonnaroo.  Tramps like us baby!

More about Sunday:  Solomon Burke had so much soul.  He also had two back-up singers who tended to his every need, i.e. bringing water, removing his tie, wiping the sweat off his brow after every song...

Rogue Wave sounded great.  Allison Kraus and Robert Plant played an amazing set, which was way more Bluegrass Belle than Zep.  Hanging out with high school friends Jen and Rebecca, and getting to introduce them to Jeff and Alex, was so special. 

 

I am going to leave you all with a picture of the worst tattoo of all time.  Bonnaroo, I love you. 

Signing off, your pimpstress in waiting!  ~Katie

Back to Basics

It's been awhile since my blog has enjoyed my company, and, for that matter, since I have enjoyed the company of my blog.  I don't know how to explain this temporary separation except by saying that I haven't really been inspired to write.  I spent the past month and a half in Los Angeles, developing a normal routine and healthy habits, acclimating to my "old" life, observing what changed while I was away, and deciding what changes I need to make now.  I have been letting these adjustments happen calmly and organically.  However, in the midst of calming down, I made a pretty major decision.  I moved out of my lovely, cozy apartment in Venice, shipped all superfluous items to New Jersey, and moved into my car.  The freedom that this decision has afforded is intoxicating.  I can go anywhere I want to go, and I can make spontaneous decisions toward happiness and self-fulfillment without any logistical weight.  This move might seem extreme, but what seems big is actually small and simple.  The point is that I have less, and less is more.  Back to basics.  

My first move is to drive from LA to Manchester, TN for the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival, which starts tomorrow.  I left very early on Monday morning.  It is amazing how quickly I wanted to begin writing again after hitting the road.  Automatic inspiration.  I have had a lot of time to spend with myself over the past few days, and that kind of self-companionship is what set me off on so many provocative roads while I was in South America.  Some things that have happened so far:

Drove 700 miles on day one after two hours of sleep on one large coffee and two cans of red bull.  And an Egg McMuffin.  My body hates me.  

Listened in play-by-play torture as Italy got beat by the Dutch in their first UEFA Euro Cup game.  However, had fun screaming expletives to myself, i.e. VAFANCULO.

Miscalculated the fact that Mother Earth has me losing hours here and there due to time zone changes, and still made it to Salt Lake City before rush hour thanks to one very heavy foot.

Got to crawl around my cousin Carolyn's basement (i.e. playhouse paradise) with her two adorable kids, Thomas and Emelia.  They are the most beautiful, happy, loving and polite child prodigies you might ever have the pleasure of meeting.  Emelia is my four-year-old goddaughter.  She will be an Olympic gold medalist in gymnastics in 2020, and she is already reading.  The DGs make it look easy.

  

Attended my cousin Steve's arena football game - he's the kicker for the Utah Blaze.  I was stunned by the zany dynamics of professional sports in the company of Mormons:  there is no BEER.  Weird.  

Took the road less traveled through the Utah mountains, and then along a rattlesnake speedway through the Utah desert.  Threw the windows down and belted Springsteen's "The Promised Land."  Proceeded to sing Springsteen songs for hours.  I got the radio on and I'm just killing time, baby.  It doesn't take much to make myself so damn happy.  

Decided to throw on the cowboy hat.  Just because.  Yeeeeehaw

Participated in on-air NPR talk.  My take on campaign finance and special interests:  make public financing required.  DUH.  We are spending 1 billion dollars on this damn election.  I know almost 1 billion people in this world who don't have enough to freaking eat.  

I have been playing this game with truck drivers where I drive up along their right side, flash a flirty smile, and then speed away.  Kinda dumb, kinda awesome.  

Getting to know Stephen Hawking, a la "The Universe in a Nutshell," on CD.  I still don't understand string theory, but I am making some progress.  Every time I start feeling lost, I back up a chapter.  Understanding theoretical physics is becoming central to my spirituality.

An observation before bed:  I am starting to understand how to feel peace in solace, and to reject the need for validation, while also feeling an intense longing to connect with others and to love.  This topic will receive further reflection.  

One final note.  Dinner at Applebees:  $12.  One room at the Columbia, Missouri Motel 6:  $40.  Falling asleep while watching Cristiano Ronaldo score goals:  so damn priceless.

As always, much love.  I'll be right back.  ~Katie

Contact Information

I am back in the United States and can be reached on my American cell phone number.  

My email address is kdelguercio@mac.com

The Grand Finale

Machu Picchu. Even with all of the hype, and all of the publicity, and all of the work that it took to get there, I was overcome with wonder and delight when Machu Picchu and I were introduced on Friday morning, April 18th. The trek through the Sacred Valley of the Incas was obviously a bit of a production, and got a bit messy as I described in my last entry. I am so glad that I called the game when I did. As I was recovering from extreme nausea in a warm bed in Cusco, half of the rest of my group got so very sick on the trail. These folks were apparently getting up 10-15 times per night with stomach problems, could not bring themselves to eat any food, experienced extreme dehydration, and somehow traveled 15-25 kilometers per day. The poor guy with the worst of it actually had to ride a horse for most of the trip because he was so sick. I am lucky that I became ill on the first night, and not later in the trip when it would have been more difficult to get me to a hotel. The guides had neither walkie talkies nor satellite phones, and actually, not even a first aid kit. Not even funny.

Why did so many people get sick, you ask? I have a feeling that the cook and assistant guide lacked proper training in food safety practices on the trail. Think about it - there was cow manure and horse manure everywhere. The manure contaminates the stream water, which we then use for drinking and cooking. Natasha and I brought water purification tablets for our drinking water, but the guides did not purify any of the water that they used for cooking. When we drank tea, I do not think that the water was actually brought to a boil. When the guides washed dishes, they barely used any soap, and that water had definitely not been boiled. At one point, one of my fellow trekkers asked for a basin to use for washing out some clothes. To her horror, the same basin was later used for storing silverware. Absolutely disgusting.

I was quite satisfied with my decision to skip days two and three when I heard the horror stories on the night of day four. I took a nice train ride through the valley and met the group in Aguas Calientes, which is the small town at the base of Machu Picchu. Thankfully, Natasha was spared from stomach horror. She didn´t smell like roses, I´ll tell you that much, but I ushered her into the shower and she came out shiny and new. We had a lovely dinner with our new friends and prepared for an early morning hike up the mountain.

Over dinner, I started feeling it. What is that heaviness in my chest? I seriously cannot be getting sick again. Sure enough, breathing got hard overnight, and by wake-up time at 4:15AM, I was officially under upper respiratory attack. Shit. I refused to miss this morning hike. You do not take a bus up to the sacred city of the Inca King. That is ridiculous. I am not a freaking wuss. I will do this hike dammit! Natasha looked at me with such pity - you poor poor girl. Upon persuasion from Dr. Natasha and Mommy Kelly (the group Mom), I decided to start a course of Cipro. My immune system was obviously being pillaged - enough screwing around. With one soggy tissue in hand, I started to climb.  

I feel so badly for people who suffer from asthma, because feeling short of breath is so uncomfortable and also kind of scary. Remember folks that there is a lot less oxygen in the air to begin with - Machu Picchu is 7875 feet above sea level. I am so used to feeling able bodied and fit - able to keep up with anyone my age in an outdoor capacity - and so this hike was so frustrating. It was a super steep stair climb that lasted for an hour and fifteen minutes. (And by the way, actual stairs are much harder than the Stair Master.) It was a good thing that there was a beacon of light waiting for me at the top, both figuratively and literally. Not only was Machu Picchu up there, but the sunrise was up there too. I pushed on an on, and with the comic relief of a British kid named Simon, plus Dr. Natasha, plus I think I can I think I can, one thing led to another, and there is was. The sun peaked over the mountain, I turned the corner, and the most perfectly situated human heaven was right there. It is like the Incas climbed up every mountain in Peru and found the most perfectly beautiful place to live.

It is so mindblowing to think about the work that it must have taken to envision and then create such a place. All of the walls and windows and fountains and alleys of the city were made out of enormous granite rocks. Simple questions cross my mind...like how the heck did they carry those things around? They are enormous! How did they carve them to fit perfectly together, like the pieces of a puzzle? And when they were moving these huge rocks around...how did they make sure that nobody fell off the mountain? Because, the cliffs are that real.

Somehow the Incas figured out how to farm up there as well - they used terracing techniques to create all sorts of different microclimates and then grew various agricultural products. There were separate neighborhoods - a place where common people lived, a place where elite people lived, a place where the Inca king lived, a town square, and various religious spaces. The Incas were excellent astronomers, and their constructions often indicated their interest in and understanding of the cosmos. For example, the Temple of the Sun contains two windows that are perfectly aligned with the sun at the exact moments of the summer and winter solstices.  How did the Incas perform such precise measurements?  Trial and error?

There is something incredible about being in a place that showcases the very best of both artistic expression and brute strength.  A feeling of sheer wonder and amazement is accompanied by an appreciation for the broad spectrum of human talent.  Perhaps we feel this kind of wonder when standing in front of the Taj Mahal or within the Sistine Chapel.  However, there is something particularly striking about being in the city of Machu Picchu that adds another dimension to our wonder.  Not only are we seeing the very best of what human beings can create - we are also standing in the midst of the very best of what God can create.  

This forest, this scene, this moment was just a zany roll of the cosmic dice as if the Gothic builders had heaved the stone blocks and flying buttresses and gold leaf into the air and it had all come down as Chartres.  In fact, if there were a God, He would spend His tough days visiting the man-made cathedrals and mosques and temples, where people believed in Him and asked favors and prayed for victories over the other guys who called Him by other names.  And then He would come here into his green cathedral.  He would crack open a beer, walk around in His boxers, put His hands on His hips and mutter, "How about that" at the miracle of all this being thrown together out of the dust of the Big Bang.  He would shake His head at the wild stroke of luck.     

-Brian Alexander, Green Cathedrals:  A Wayward Traveler in the Rain Forest

What a wild stroke of luck.  Somehow, the jaw dropping beauty doesn't feel like an accident.  It feels like somebody made some really good decisions!  

Natasha and I enjoyed a splendidly pleasant afternoon talking around a shady picnic table with our other group-mates.  We had a long afternoon of waiting for our evening train, but passed the time by continuing to become close friends with Nicole from Sweden, who we had actually met in Valparaiso, Chile.  Fate took over and reunited us with her in Cusco, and we have been fast friends ever since.  Nicole left Sweden when she was sixteen to travel around Australia because she did not know what she wanted to concentrate in during high school.  She returned from her trip with a newfound interest in globalization, which she studied for the next three years.  The Swedish educational system considers this study of globalization to be her high school degree!  Now she is taking more time to travel before thinking about attending university.  She is incredibly inspiring because she is such an adept listener - to herself - and she carefully makes decisions about how to spend her time so that each minute of her life is as pleasing as possible.  

Our last day in Cusco was cozy as I recovered from my cold...a really fun impromptu movie night in the living room of our hostel was a highlight.  We obviously had learned a lesson or two from our previous overnight bus experience, and so made a very well-researched decision when deciding how to transport ourselves to our next destination.  We decided to spend our last few days in the dry, hot desert south of Lima.  The main attraction in the area is an archeological site called the Nazca Lines; a close second is the town of Huacachina, where you can ride four-wheel-drive vehicles over huge sand dunes.   The craziest part of the adventure always seems to be the bus ride:  our seats were comfortable and all, but seriously, this was the absolute windiest road I have ever been on.  We descended thousands of meters down the sides of mountains and made constant hairpin turns for hours on end.  Hours.  Natasha's rock solid immune system finally cracked when we got on the bus.  I almost broke bones when I stood up to make my way to the bathroom, and the bus literally threw me onto the lap of my sleeping neighbor.  Sheesh.  

By morning I felt like I had ridden the Alice in Wonderland teacups for the past 14 hours.  We got off the bus in Nazca and had to figure out how to get 30 kilometers away to the Nazca Lines observation tower, and then another few hundred kilometers beyond to our hotel by the sand dunes.  We braved a local bus, which was not that bad, but of course we missed our stop.  A taxi helped us backtrack.  We then climbed the three story observation tower, which was literally on the side of the road in the middle of the desert.  The Nazca Lines were pretty cool - giant drawings of animals, possibly constellations, etched into the desert floor - but definitely only worth it for a few minutes.  Then we sobered up and realized we were hot, sick, dirty and tired in the middle of nowhere, needing to hail down the next local bus heading north.  Seriously.  I am in disbelief about some of this stuff only two weeks later!

Natasha and I got to our hotel safely and had a relaxing final two days.  We ate an entire, enormous rotisserie chicken by ourselves.  We were loving the Columbian music blasting out of every window.  We had a blast on the sand dunes - whee!!!  Our driver took us on a one hour ride, up and down the dunes in an open top buggy, and then we got to sandboard down the sand a few times.  Great great fun.  After that, we had a very hungry four hour bus ride to Lima (hungry because we were completely out of cash), and then I boarded an easy redeye straight to LAX.  

That's it.  It's that simple.  Over?  Really?  I don't believe it.  

I don't know about this "over" business.  Nothing feels "over" to me.  I hope that's ok.  I still feel like I'm traveling.  My own city feels strange and changed.   My relationships have not stood still.  I have many many unanswered questions and I have no idea what is next.  

I am so lucky to have the resources that enable me to say "I have no idea what is next."  Since I am still on a quest, in every regard, I think that I am going to continue travel blogging.  I have a lot to discover, and writing helps me find my way.  

More reflections coming soon.  For now, I can only express my utmost gratitude for every angel who watched over me, and for every beautiful moment of glee that I shared with so many incredible strangers.  All of these people and moments feel like precious gifts, and they warm my heart with saudades.  Most importantly, I know who to thank for every single gift - myself.  

I am overcome with longing, and yet words cannot express my happiness and contentment.

Besos and beijos, Katie

Superwoman, huh?

I have to laugh at myself. So tough, so strong, huh? I am supposed to be camping in the woods right now and instead I am recovering from one of the worst cases of altitude sickness and the flu that has ever been documented. (I do feel strong enough to make that assertion.) I need to get you all caught up. Let´s back up to Chile.

First, I have to mention the most darling little restaurant ever, which you must visit if you are ever in the Chilean Lake District. It is called La Cocina de la Abuela - The Kitchen of the Grandmother. It is the quaintest, classiest of places that Natasha and I just happened to walk by one evening. There was nobody inside, but after the warmest welcome from our waiter, we couldn´t walk away. We shrugged at each other and thought - why not? There was one other gentleman behind the bar who warmly welcomed us, and one woman who peered at us with a smile from the kitchen - the Abuela!

We began our meal with a pisco sour - the deliciously dangerous alcoholic concoction of the land - and then the waiter offered us a brilliant bottle of wine. Just before, Natasha caught the owner behind the bar whispering to the waiter, Enzo, teaching him how to say "May I recommend..." in English. So darling. We had a delicious meal, perfectly prepared by the grandmother. I had pumpkin apple soup and grilled salmon. Throughout dinner, we were praying that other customers would arrive - this place was just so darling, and these people deserve success! Alas, it is slow season in Pucon, and nobody came. Natasha and I continued to get mushy about it - and the pisco sours plus half a bottle of wine each did not help the estrogen overflow. Then, to make us fall in love with them harder, the owner took a picture of us with his digital camera and displayed it on the computer screen at the bar. He asked us to sign his guest book and include our email addresses so that he could send it to us. The guest book went back several years and was just filled with warm remarks about other wonderful meals that people have enjoyed at this lovely restaurant. We felt like we had been welcomed into their family for an evening! Here is what we received in our inboxes the next day:

Dear friends Katie & Natasha: Here you may find one picture when you visited La cocina de la abuela of Pucon, Chile, on april 06, 2008. Thanks a lot for visit us and for your friendship. Thanks a lot for your warm words in our Guest Book, you are great. You are invited to come back, visit our web site www.lacocinadelaabuela.cl and recommend us, if you could. We'll stay waiting for your news. Your friends of La cocina de la abuela. Sincerely Victor & Kika

Yes, Victor and Kika - you most certainly have our recommendation! We cannot wait to go back there someday. It came time to leave Pucon, and here is where our lovely fairytale plot thickens. We needed a way to get to Cusco, Peru that did not take four days on a bus. We also did not want to spend the money to fly internationally - and flying out of Santiago would involve an 11 hour bus ride anyway. We thought that our best option would be to fly into the northernmost Chilean city - Arica - check out Lauca National Park, which is relatively nearby - and then bus it into Peru from there. Problem: the most well-known airline in Chile is super expensive. Next problem: the number two airline in Chile is still kind of expensive, and their website doesn´t work. Next problem: no other airfare websites will let us complete this purchase either. Another freaking problem: the one travel agent in town is never open, and when he finally is open, he claims that the airline will not accept credit cards, and that we have to pay him in cash. Hell no. Ergh. What the heck do we do?

We decided to take our chances and literally showed up at the Temuco airport without tickets. We got there and the airline counter wasn´t even open for another two hours. We were losing precious bus time if this plan didn´t work out. There was no internet cafe in the airport, which was a problem because we needed to book accommodation in Arica if we were indeed to be arriving there that evening. Then, there was the necessity to figure out a way to get to Lauca National Park the following day. We asked the airport police officer to pray for us in Spanish, which must have helped because we were indeed able to purchase tickets - and with credit cards no less! The catch - the journey involved two flights. No problem, I´ve done layovers before! Haha, no there´s more: the first flight involved two legs, and the second flight involved three legs. Let me put it differently - we would be taking off and landing five different times that day, over the course of 8 hours. We would be in six different Chilean cities that are each hundreds of miles away from each other. Put differently: this flight is like a damn bus that hops up the country, making stops along the way. Seriously? My lord. My ears were so confused and clogged by the end of the day that I could barely hear Natasha say, "OK - so where are we sleeping?"

We ended up sleeping in a darling hostel owned by a Kiwi expat who was helpful in the morning with regards to getting our asses to Lauca. We signed onto a one and a half day private tour with our own tour guide - Carlos. The several hour drive there was so neat - huge mountains made of sand, ancient etchings, weird magnetic fields that pulled the car when put in neutral, and enormous candelabra cacti. We passed through a tiny village of 20 people where they still practice a pre-Columbian farming technique called terracing. There are stone walls built into the side of the hill that create broad, wide steps. The farmers grow things on each step and irrigate from the top, and the water flows down the terraces somehow. They grow corn and celery and oregano, and many other things. Carlos picked off little pieces of oregano for us, and my mouth immediately started watering as I was transported to the pizzerias of New Jersey. So far away, yet so close to home.

We arrived before sunset in the village of Putre, where we would have dinner and sleep before exploring the park the following morning. What a darling place. Women walking around with colorful textiles wrapped into napsacks carrying vegetables, or babies. Men sitting in clusters, talking about the day, or working together to paint the new swingset in the townsquare. Little kids running around, laughing and playing and kicking soccer balls. The sky starts to get a bit orange, and the cell phone rings - I get to talk to my parents. I feel revived and connected to the ones I love. Natasha and I sit on a ledge, and then she points across the square - look at those little girls dancing! We decide to move closer to sit on another ledge that is closer to them. They are about seven years old, and they have a tiny boombox playing the latest in Latin upbeat R&B: best description I can offer. There are six of them, in two rows, and they clearly have a routine - they must be practicing for some kind of performance or talent show. The sky starts to get orangey purple over the mountains, and these little girls are laughing and dancing in total adorable harmony. I am officially melting in delight. What a beautiful life. I am so lucky to be able to witness so many different ways, in so many different places, in which people are pursuing happiness. In the end, these ways don´t look all that different.

Lauca National Park is quite simply stunning. Many say that it is Chile´s most beautiful national park - and Chile is really beautiful, so that is saying a lot. There are miles of open grazing fields with endless amounts of local fauna - alpacas, llamas, vicuñas, guanacos...they all kind of look like the llama, and they are all amazing. There are tons of birds, ducks, and geese. There are many snowcapped volcanoes in the near and far. At times we could see both Bolivia and Peru while standing on Chilean soil. The volcanoes are set behind many reflection lakes and salt lakes. We completed a few short treks, and the elevation put us out of breath. One trek took us onto moss pads as we neared one of the salt lakes. There was a flock of flamingos standing on the water. When we got close, we got to see them fly away. The moment was absolutely breathtaking. Carlos prepared a delicious picnic with the ripest tomato and avocado, and by the way, we managed to carry on conversation with him in Spanglish throughout the entire two days. I am going to be so good at charades by the end of this trip!

On our way out of the park, we stopped for a dip at one of the many natural hot springs in Chile. Essentially, natural spring water runs off of the mountains, and then it is heated in the ground by seismic activity. The heated water ends up spouting up somewhere; the locals pipe the water into little pools at the source, and voila - the springs are so relaxing and healing. And cheap! At around 1PM, we dried off and began one of the longest journeys of my life. We had no idea what we were in store for. We arrived back in Arica at 4:30 PM, when we learned that the standard way of crossing the border into Peru is by collectivo taxi. Basically, a driver takes you and others in a pooled taxi, helps you fill out the paperwork, and then drops you off at a bus station on the other side. Perfect, we thought, because we wanted to buy bus tickets for the following morning. We planned to stay overnight in the city of Tacna, Peru because it is not so safe to travel Peru by night bus - there are many robberies.

We arrived at the bus station and saw a sign in the window upstairs - Bus, Cusco, Arequipa, Puno. Great, because Cusco was the destination. There were two ticket offices. We did some comparisons and found out that the prices were the same. Problem: there was no direct bus to Cusco in the morning. Second problem: the morning bus would get us to Cusco at 3:30AM the following day. Ergh - we are going to be traveling by night in the end, either way. The morning bus would be arriving in the middle of the night: don´t like the sound of that. Other option: leave at 7:00PM this evening, which would get us to Cusco at 3:30PM the following day.
We weighed our options. It is better to arrive during the day, versus in the middle of the night. Let´s just go now. I point to a bus poster that is on the wall for a company called San Martin - the bus is a double decker tourist bus, like the ones we are used to traveling on. They have bathrooms and an attendant. I point to the poster and say "semi cama?", which means a seat that reclines with a footrest. The guy nods and nods. Perfect, let´s do it. The office is pretty nice, with computers and free internet. We check our email while we wait to depart.

The guy helps us with our packs and we walk downstairs into the bus station. We get in a taxi, and I think - great! - they must be dropping us off across the street so that we don´t have to walk! The taxi drives a few blocks and I look at Natasha - um, where are we going? Shit. We pull over to the side of the road where there is a tiny bus stop that looks like a place where you would catch a ride across town. There are tons of locals in traditional type dress piling onto this bus. Not a single tourist in sight. It is dark. We freak out at the ticket office guy. This is NOT San Martin! NOT tourist bus! You lied to us! Take us to San Martin! He mumbles something about this bus being "same" - "semi cama" - and we are like HELL NO this is NOT the same! We are near tears. I think we were in tears. We are hyperventilating. We have nowhere to stay and just dropped all of this money on bus tickets. The guy says something about "No San Martin tonight, only tomorrow, different ticket," and then all of a sudden he doesn´t speak any English anymore. We are so scammed. We are so screwed. If we wait until morning, we are going to get to Cusco in the middle of the night anyway. SHIT.

We look at each other in disbelief. What the hell do we do. We look at each other again and hand our packs over, fatefully, to the bus driver. He tags them and puts them in the midst of everyone else´s luggage - wrapped up cardboard boxes, tied up sacks and plastic bags. Everything around us smells like urine. We stumble onto the bus. It is SO hot and SO crowded. It is SO loud. We make our way to the back of the bus where we are sitting together (thank God) in seats 40 and 41. There are people standing everywhere, with bags in their seats. There are people shoving to get by each other. Everything smells.

We sit down. I have never seen a look of horror like I saw on Natasha´s face.

We aren´t moving. There is an old woman with two braids tied together at the bottom, a meter long, wearing a petticoat. She is shoving her way up and down the aisle and stops to talk to us. She is holding one solitary winter coat and is trying to sell it to us, right then and there. She is trying to sell a winter coat in the middle of the aisle.

The girl across from us is fishing through a bag that contains all sorts of miscellaneous items wrapped in newsprint. She is trying to sell things too - it looks like those are...flashlights? My God. Are we going camping? What is this?!

A guy makes his way up and down the aisle, screaming (singing) and trying to sell candy. He puts it in your lap, regardless of whether you want it, and then makes a second trip to collect money (or to take the candy back). I refuse the kid, and Natasha gives me the look of death: "Katie, what the HELL are you thinking, pissing these people off? Take the damn candy." We are the only gringas on this bus and stick out like sore thumbs. Our luggage below, I remind you, also sticks out like sore thumbs. SHIT. Then, the baby behind us starts crying, and we smell a dirty diaper. I start hysterically laughing at the ridiculosity of this situation. It is too damn funny.

Finally, we start moving. Bright lights stay on. I put on my ipod to drown out the chirping, as the candy kid is still going at it. Shortly thereafter, we stop at some kind of check point. We look out the window. You have got to be kidding. A San Martin bus pulled up beside us. Natasha and I look at each other in disbelief. It is three-quarters empty. We were so scammed. We should have known something was wrong when they would not accept a freaking credit card. Dammit. I tell her - listen, the other bus might not even be going to Cusco. Let´s just tell ourselves that. We pull ahead of the bus, and we both can´t help but look back. There it is, a bright and shining light on the front of that San Martin bus - CUSCO in beaming neon. I die laughing once again. Priceless. Seriously - joke or bad dream?

We stop again, and this time more people get on the bus. Are they going to be standing in the aisle all night? Oh no - this time the new people are selling food. The entire stuffy bus begins to reek. They are selling taco-like things wrapped in foil and are holding USED WATER BOTTLES that contain the salsa. The salsa is being squirted out of the sports nozzles. I am HYSTERICAL laughing, but under my breath because Natasha looks like she is going to strangle me if I make a single peep. She seriously looks like she is going to vomit. The only things missing from this bus are the chickens.

Finally, we take off and the lights go out. Natasha proclaims that there is no way that she is going to sleep. OK, I say - well I am going to try. I put on some mellow rock and all of a sudden I find that I need to turn up the volume - they have put a movie on, and the sound is SO LOUD. This is no normal movie. Typically, South Americans watch movies from the US or UK with subtitles - but we doubt that the average passenger on our bus knew how to read Spanish. Instead, we were watching some kind of Peruvian telenovella. It was like a bad soap opera, but set in the Peruvian countryside with cows and chickens and traditionally dressed farm workers. Then, of course, evil gangs of bandits were trying to keep the lovers apart. Oh my lord. Please please please grant me some sleep.

Every time I would stir and take off my blindfold, we would be going around a steep bend, and Natasha would be biting her nails, looking out of the window. In the morning I asked her what she had been doing for the past 12 hours, and she said: "Katie, I literally said the rosary the entire night. I said thousands of Hail Marys. Every time I would doze off, I would jolt awake and say in panic ´OH, forgive me Lord! Hail Mary, full of Grace!´ and begin again." Seriously? Natasha?!?! Oh WOW this is too funny.

Well, it´s funny now because we made it to Puno (where we have a two hour layover) safely, with all of our bags. I knew it would be funny on the other side. I got to see an incredible sunrise over Lake Tikicaca. We found out that the second leg of our journey was on a double decker bus. Great! Oh, except that our tickets bought us a place in the back of level 2, with no leg room. We sadly walked by the other backpackers in the front, happily yapping away, legs extended against the windows.

God was watching over us because we did end up safely in Cusco with all of our belongings, and we have a great story to boot. We have been staying at an amazing hostel. Cusco is beautiful and has a great nightlife. We have been dancing until dawn and making lots of friends. On Monday morning, we left on our Machu Picchu trek. And oh, the plot thickens once more.

After an amazing morning of trekking (like badasses with our 25 pound packs), everything starts to get harder in the afternoon. We have been walking for hours. My back and hips are aching from the weight - why didn´t I just give in and rent an extra horse? It starts raining, and it is cold. We reach camp at 5:30PM after walking for eight hours. As soon as I stop moving and my adrenaline stops pumping, my head starts throbbing. All of a sudden: extreme nausea. How could this be elevation sickness? I have been acclimating for days. I am so nauseous. I cannot eat. I climb into our tent and ask Natasha to bring me bread. Twenty minutes later, there is no way I can eat anything. I am gasping for breath at the elevation and am shivering in fever. I am so nauseous. My stomach aches. My body aches everywhere, and I don´t know if it is from the day of trekking or from the flu.

Oh my lord. I threw up five times throughout the night - at first in a plastic bag, and then directly outside the tent. Whenever I had to get up to use the "bathroom" (yeah right), I had to struggle not to step in my own vomit - not to mention the fact that the campsite was covered with spots of cow and horse manure. Seriously, I have never felt more disgusting. There were two wild dogs at our camp who were rustling and making sounds throughout the night. At one point I peaked out of the tent to see what was going on - "Oh......my GOD. Natasha...the dogs are LICKING my throw-up. They are EATING my vomit." Are you kidding? Bad bad bad dream. It was absolutely freezing outside. I did not get a wink of sleep. Neither did Natasha, who was the best friend I could have asked for. Thank God for having her there with me.

In the morning, we made the obvious call that I would not survive a nine hour day of trekking to even higher elevations. However, remember folks - this is Peru. The contingency plans here are not ideal. Essentially, I had to walk for 45 minutes in the morning cold, across streams and through piles of manure, before I realized that the guide carrying my pack was planning on HITCHING me a ride into a tiny town, where I would then somehow find a taxi. Literally, there was an eight wheeled truck with an open top, containing about thirty farmhands, that he tried to get me to ride on. HELL NO. I was in so much pain, and I was so cold, and I was so scared. Please please please, do not leave me here. I am in the middle of nowhere, Peru. I go: "No taxi, no solo!" If you don´t get me a taxi here, I am not going alone!

Miraculously, a taxi rode by going the opposite direction and told us to wait twenty minutes for his return. The driver took me all the way back to Cusco, which took three and a half hours along steep, bumpy roads. I laid in the back and prayed the whole time, trying to keep it together. I was able to call my hostel and get a private room. Thank heaven. I am so lucky.

I am taking a train tomorrow morning where I will be reunited with my group. I will get to see Machu Picchu, the great lost city of the Incas, on Friday. The plot has thickened, the story has changed, but in the end, fate has its way. I fall, I get up, and I am stronger for having survived it all. I think that I will continue to fashion myself as superwoman if that´s ok by you.

I can´t wait to tell you about the majesty of Machu Picchu from the other side. I will talk to you (and see some of you) very soon. Much love from Cusco. Besos!

Strong and Dirty

I started out my life as a risk averse, timid little girl who didn´t like to get dirty. I liked ballet and barbies and dress-up. How exactly did I blossom into the adventuress that I am? If you only knew how dirty I am. Dirt and grime and sweat and the raw emotion that seeps out of your pores when you are viewing and experiencing the world without make-up.

Over the past week I have: climbed a volcano, gone horseback riding on a ranch, found secret waterfalls, whitewater rafted through rapids, gotten lost by myself in the middle of the woods, played pool with new friends, gotten drunk and giddy on pisco sours, been moved to tears by my waiter, watched the sunset and sunrise over lakes and mountains, showed up at the airport without a ticket, took-off and landed five times, experienced altitude sickness, felt the bliss of watching children dance and play, seen snowcapped volcanoes and salt lakes, seen llamas and flamingos, been scammed by a ticket agent, sat on a chicken bus for twenty hours through the sketchy Peruvian night, used bathrooms that would arise beyond-horror in my mother, had my reservation lost by my hostel, met a spiritual goddess, asked my high heals to show the dance floor who´s boss, and danced salsa for hours with dreamy chicos. And now here I am, tasked with the feat of writing about it all. I am going to have to give it to you in installments folks - my life is that cool.

I was in Pucon, Chile for a few days, which is about 12 hours south of Santiago. The district is visually stunning. There are sparkling lakes, forests, mountains and volcanoes throughout the entire region. I mentioned last time that I climbed a volcano. The views made the day so worth it - but man! - that was freaking hard. The thing that I didn´t realize is that I would not be hiking on normal dirt. Think about this - there was not a single piece of vegetation, or a single insect, on the entire volcano. The ground is not dirt - it is volcanic rock and ash. It is really unstable and kind of crumbles with every step. In addition, the volcano is pretty steep. You rarely have a completely platform piece of rock to step on, and so your mind is working overtime - where do I step in order to create the best balance for myself, and to set up the next step? Also - how do I conserve as much energy as possible - how do I make my steps big enough to maintain a good pace, but small enough that my legs do not get tired too quickly? There was very little conversation during most of the trek. I got so deeply focused on what my body was doing that I was almost meditative - leaving all emotional thoughts, and all thoughts of home, behind. When you focus on nothing but your body, you almost leave your body at times. Then, once you reach a break point and turn around to admire the view, your humanity comes rushing back and you feel so proud about how high you´ve climbed. I got to float in between these two states all day.

One of the most fun parts of the trek was on the way down. The volcano involved a rocky part, and then an icy part, and then another rocky part that was much steeper. We knew that the topmost rocky part would be very challenging to get down, but the reward was the ice - we got to strap these pieces of vinyl to our asses and slide down the mountain! In reality, we didn´t slide as quickly as I had hoped - some leg work was still involved. But, it was a huge relief after tackling the steep and crumbling rocks at the top. When we took off from the summit, someone in our group muttered "Seriously, I am going to die." Our guide smugly responded, "Well, the only certain thing in life is death." Natasha and I, chicas Americanas that we are, cheerfully fire back at exactly the same time: "Don´t forget about taxes!" So classic.

After recovering from the volcano with a day of shopping, eating, and strolling on the lake-beach, Natasha and I had one of the most perfect days of my life. We started with a morning of horseback riding in the Claro region of Pucon. It was just to two of us and our guide - three people on horseback. Our horses were gorgeous - and I rather fancy the fact that mine was named Esperanza - hope! We took off down some country roads and admired the livestock hanging out on both sides. We managed to control our horses whenever there was a moving vehicle headed our way and steared them to the side. At one point, we literally saw a chicken crossing the road. We were so giddy and happy with life that this chicken seemed absolutely hysterical. I love laughing at nothing!

We crossed through a gate and rode up a dirt path that put us on a ridge, crossing through a beautiful ranch. We had incredible views of the mountains, clouds, and one gorgeous, sparkling lake. There were cows grazing throughout the fields. It was so magical. There is something so empowering about being on a horse. I have no interest in being an equestrian, but on Esperanza I felt like a beautiful, sexy cowgirl. Or, more like a cowwoman. Horsewoman. Whatever. It´s called cloud 9.

We tied the horses to some trees and hiked down a steep trail to a beautiful, deserted waterfall. If it hadn´t been cold, I would have been jumping in the water in my birthday suit. The spray of the water was so delightful. Natasha and I looked at each other...I´m with you, girlfriend. It is just so good. I rode back on Esperanza, at this point completely infatuated with her, and marveled at the maternal instincts coming out in Natasha with her horse: "That a girl - good girl! That´s a good girl. C´mon girl." Hahaha! Everything is just divine. We got back to Pucon, ate a quick but delicious lunch, and then took off on our next adventure...rafting!

So we were waiting to get picked up, and felt forgotten at a point...and we were wondering: who, other than us, goes rafting on a cool, kind of wet day? Because at this point it was legitimately raining. Are there going to be enough people in the raft? What are we getting ourselves into? The van came and dropped us off at the starting point, and we quickly realized that we were not even close to alone. There was a huge group already suited up, and this was not a random spazzy group of backpackers - they were all college kids from Syracuse University studying abroad in Santiago. These kids had so much energy! It was totally awesome. I felt like I was on spring break.

One of our guides gave a hysterical safety briefing involving a lot of sexual innuendo and therefore there were a lot of jeers from the peanut gallery. (Example: there was a way that chicos were supposed to hang on to the rescue kayak, and there was a very different way that chicas were supposed to hang on.) We played a game of musical chairs in the mud, but with our oars, and at this point we are positively giddy. We break into three "teams" and the riff raff begins - splash war combat! Oh my lord. Life is supposed to be this fun all of the time!

Our guide Christian taught us the commands that we would need to follow in order to avoid tipping over when barreling through rapids. High side left! I dive into Natasha´s lap on the other side of the raft. High side right! Natasha dives into my lap. Piso! We drop to the floor and pray to God. All of these commands started getting nicknames, like "Piso!" became "Peace Out!", and the later, "I need to Piso" became "I need to pee, sir!" spoken in a British accent. Hilarious. Over the course of the afternoon, people got pulled into the water by pirates from neighboring rafts. There were persistant splash wars, and we got stranded on rocks and were nearly vertical in trying to save ourselves. At one point, we got into the water and tumbled through gentle rapids sans raft (after which I got to latch onto Rodrigo, the kayak man, in chica position). There was also a short cliff jump towards the end of the trip - woohoo! We were shivering and soaked to the bone, but seriously, I will live in the river if I get to feel that kind of high every day. Life is supposed to be this fun. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Being wet and cold for so long caught up with Natasha, and she was feeling a little under the weather on Monday, so I decided to explore Huerquehue National Park on my own. I boarded a bus with a trail map and a liter of water. It was kind of drizzly, but moody and majestic for exploring the forest. The bus dropped me off at 2PM, and there was only one option for returning to Pucon - the 5:30PM bus. OK - three and a half hours. I can do this. The Los Lagos trail is supposed to take three and a half hours - no problem.

The thing that I didn´t realize is that it would take 45 minutes to get to the trailhead where the three and a half hour trail would begin. And, I did not have five hours. OK - still no problem. The trail sort of looks like an 8, and the forest ranger implied that I could just do the bottom loop of the 8 - I could make a little o. Is this making sense? This made perfect sense to me.

The trails are muddy, but I have great new Goretex trail runners - I am all set. The lakes are sparkling blue and green. The air is so fresh! Oh dear, the trail is getting muddier, but that´s ok. Oh! I am not the only person on this trail. I hear someone! OH AHHH!! OK - this is not a person - I have come face to butt with a huge cow. I have never seen a cow THIS up close before. Ahhh, my cow has friends. There are now six or seven cows, and three are in my direct path. Shit. (And literally, there is cow shit everywhere.) Do cows care if you walk by them? Will they get freaked out and charge at me? Or are they just nonchalant about me happening upon them? Why are there cows in the middle of this national park? Oh dear. There is mud and cow shit everywhere. I have a few stones to work with so that I do not end up ankle deep in cow shit. The problem is that the cows are kind of stepping on my stones. Patience Katie, patience. When there is a will there is a way. Somehow, I grace past these cows unnoticed. I am so badass.

The trail continues to get more and more gorgeous, but I am carefully watching the clock, and I am a little nervous. I find brief diversions in two secret waterfalls that I get to own for a few precious minutes. But now, back on task. Where the heck is the loop? Ah, ok - I have reached the Lago Verde, which is a good sign according to my map. I should be looping around here. Ah, here is where the trail must continue. I walk, and I walk. And the trail gets narrower. And then narrower. Now I am getting pricked. I rip my pants. My adrenaline is pumping and I am getting scared. I am lost in the forest in the middle of nowhere, Chile, and I am going to miss my bus, and then I will have no way to get back to Pucon. I am running out of water and I am starving, being an idiot for thinking that I wasn´t going to need any lunch after a few hours of uphill trekking. Shit!!! Do I have time to retrace the path I just travelled and go back the same way? Not if I go at the same pace - it is 4:10PM. I will have to haul ass down this mountain. Go Katie, go!

I am superwoman. I am running so fast down this mountain, through the mud. I laugh in the face of wild cows! The hunger and the thirst goes away - this is survival. It is amazing what my body can do when it doesn´t have a choice. I feel so strong.

I will tell you about getting mushy over my waiter and melting over Chilean children next time. I am leaving you with the image of Katie as superwoman - I made the damn bus with four minutes to spare.

Much love from one very strong and happy Katie. Besos!