tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49288938861669946922024-02-08T03:23:20.091-08:00Poor Decisions with Danielle and RachaelRachaelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08712655027597759421noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-80634639820780428262015-05-12T19:12:00.002-07:002015-05-12T19:12:21.613-07:00Grandmothers, Part 3<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">MY GRANDMOTHER ON DATING AND SEX</span><span style="font-size: 8.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me: This one time on OkCupid a guy
messaged me something stupid and his photo didn't have his face just his chest
so I wrote back "What are you hiding?" And he wrote "I'm not
hiding anything baby" and included a photo of his penis.<br />
Grandmother: Oh that's nothing.<br />
Me: Really?<br />
Grandmother: Oh yeah. Right now we're reading Canterbury Tales in my literature
class and there are penises all over. We talk about penises all the time now!
It's a lot of fun.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother:
DANIELLE. I wish you would just get married AND HAVE BABIES!!!<br />
Me: It's not even 9 a.m. Can't we wait until afternoon?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother:
Why are you sick?<br />
Me: I don't know?<br />
Grandmother: WHO HAVE YOU BEEN KISSING?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother:
I was reading the paper and I found a letter to the editor from this guy I used
to date, oh, 60 years ago.<br />
Me: How nice!<br />
Grandmother: Yes. It means he's still alive.<br />
Me: Yes...that is a good sign.<br />
Grandmother: I wonder if his wife is.<br />
Me: You planning to make a move?<br />
Grandmother: Eh. He lives in Virginia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me:
I buy all of my groceries one item at a time now, every day, because I found a
cute, nice cashier.<br />
Grandmother: Oh is it that nice handsome one from Senegal?<br />
Me: No he's a skinny white boy with a Justin Bieber haircut.<br />
Grandmother: JESUS CHRIST.<br />
Me: Do you even know who Justin Bieber is?<br />
Grandmother: No. But it sounds awful</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother:
You're going out with this guy, but you don't know anything about him?<br />
Me: He's a Jew.<br />
Grandmother: SO?!<br />
Me: Isn't that what you wanted?<br />
Grandmother: No! There are dumb Jews! There are GANGSTER Jews!<br />
Me: ....when was the last time you met a GANGSTER Jew??<br />
Grandmother: There was that Bugsy fellow.<br />
Me: I am moderately sure he's not a gangster. Happy?<br />
Grandmother: Moderately.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: I was doing some
cleaning today and I found all these letters from 1948. 6 of them were love
letters in French from a man named Natale. But I don't remember him at all! No
clue where I picked him up. I also found letters from Ilya.<br />
Me: Ilya? Who's that?<br />
Grandmother: My Bulgarian boyfriend. And then in the next drawer, I found the
letters from Amad.<br />
Me: Who?<br />
Grandmother: My Syrian boyfriend.<br />
Me: How many boyfriends did you have exactly, in 1948?<br />
Grandmother: Let me see...(begins counting)<br />
Me: Good heavens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"These
days, all the girls, they stay over at these boy's apartments. That never
occurred to me when I was dating your grandfather. I wish it had!"<br />
"Yeah Grandma, you totally missed out during those three months before
your marriage."<br />
"I know!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: I preferred the
crossing of the Atlantic, from New York to France. No one could get hold of me.
No phones, no internet, no mail. No one could bother me, I was free, no stress.
Also I had a fling with one of the ship's officers.<br />
Me: ON EVERY TRIP?<br />
Grandmother: ::changed subject::<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: These days the boys
say, "Come up to my place and watch a movie." In my day, it was,
"Come up to my place and see my paintings." But it all means the same
thing. Trouble.<br />
Me: Did that line get you in any trouble Grandma?<br />
Grandmother: Well you know your grandfather?<br />
Me: Ah. I see.<br />
Grandmother: Oh yes. But he did really have paintings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="display: none; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hide: all;">Top of Form<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">First I had quality time with my
grandmother: "Grandma, have you ever had your heart broken?"
"No. I just break other people's hearts. Though there was that one
Irishman..." "What happened there?" "Oh, you know, he was a
bit unstable." Then I had quality time with my father and Sister:
"See Dad, I told you Dani is useless." "You did tell me that.
And you were right." Then quality time with just Sister: "...why is
there a small monkey in our dirty laundry?"</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"So how
was the 'movie?'"<br />
"There was a real movie, Grandma, with many other people. But it was a
horror movie, so not my thing."<br />
"A PORN movie?<br />
"NO! Horror! Horror!"<br />
"You and that damn Pittsburgh accent."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: That's why I like the porn.<br />
Mother: The porn?? WHAT?<br />
Grandmother: The porn, the porn thing on the television.<br />
Mother: ....you're watching PORN? Mother! What!<br />
Me: I think she is trying to say "pawn." Like that Pawn Stars show.<br />
Grandmother: Yes, exactly! The porn stars!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Do you see any 80 year old men in these bar you go
to?"<br />
"Not so far..."<br />
"Maybe I should look on the internet."<br />
"For an 80 year old man?"<br />
"For an 80 year old man who will go with me to these bars."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-49171049751750272362015-05-10T08:32:00.000-07:002015-05-10T08:32:28.170-07:00Grandmothers, Part 2<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.1pt; margin-bottom: 4.1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.1pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">MY GRANDMOTHER ON LITERATURE, MOVIES AND TELEVISION<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: Tell your
aunt to bring me A Dirty Old Man next time she comes.<br />
Me: Are you sure that's a good idea in your condition?<br />
Grandmother: It's the name of a BOOK, Danielle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother's entire opinion of all ten billion pages of Anna
Karenina: "She's a jerk."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Did
you finish that book? The author shares my views on only children."<br />
"And what view is that?"<br />
"That only children are selfish, egotistical, and insensitive."<br />
"Grandma...you are an only child."<br />
"I know!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me: Are you aware the movie you want us to see is the erotic
tale of a young girl's lesbian awakening, cataloging her passionate sexual
encounters?<br />
Grandmother: So what?<br />
Me: It's rated NC-17.<br />
Grandmother: So what? It's a French movie.<br />
Me: I'm just saying, there is so much graphic sex that they couldn't even rate
it R.<br />
Grandmother: Are you trying to tell me you don't want us to see this movie?<br />
Me: I....all right. Fine. Just wanted you to be aware.<br />
Grandmother: And you should be aware that this movie is 3 hours long.<br />
Me: Oh. Hell no. That puts us home way past bed time. Pick another movie.<br />
Grandmother: You are no fun.<br />
Me: I'm sure I've heard that said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Danielle,
something happened the other night after you went to bed."<br />
"Uh oh."<br />
"I turned the TV back on, and that channel you were watching came up. And
DO YOU KNOW WHAT I SAW? A naked woman! Completely naked! With people behind her
engaged in...SEXUAL ACTIVITIES."<br />
"What was it? Did you watch it?"<br />
"Well OF COURSE I watched it."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"...that movie,
Girl With the Butterfly Tattoo."<br />
"Could you possibly be talking about the Girl with the DRAGON
Tattoo, Grandma?"<br />
"...yeah...."<br />
"Girl with a BUTTERFLY Tattoo would probably be a really different
movie."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother:
What was the name of that movie we saw last week?<br />
Me: You mean that one with all the nudity?<br />
Grandmother: Yes. Wait. Which of the ones with all the nudity?<br />
Me: Ah yes, there have been a few haven't there.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I don't like sad
movies. I prefer murder and mayhem." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"But
Grandma...isn't murder sad?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"No, Danielle.
It's just life." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And later...
"...then he decides to jump into the volcano with the mafia's vials and
dies." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"And you don't
find this sad?!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Well, I was
sorry. Because then they canceled the series."</span><span style="color: #9197a3; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
arrived home this evening and entered the house to hear a loud, deep, male
voice saying, "He walked to her and took her in his arms. Her breasts
pressed firmly against him. She was such an exotic, sensual creature..." I
walked into to the TV room to find my grandmother and said "What are you
WATCHING?" She just said, "You know, one of my shows." I really
do not know what my grandmother gets up to when I am out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">MY GRANDMOTHER ON 50
SHADES OF GREY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: So, Fifty Shades of Grey....<br />
Me: Yes?<br />
Grandmother: Have you read it?<br />
Me: Yeah.<br />
Grandmother: Should I read it?<br />
Me: Eh. I don't recommend it especially highly. And you're a little late to the
party.<br />
Grandmother: I think I'll read it this summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: Guess what I bought today!<br />
Me: I have no clue.<br />
Grandmother: Fifty Shades of Grey.<br />
Me: Nope, would not have guessed that one.<br />
Grandmother: I'm going to read it on the plane. It sounds crazy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Grandmother: I finished 50 Shades of Grey. It was horrible! Repetitive...are
the others better?<br />
Me: Worse.<br />
Grandmother: WORSE? HOW CAN IT GET ANY WORSE? What is this nonsense? Mishegas!
I have a plan. I'm going to put it back on the library free books shelf and
hide behind a bookshelf to see what crazy person takes it.<br />
Me: ........someone exactly like you.<br />
Grandmother: Oh. Right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
because my mother is my grandmother’s daughter…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mother:
Do you have a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey I can borrow?<br />
Me: Have you been talking to your mother?<br />
Mother: What?<br />
Me: Never mind. First of all, that is so 2012. Second of all, it's Twilight
fanfiction based. You know how I feel about that.<br />
Mother: I thought it was about sex. And women. And sex.<br />
Me: Well what do you think Twilight is about?<br />
Mother: Vampires?<br />
Me: AND SEX. Besides, I left my copy at my ex-boyfriend's place. I could ask
for it back, but I think at this point<span style="color: #9900ff;"> </span>that
would get awkward.<br />
Mother: DAMN IT.<span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-18714351601676830882015-05-06T19:30:00.003-07:002015-05-06T19:31:40.928-07:00Grandmothers Part 1For a long time, people have been telling me to collect all the conversations with my Grandmother I post on Facebook. I finally decided to do it. No, I'm not publishing a book. But I'm collecting them in one place in several parts that I will post here over the next few days. Four years ago, when I moved in with her, my grandmother told me, "Stick with me kid, and interesting things will happen."<br />
<br />
They sure did. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">MY
GRANDMOTHER ON POLITICS AND THE STATE OF THE WORLD:</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While
watching television my grandmother said dead serious, "We should have
annexed Canada long ago." When I asked why, she got annoyed and only said,
"Because!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Grandmother: So what does this new place of yours do?<br />
Me: Oh you know, they're another hippie liberal non profit. Trying to save the
world.<br />
Grandmother: That's nice. But the world's a lost cause.<br />
Me: That's depressing.<br />
Grandmother: No. It's a fact.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Grandmother: Bill Clinton is looking FANTASTIC.<br />
Me: Is that so? I think it may just be your crush giving you bias.<br />
Grandmother: No, he looks amazing. But! He has become a VEGETARIAN. He
eats...kin-wa. Oy vey.<br />
Me: Quinoa? Maybe you should start eating it too.<br />
Grandmother: Oh no. No no. Ugh. Does Todd like that weird stuff you cook?<br />
Me: It is NOT WEIRD.<br />
Grandmother: Oy vey.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last night I walked in
the door and the first thing my grandmother said to me from her armchair was,
"I am waiting here for my boyfriend!" VERY confused, I asked her what
on earth had been going on during the day and she shook her head and said,
"I mean Bill Clinton. He'll be on TV soon. That man can leave his slippers
under my bed any night." As far as I can tell, my grandmother has had
three great loves: my grandfather, Bill Clinton, and Che Guevara. It makes me
wonder about her. And my grandfather.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">MY GRANDMOTHER ON
TECHNOLOGY<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #141823;">Me: Have you talked to
them yet?<br />
Grandmother: Yes, your aunt gets them on the Spike.<br />
Me: The WHAT?<br />
Grandmother: Spike. That's how she talks to them.<br />
Me: Grandma, I think you mean SKYPE.<br />
Grandmother: Whatever.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #141823;">Grandmother: I've only
ever gotten two viruses. Remember the pornography?<br />
Me: That was not a virus. That was just you opening porn sent by
strangers.<br />
Grandmother: What's a virus do then?<br />
Me: It depends. Bad ones can give hackers your passwords so they can get into
all your online accounts.<br />
Grandmother: No they can't. Even I don't know my passwords.<br />
Me: I think they can still get them.<br />
Grandmother: That's great! Then they can tell me what they are!<br />
Me: I'm not sure it works like that.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Grandmother: You are never going to believe what I did last
night.<br />
Me: I cannot even imagine.<br />
Grandmother: I think I made some progress on the printer. I pressed a lot of
buttons, and then I started shouting HELP ME! HELP ME GET MY PRINTER ONLINE.
And the voice activation whosiwhatsis heard me, and brought up a note that
suggested I read the instruction manual!<br />
Me: All this time.......and you never thought to read the instruction manual? I
assumed that was the first thing you had done.<br />
Grandmother: Of course not! Why should I have to read instructions?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Grandmother: You lose your phone ALL THE TIME.<br />
Grandmother's friend: No! I never lose it! I MISPLACE it.<br />
Grandmother: The last two times I called you, your phone was in the toilet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #141823;">Grandmother’s friend: Right, but I knew exactly where it was!</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #141823;">"SEE
how many of these Viagra ads I get, Danielle? I don't need Viagra....but it's
too bad I don't have a boyfriend." --My grandmother, who is displeased
with her spam filter.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yesterday afternoon while I was at work, the microwave stopped
working. I arrived home to find Grandmother moping in her pajamas and yelling
about microwaves and ultimate betrayal. She had clearly taken it quite personally.
I walked over to the microwave and pressed the "on" button, and the
microwave worked just fine. Now Grandmother is convinced her microwave has
self-awareness and was playing an April Fool's Day joke on her. I suggested
this seemed unlikely, but she was so gleeful, admiring her microwave's rascally
nature, that I just let it be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-39335084719254159112014-11-24T11:42:00.003-08:002014-11-24T11:42:49.963-08:00Bullies<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was four years old, I went to preschool at the local
JCC. I wasn’t there all that long, it was my third preschool. I still remember the classroom, could still
point out where the blocks section was vs. the coloring area, and I remember
that my favorite thing was to play in the little sandbox. I don’t remember a whole lot that happened
the few months I was there, or any of the teachers, but I do remember Drew. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drew was my first bully.
As far as bullies go, she wasn’t
exactly a subtle master of the craft. Later in life, I would encounter far worse. But at the time, it felt pretty bad. If
I drew a picture, she told me it was ugly.
If I was building with the blocks, she pushed them over. If I was wearing clothing, (which thanks to
my mother, was every day), she told me it looked terrible. If I said something, she told me it was
stupid. She was relentless. Every day, all day, a constant barrage of
negativity and occasional mild physical violence. Nothing to attract the attention of the
teachers, but a quick shove, stepped on fingers, a poke in the gut. But the
absolute worst thing she did to me was target my only friend, Emily, and
somehow convince her to act as a kind of tiny flunky, witnessing and
participating in my slow torture while simultaneously leaving me bereft of allies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For whatever demented reason which I’m sure ought to have
landed me in therapy, the nastier Drew got, the nicer I got to Drew. I told her she drew amazingly beautiful
pictures, that her clothes were great, that anything she said was the most
intelligent thing I’d ever heard, and continually asked her if she wanted to
build blocks with me, play a game, come over to my house. I wanted desperately for her to be my
friend. She was the first person I ever
encountered who didn’t like me, and it just made no sense. I hadn’t DONE anything. I had to prove to her that it was all a big
misunderstanding, that I was loveable and if she would only just see, we could
be great friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told my parents about the abuse. My mother wanted to call my teachers, my
father told me to kick Drew in the stomach.
My mother decided this was a much better approach and agreed with this
new proposed strategy. I, however,
refused. Clearly deep down Drew was only
reacting to her own deep rooted insecurities.
Maybe she had a sad home life.
Probably she had low self esteem.
All she really wanted was to be loved. I had to show her I loved her!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave her my favorite bracelet, a stretchy plastic rainbow
beaded bracelet my grandmother had gotten me while spending Mardi Gras in New
Orleans. Let’s not stop to think about
my grandmother getting an entire bathtub’s worth of beads thrown at her in New
Orleans, and concentrate on the fact that I still remember exactly what this
beloved bracelet looked like. Drew told
me it was ugly, but she kept it anyway and continued the abuse for the next few
weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One morning though, Emily helped Drew corner me in a part of
the classroom shielded from the teachers by the building blocks and Lego table,
and Drew stamped down on my foot hard enough to hurt and keep me in place. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I said, “Drew, will you please get off my foot?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Going through this memory is kind of making me want to punch
myself in the face. Who SAYS that in this
situation?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” said Drew. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said, “Please?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said, “No.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I used my other foot to kick her as hard as I could in
the stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doubled over even though I couldn’t possibly have hurt
her that badly. Anyone who knows me at
29 knows I still couldn’t hurt a four year old girl with all my strength, so
just imagine me as a four year old girl myself.
She threw a FIT. Screaming,
crying, accusing, rolling on the floor, teachers rushed over to cuddle her, and
over the general ruckus I was shouting, “I ASKED HER PLEASE. I SAID PLEASE. “<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not a single teacher ever so much as gave me a stern talking
to. This seems odd looking back, but I
can only imagine that they all probably hated Drew too. Teachers aren’t stupid. I’m sure they sensed an evil in her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She never bothered me again, not once. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned a valuable lesson about life, love, the universe,
and humanity that can never be unlearned.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people are just assholes who need a good kick in the
stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-32084074804814722062014-08-04T13:37:00.002-07:002014-08-04T13:37:33.302-07:00Machu Picchu: Chapter 6, The End<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">We woke up relatively late the
following morning and found sunshine and rabbits in the courtyard. J2
decided to be brave and come outside for part of the day, and we walked around
in the almost but not quite warm weather looking at Scenery and Architecture
and visiting the Quirikancha and Museo de los Incas. We learned a lot of
history, exactly all of which I have already forgotten. In fact, I’ve
forgotten nearly all of this day, as the physical and emotional weight of hike
settled into my body and mind. All I know for sure is that my butt hurt
one heck of a lot. I couldn’t sit down properly and walking turned into a
strange uncomfortable shuffling as the swelling only increased. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">By evening J2 was done, so she went
to bed and the three of us fell asleep on some chicken at a chicken restaurant
where I did not avail myself of the complimentary salad bar and contemplated
the wilted spinach on my chicken sandwich before determining it probably was
not properly cooked and ceased to eat anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">J1 and M had one more day, but
Jessica and I set our alarms for 5 a.m. and at 6a.m. a taxi
arrived to take us to the airport. We got our tickets and checked in just
fine, and as we waited for our flight to Lima we saw two of our friends from
our time living in the Lima airport, including the Turkish tour guide from
Miami. The other, the student at UNC, was trying to get from Peru to
Costa Rica, and was told she couldn’t go without a Yellow Fever shot. She
was also told that she would need to get this shot at the airport in Lima or
cancel her trip. I did not feel confident about the idea of getting shots
from needles in an airport in Peru, and was pleased that I was not the one
facing this choice. To make matters worse, our flight to Lima was getting
further and further delayed, and the odds of her having the time to get the
shot AND make her flight to Costa Rica were near zero by the time we boarded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">**IMPORTANT SIDENOTE: This girl was
on line with us to board the plane. I admit we weren’t paying a whole lot
of attention to her once she got in line, but I DID see her get in the line
several people ahead. However, upon discussion with J1 back in the US,
Julia swears that the girl was also on HER flight to Lima the following
day. MYSTERY!!!!**<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The delay wasn’t good for
anyone. Our own flight out of Lima was becoming more of a hope than a
certainty. I had 20 soles in my pocket I had saved specifically to use in
the Britt chocolate store in Lima and I realized with a sinking heart that
while there was a vague possibility I might still make the plane, I’d never
make it through a chocolate store AND on the plane. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The flight itself was more or less
fine other than the fact that J2 sunk closer and closer into the clutches of
death and my bottom was made of pain and discomfort as I attempted to sit in
the airplane seat. I wondered sadly if I would ever enjoy sitting again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">When we arrived in Lima we
discovered we had to leave the terminal, go outside, and back through security,
which was multi-step. Jessica convinced the people running the first line
to let us skip ahead a bit, but the next person we talked to told us we had
plenty of time, despite the fact that our flight was leaving in 20 minutes and
we were nowhere in sight of the gate. Also we had to stand in a long line
to get our carry on bags searched as well as our persons. Panic
definitely set in during this process. Eventually though, we made it onto
our plane (without any Britt chocolate) where we were able to sit in some of
the worst discomfort of our lives as J2 fought for her life and my butt
continued to swell like a mylar party balloon. In this way we traveled to
Dulles in Washington DC where we were met by our Male Protectors and
carted away to be quarantined. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">It’s been a good two months now
that we've been back, and I admit I have still not fully unpacked.
Unfortunately I'm leaving in four days for Germany and Denmark and I need
that bag. So now the real hard work begins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-56554880994444776072014-07-29T21:06:00.000-07:002014-07-29T21:06:10.033-07:00Machu Picchu: Chapter 5, In Which We Reach the Promised Land<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At 3
a.m. we were all awakened and NOT given tea, which was unpleasant in the
extreme. We were told the early hour was partly in order to make sure we
reached the famous Sun Gate before dawn, and partly for the chaskeys. Aguas
Calientes is a town made specifically for tourists a 25 minute bus ride down
from Machu Picchu. It's like base camp. It has a train station that
leads back into civilization, which is how people who don't want to hike get to
Machu Picchu. It would seen that there is an expensive tourist train that runs
periodically throughout the day, and a cheap local train which only leaves at
5:30 a.m. This means that in order for the chaskeys to arrive back at their
place of employ in time they either need to be on that train, or, if they miss
it, walk all the way back. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We were rushed through our breakfast and our tents were
dismantled around us, which was unfortunate for J2 who was continuing the
descent through Dante's 9 circles of Hell. We pulled on our headlamps and
trekked off into the darkness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This day I was near the front of the pack. Unusual,
surprising even. The way was “flat,” so
it was easier to keep up the breakneck pace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The final obstacle was called The Monkey Steps, and was a short
but steep and narrow series of stone ledges wide enough only for toes and
fingers and necessitated crawling up with care. Once at the top, you
could look out below at the ruins of the Incan city of Machu Picchu still
covered in shadow. All 20 of us sat quietly with a few dozen other hikers
and watched sunlight sweep inch by inch through the mountain tops and over the
stones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once the sun had completely illuminated the ancient city, we
started descending. It was farther than anticipated, and by the time we
arrived I felt like maybe I would just never walk again. We shuffled around the
ruins in the warm sun as our guide gave us a tour of the highlights. Then
it was time to split. Everyone doing the Huayna Picchu hike except for my
people went to do that. Our tickets somehow were for the following
morning. At this point it seemed pretty improbable that I would ever move
again, but I decided that somehow by the next morning magically I would be
capable of hiking the steep and notoriously treacherous cliffs of Huayna
Picchu. The Chinese group vanished, and the others wandered off in
different directions. The plan was for everyone to meet at 1:00 at the
SAS run hotel in Aguas Calientes for lunch and goodbyes. We took many
photos and pointed vigorously at a number of llamas before getting on a bus to
take us down to into town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once at the hotel, we stopped in our rooms to take our first
shower in</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 4 </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">or
in some cases 5 days. I happily stepped into the nice clean private
shower IN OUR ROOM and immediately shrieked because there was no hot water.
I danced in the ice water for two minutes as I tried to wash my hair, but
once I got out I discovered that I had only washed the shampoo out of the left
side of my head. I was faced with the choice of returning to the ice
water or going another 3-</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">4 </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">days with dried
shampoo in my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I returned to the US with that shampoo in my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We regrouped in the common space downstairs and enjoyed a lunch
buffet, most of which I refused to eat because it contained uncooked vegetables
and meat that looked suspiciously like llama. After lunch, the Chinese
group left, but the rest of us were staying the night in the hotel. The
others all left in the morning, and we were set to head back to Huayna
Picchu. The family of women went off to do things like shower and change,
Two of our guides left to return to Cusco. J2 had been kind enough to
offer Guide1 a bottle of his favorite liquor which happened to be Jack Daniels
whiskey, and starting at 2:00 p.m. 7 of us sat around the table and passed a
shot glass around in a circle over and over. You may be thinking,
Danielle HATES whiskey. Danielle HATES shots. Danielle is not the type of
person who starts drinking liquor at 2:00 in the afternoon! But you have to
remember the situation. I had suffered some serious doubts about my
ability to complete this trek alive. I had taken that insurance policy
out on myself with real concern. I had just completed the hardest physical
challenge of my life and I WAS INVINCIBLE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The whiskey was followed by wine to celebrate the Canadians’
engagement, which had occurred at dawn as the sun rose over Machu Picchu.
No one could refuse that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The wine was followed by pisco sours, because pisco is the THING
to have in</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Peru</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By the time we finished the pisco sours, Guide1 had told us he
knew THE place to get passion fruit sours, the best drink in the world.
We all agreed that this was the best course of action, so we grabbed a
few others and left J2 to recover in a bed, and zigzagged our way through town
to a bar that made us sit outside. We ordered a round of passion fruit
sours and sat around talking for what seemed like a very long time. Also
drinking. Admittedly things are a little blurred. At one point J1 and I
went to the bathroom, and I got locked in. This was unfortunate, as they
were little individual bathrooms with strong, sturdy wood doors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“J1…” I called timidly, suspecting she had already long gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes?” she answered from right outside the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m locked in the bathroom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ah,” was all she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I waited for a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Should I do something about it?” she finally asked, as though
the idea was outlandish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No,” I said. “But if anyone wonders what happened to me, you
can explain that I got locked in this bathroom and can’t get out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Okay,” she said. And left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is worth noting that J1 does not remember this happening at
all. It is even more worth noting she does not remember what happened
later, which I will detail shortly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Left alone in the bathroom, I tried clawing my way out with my
nails, which was as ineffective as you are all thinking. I finally managed to
scrape the lock free, though in doing so tore a gash across my finger, which I
noticed later covered in blood. I returned to the merriment at our table
outside, where the two men with us were doing something called “leg wrestling”
on the sidewalk. This was a fascinating display of manliness that
involved lying on their backs and hooking their legs in a strange imitation of
arm wrestling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally, I turned to M. “Ohmygod we have to go to bed I’m dying what
time is it like is it 2 a.m. we have to get up at 6 a.m. and hike this
godforsaken extra mountain it’s like 2 in the morning we have to go what time
is it.” She showed me her watch. “Ohmygod it’s 7:55 it’s not
even 8:00 why is this happening I have to go to bed right now you don’t even
understand how is it not even 8:00 at night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We started drinking heavily at 2 in the afternoon,” she pointed
out rationally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m going to bed right now,” I declared, and everyone else
agreed it was time to go back. We had a raucous walk back to the hotel
where stopped outside to say goodbye when all of a sudden our Canadian shouted
at me, “YOU’RE A FENCER?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have no idea how this came up. It might have been a
delayed reaction from the previous day. “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I was. A long
time ago. I WAS IN THE JUNIOR OLYMPICS.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Fence me now!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We don’t have swords.” He put up an arm with an open hand and
got in fighting stance. “This is a terrible idea,” I said, mirroring his
position. “One of us is going to get very badly hurt. I am going to get
very badly hurt.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh,” I said. “Okay then.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Remember the effects of altitude on your blood? Combined with
alcohol?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I got him gracefully right on his sword arm as I had been
trained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“AGAIN!” He said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t punch me in the stomach.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I will not punch you in the stomach.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He got me real hard in the stomach and I doubled over. “AGAIN!”
I shouted. “THIS TIME FOR MY HONOR.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have no idea who was paying attention and who wasn’t. It
would seem no one, because later no one else understood exactly how I came to
be lying on the ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We feinted back and forth for maybe three seconds, at which
point I decided the best course of action was to full out charge in what could
have been a beautiful fleche if I had a) been actually holding a sword, b) not
been starting from such close range to begin with, and c) not been incredibly
extraordinarily intoxicated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Instead of receiving stunning punch in the chest, our Canadian
sidestepped, caught my arm in his and our inside legs tangled. My momentum kept
me going, the leg tangle spun me, and I pitched directly backwards down
the sidewalk, which was on a sharp incline. Because I was drunk, I did
not put my arms back to stop my fall which means I did not break my arms or
wrists. Because of the incline, my head came down last. In fact, my head
didn’t come down at all. The entire force of the fall to the cement came
down squarely on my butt. Not my tailbone. Just my butt. I
lay my head down gently on the pavement as everyone fluttered around yelling
but I was too stunned to understand English anymore. I didn’t even try to
get up, just lay there on my back until exactly one thing registered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I DID NOT HIT MY HEAD!!” I yelled at everyone in the vicinity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“ARE YOU OKAY?” they yelled back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I DID NOT HIT MY HEAD!” I repeated excitedly. “I DID NOT
HIT MY HEAD AT ALL. I DID NOT EVEN HIT MY HEAD.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sensing I was not planning to ever take further action other
than to continue shouting this over and over, My opponent reached down and
scooped me up new bride style and set me on my feet. He was extremely
contrite. I reassured him, “I DIDN’T HIT MY HEAD.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Probably it sounded a lot like I had hit my head. But it
was true, my head had not even grazed the pavement until I laid it down,
stunned, in a miracle of miracles. My butt, on the other hand, felt like
it had been removed and then sewed back on without anesthesia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I reassured everyone that I was completely and totally fine,
laughed it off, said goodbye to everyone, barely climbed the stairs to the room
I was sharing with J2, and began to sob uncontrollably.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh my god what is wrong?” asked J2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I DIDN’T EVEN HIT MY HEAD,” I explained to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Head spinning, butt pulsating, I went to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At 6 a.m. I woke up feeling fantastic. My head was steady,
I felt no after effects of the alcohol at all. My muscles all continued
hurting from the hike, but the only thing left from the night before was the
gash on my hand from the bathroom luck and my butt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My butt had swelled. I was unaware that butts could
swell. Mine had swelled so much that it affected my walking. I
could barely shuffle. Hiking to the top of Huayna Picchu seemed less and
less attainable. I looked over at J2. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">J2, having managed half of our 35 miles through mountainous
wilderness, STILL AT THE FRONT OF THE GROUP and STILL CARRYING A PACK, had
decided that this, finally, was the moment to give up on life. I like to
think that had J2 been in any shape to continue onward, I would have
taken my swollen butt and crawled up the final mountain. I was wide awake
and feeling good at the 6 a.m. departure time, which was itself a true
Christmas Miracle. My legs were weak but my knees were stable, and I was
pretty sure nothing on Earth was too much to conquer. But as it was, I
gave J2a once over and determined that it was neither kind nor prudent to leave
her alone for 8 hours, because no one should have to die alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">J1 and M headed back towards the mountains, and I got up and
stared for a good while at the shower. Deciding maybe I’d just never take
a shower again, I sat around eating beef jerky until around 8 a.m. at which
point I headed to a pharmacy to bring some important items back for J2. I
headed for the pharmacy, where people spoke less English than you might think
in a town made for western tourists, retrieved the items and delivered them to
the sick room. I ate some more beef jerky, and took another walk through
town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I passed the day this way, wandering in and out, making sure J2
didn't die without anyone noticing, wandering through the sunlit streets of
town, passing in and out of the hostel common room. At some time in
the afternoon J1 and M returned exhausted and we all had lunch and headed for
the train station. I was a little apprehensive, remembering the train I
took through Bolivia from the Salar region back to Oruro, but this train was
beautiful. The were wide windows, the ceiling was glass which made for
very nice views, everything was incredibly clean, the seats were comfortable,
and we had attendants walking through at intervals with drinks and snacks and
very expensive merchandise. It was more luxurious than any train I've
ever been on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was several hours on the train back to Cusco, where we were
picked up by an SAS van and taken back to our hostel. This time we asked
for a room on the back of the property, farther from the noise of the bar/club
which we still did not have the energy to go to. J1, M, and I barely had
the strength to drag ourselves out in to the streets looking for dinner.
J2 stayed in bed. A woman found us on the street and herded us into her
restaurant which was not amazing but not terrible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It should be noted that by this point both M and J1 were now
also suffering from certain common South American gastro issues thus making me
THE ONLY PERSON ON THIS TRIP NOT TO GET SICK AT ALL.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">CONSTANT. VIGILANCE.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We went back to the hostel where M took a shower and informed us
of how cold the water was so I continued to not take a shower. Then we
went to bed, and I slept all through the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-89077806875225014622014-07-28T10:10:00.000-07:002014-07-28T10:10:34.516-07:00Machu Picchu: Chapter 4, In Which We Continue Ascending and then Descend<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On
the second morning we were awakened by chaskeys outside our tent with hot tea.
We quickly packed our belongings back in our bags, and left everything in there
for them to pick up and take up to our next camp site. Not a bad way to
travel. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Breakfast was quiet in the tent as we ate quinoa porridge with
cinnamon. It had milk in it, which I eyed thoughtfully, and then decided
that since it was heated it might not carry disease. Good thing, because
it was the most amazing breakfast food I have ever been handed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Breakfast was over by dawn and we were off again on the trail,
this time a straight uninterrupted ascent through Dead Woman's Pass. The
name Dead Woman's Pass gave certain among us a Terrible Feeling of Dread as we
hiked, but I was constantly reassured that the pass got its name from the shape
of the mountains forming it. Again and again the head, waist, and breasts
were pointed out to me, but I remain convinced that this was all bullshit made
up on the spot to keep the more nervous of the tourists from suing for
emotional damages. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few km into the day, a little boy ran past us with a backpack.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Where are you going?" asked the guide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"School!" the boy called over his shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Where is school?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Ollantaytambo!" the boy shouted back, before
continuing down the mountain at a run. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Please remember that this is the town we started in, the day
before, 13 hours of hiking earlier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is how chaskeys are made.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Much of the pathway was made of stone steps we climbed one by
one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by one by
one.......forty million times. I quickly fell behind my own friends and
turned to another fellow hiker who became my 2<sup>nd</sup> Day Best Friend.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After a good 8 hours of struggle and friend making, people
started to reach the top. My friends reached it long before I did, along
with a few of the Chinese group. My New Friend I were behind the of half
of Chinese, and behind us were the rest of her family and then finally the two
Canadians in the back. The first guide was somewhere not too far ahead, The
second guide was up at the top. The third guide was midway between us and
the summit, when a Chinese girl passed
out and her eyes rolled back in her head. Running up the mountain at
14,000 ft above sea level after throwing away half your water supply is widely
looked down on, because what happens is you pass out and your eyes roll back in
your head and things don't look so good for you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was too far behind to see this actually happen. All we heard
was the closest guide’s shouts up to the one midway: "OXIGENO!!!
OXIGENO!!!" The next guide then tried passing the shouts along up
the mountain to third and farthest, who was the one carrying the oxygen tank,
but unlike in 101 Dalmatians, this chain of communication did not work as quickly
or effectively as the girl needed to continue not having brain damage. Guide2
had to race up the rest of the mountain at a run, a distance and pace which
were not negligible. We could see the top from our position, but that was
because the mountain was steep, not because the summit was especially close.
I was effectively moving forward at approximate one step per 20 minutes,
and there was probably a good 1.5 km left. As Guide2 ran he shouted,
"OXIGENO!!" Soon the call was taken up and down the mountain as
hikers started picking up on it, and eventually it reached Guide3 who started
running down the mountain to meet Guide2 on his way up. They passed off
the tank and Guide2 took off right back down the slope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was a pretty dramatic time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I would also like to take this moment out of the dramatic action
to point out that I WAS NOT THE RECIPIENT OF THE OXYGEN. I reached the top of
Dead Woman's Pass on the strength of my own legs and lungs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back to the story. New Friend and I continued onwards, passing
the unconscious girl in Guide1’s arms, with the oxygen mask over her
face. After brutal efforts, I summitted and lay down in the dirt and
prayed for an easy death while everyone took photos and rejoiced as we waited
for the others, who numbered about 6. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">DO YOU SEE HOW FAR FROM LAST I WAS?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once everyone had reached the top, we were told we had to climb
a nearby hill, at which point my soul died without fanfare or
recognition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the top of this hill, we piled up some stones, took out some
coca leaves and blew on them, and made wishes. I wished never to feel
that way again, but the gods did not see fit to grant my wish because very soon
we were on our way back down the mountain, which proved to be far, far
worse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As you are mostly aware, I suffered some severe knee trauma last
March which seems to have caused me permanent damage. Many of you
received the narrative involving the bloody massacre that was my trek down the
Arenal volcano in Costa Rica. This was not quite as intense, but it was
much longer, and at only halfway my knees went from wobbly to completely
dysfunctional and I could no longer put any weight on them at all. They
didn't hurt, exactly. They just no longer supported me. If I put a
foot down, I just fell right over. Luckily I had my hiking poles, which I
used essentially as crutches, using them to hold all of my weight step by step.
This was extremely slow going, and I soon found myself in the same predicament
I did on that volcano in Costa Rica--total darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Luckily, I had a fantastic and stylish headlamp right in my
easily accessible bag unlike some other n00bs on the trail. Also luckily,
I was not alone. M was with me the entire way, and J1 and J2 for large
parts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I won't go into full detail of the horror that was my body and
mind by the time I reached the bottom of the mountain because my mother is
reading this, but if you are not my mother, you should just try to imagine the
Total Despair I faced as I dragged my dead legs along on my fake crutches,
towards the dinner tent. If you are my mother, try imagining rainbows and
friendly hippos instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dinner was a quiet and somber affair, as even people who were
not me were utterly exhausted and/or suffering broken ankles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After dinner most people stuck around for drinks and ghost
stories, but I was having none of it. As dark had swept through the pass, a
bitter cold descended. We were high, high up now, even with the descent.
I could not stop shaking, and it wasn't just from the weak knees. On my way to
the “toilets,” I carefully crossed a wooden bridge over rushing water when my
knees gave out, possibly from the shivering, and I pitched sideways towards the
edge. I yelped in terror, sure that this was it, but luckily whoever had
constructed the bridge had accounted for tourists and also built little wood
rails which prevented me from tumbling into the water below. I made it to
the most disgusting bathroom we had yet come across on the trip (still did not
make my top 5 Worst Bathrooms list). Also the first bathroom which had
only holes rather than toilets. Not ideal in the cold and the dark, but
could have been worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back in the tent I covered myself once again in Hot Hands but
unfortunately even that could not stop the violent shivering. The last time I
had suffered such cold was the Night of Impending Death in Bolivia so long ago.
I pulled out an emergency blanket Kate once gave me, but even that did
nothing and also crinkled at high volume any time I breathed. I lay awake
once again all night until 5 a.m. when the chaskeys brought our morning tea and
pulled us from our tents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was standing around praying once again for an easy death that
did not seem to be coming when I spotted A PILE OF OREOS. I heard angels
singing in my head. A soft halo glow emanated from the pile. I
tried to move towards them but I was frozen. Guide2 was handing them out
to hikers, a 4 pack to each of us. When he reached me I said, "I
will save this until evening. For as long as there is the possibility of
Oreos in my future, I will not succumb to death." He looked at me
hard for a few seconds, trying to determine whether this was a joke or a
decree. He seemed disturbed by what he saw in my eyes so he went back to
the pile, picked up four more packs, and hid them in my pockets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"PLEASE do not die on this trip," he said. I can't
even imagine the paperwork and legal repercussions he might suffer in the event
of my death. Probably a lot, because after thinking for another few seconds, he
packed his own pockets with Oreos to save for later in case I seemed ready to
give in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was busy with my own suffering, but it must also be said that
J2 woke up this morning in a state. Not EVERYONE had properly examined all of
their food for Death Molecules the way I had! Despite the horrible illness that
has cut down lesser women, J2 STILL MADE THE 16 KM TREK CARRYING A PACK. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This day is blurry to me. The fatigue, the cold, the lack
of sleep, the knee swelling...it's hard to remember everything correctly.
But I'm sure I had a lot of fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Seriously though, this whole time that I have been describing
the depths of my pain and despair, everything around us was busy being the most
beautiful sight mankind can behold. Snow capped peaks, green and brown
mountains, trees and flowers and vines, clouds hanging just over our heads.
The air was thin but clean and the surrounding forestry was untouched by
trash or human markings. Every view was stunning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The main takeaway from Day 3 was 16 km of ascending and
descending, J1, who had been at the head of the group most of the way, stayed
behind with me at the end of the evening as I came in second to last in the
dark to the final campsite, which was kind of difficult to find. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">J2 lay down to die in our tent, and instead of being a good
friend and staying with her to deliver the last rites, I ran off nearly
immediately with a group of die-hards at a near run into the brush, swollen
knees ignored, lung pain dismissed as I struggled not to be left behind alone
in the dark in the woods. When I ran out into the clearing, the sun was
nearly set. The last rays of light shone on an Incan stone structure at the top
of a small mountain, directly in front of me. Below, stretching far, far
below, were terraces cut into the slope, one after the other reaching down like
steps into another world. The place was called Winay Wayna and if you
look up photos you'll see what I mean, but it won't look as beautiful to you
because there was something about being there just at the start of night after
the day and looking straight down into the valley that was pretty magical.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">J2 continued to lay near death in the tent as the rest of us ate
dinner.. Eventually we all survived dinner and headed to our tents where we lay
for maybe 2 hours because we were all to be awakened at 3 a.m. to make the
final 7 km push onwards towards Machu Picchu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Questions to ponder:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do my knees recover or do I need to be carried into Machu
Picchu?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Does J2 die?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What exactly IS Machu Picchu?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Answers to these questions and more will come in Chapter
5. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-62422835163411546682014-07-23T11:57:00.000-07:002014-07-23T11:57:40.418-07:00Machu Picchu: Chapter 3, In Which We Ascend<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At
5:00 a.m. we woke up, and at 5:20 we were at the SAS owned hotel meeting the
group, the guides, and leaving behind the duffel bags we had been given to put
our belongings in to send ahead with the chaskeys. The bags could weigh a
maximum of 9 kilos, including our rented sleeping bags and mats. This
left us with more or less 6 kilos of belongings. Having only brought a
total of about 6 kilos with me for the whole trip, this did not pose a problem
for me. I put some sunscreen, 2 granola bars, a water bottle, my wallet, and my
passport in my little day pack (kindly lent by Julia), and sent the rest on.
This way on the hike I was carrying maybe 5 pounds, total. My strategy of
packing nothing was working well. It was the only hope I had of survival.
Everyone else was carrying between 15 and 40 pounds. I hoped that this
would bring them down to my level. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It did not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We drove about 45 minutes to a breakfast spot where I carefully
checked all items for potential death carrying properties. Most of the
offerings passed muster. We purchased coca leaves, large plastic rain bags, and
water bottles, and continued on our way towards Ollantaytambo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During the bus ride I was filled with Morning Hate for everyone
and everything and wouldn't speak, so J2 started a conversation with one
of the guides sitting near us. They spoke of many things until
eventually I was ready to speak like a human again, at which point I told him I
didn't expect to live to see the end of our trip. He took this very
seriously and started to become concerned that I would become a legal hazard.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"NO!" he said. "No no. No. You will not
die. No. Don't do that. You are going to be fine. Do not die on this
trip."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We arrived at the start of the trek around 8 a.m., showed our
passports to some officials, took some photos, and headed on our way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first day was not the one most talked about by those warning
me of the horrors awaiting, but it was steep enough and challenging enough for
me for sure. After only two hours I was pretty much maxed out physically, and
we still had 10 of our 14 kilometers to go. The chaskeys, on the other hand,
ran past us at intervals, having started long behind us and needing to finish
long before us while each carrying 25 kilos of luggage and equipment.
They raced up the mountain with this weight to set up a tent and set
places for us for lunch each day, and to cook gourmet 5 course meals before our
arrival. Many of us were incredulous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"How can do they do this physically?" we tried to ask through
labored breathing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"They start as children," our guide told us.
"They live in the mountains but go to school in the towns below.
They have to run there and back every day."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This seemed ridiculous, but I didn't have the breath to
argue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As everyone can guess, I was not in the front of this group. I
was not quite in the middle. BUT I WAS NOT LAST. I was not. I was NEVER LAST<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not last. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was. Not. Last. Ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay???<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lunch time was mid afternoon in a beautiful grove with some
not-the-worst-toilets-ever in a tent with beautifully set places and little
stools and a multi-course lunch. I rejected many foods for their possible
death properties even though theoretically a licensed tour group that takes
Americans all year round should be pretty safe. CONSTANT VIGILANCE, my
friends. Never trust a cucumber past the Texas border!! Mayonnaise? NOPE.
Tomato? NO THANK YOU. I was a diarrhea free zone! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While expertly deflecting Disease and Death, I got to know some
of our other travelers a little better. Were a few Americans, two
Canadians, and a group of 7 Chinese. We never really learned much about them because
mostly they kept to themselves and spoke Chinese. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After lunch we continued upwards. As people forged ahead I had
plenty of time to walk a solitary journey and contemplate all of the terrible
pain I was in. As we moved forward, every 2 hours or so our guide would stop us
all to point out ancient ruins and other Incan related beauty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Eventually we made it to our first campsite. I was NOT the
last person to arrive. J2, it must be said, was the FIRST to arrive, by a
long shot. She may have a career as a chaskey. It was demoralizing to some of
the rest of us who might not have been last but were perhaps 13th by a fair
amount. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tents were all set up for us, including a dining tent where we
were given snack and tea. Snack was popcorn and cookies, and the tea was
amazing, especially as it was pretty cold outside. This particular campsite was
advertised as having a shower. Having not washed my hair at the hostel
due to the cold, and with another 6 days ahead of me, I decided to brave the
shower which cost $1.50 per use and was SWORN to have hot water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was the first to brave the shower. I handed over my
money, grabbed my beautiful new camping towel, and stepped into the dirt
encrusted little stall and took a moment to contemplate the mosquitoes
congregating in various corners and around the drain. I started to shut the
door but as I did realized there was no light. I walked back out and
asked the shower owner where the light was. "No light," he told
me. At first I started to grab my headlamp, but then I realized the shower was
probably not the greatest place for a headlamp's well-being. So I got
back in the shower in the total darkness, felt around for the water chain, and
was immediately doused in the freezing cold waters of the Andes.
"Hot" apparently to Peruvians just means "not physically
frozen into ice quite yet." Combined with the 45 degree temperature of the
outdoors, this quickly climbed the charts to make onto the Top Five Worst
Showers I Have Taken Around the World. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Quickly, the previous top 5 were:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1. The first shower I took in Bolivia upon coming down from the
Death Journey through the mountains. I begged a stranger to use her shower
which turned out to be a nozzle hanging over the toilet. I was given a
broom to hang onto to in order to continuously sweep water into a drain in the
center of the floor as I showered, with the windows open, in temperatures of
30-35 degrees, in water that was just barely not frozen while simultaneously
trying not to faint, vomit, or poop uncontrollably. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2. Upon returning from Iceland to France where I stopped in
Chateaulin to visit Alexa's home in the boarding house of her school, only to
discover the heat and of course hot water broken in 40 degree weather whereupon
I was forced to boil water in an electric kettle repeatedly to fill a bucket,
stand in the middle of the bathroom, and dump all of the hot water over my head
in one swift movement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">3</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. The shower in the hostel in Greece which was in a co-ed
bathroom in which the shower stalls had doors that were not made for people of
any human proportions I have yet seen on this earth which only barely covered
your bits on the lower and upper ends provided no one decided to walk
especially close to your shower or make any effort to peer in from the next
stall. Additionally hot water cost a Euro, which had to be deposited in a
little box outside the bathroom which somehow connected to a certain shower.
So if you pick shower</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 3</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, you go outside,
deposit a Euro in box</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 3 </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">at
which point hot water starts pouring out of shower</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> 3 </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">so you RUN TO IT because you only have 5
minutes of water, throwing your towel off as you sprint and hoping no one
notices. Please don't forget that this was during February one day after a
freak snow blizzard in a hostel that mostly DID NOT HAVE A ROOF. The
bedrooms and the showers had sort-of roofs, but they weren't fully attached to
the walls so while it kept snow out of the beds, it did nothing for the
temperatures. And 5 minutes was not enough for my shampooing so I spent
two days in Athens with the un-rinsed shampoo in my hair causing half my head
of hair to randomly stick up in solid masses because all I had that morning was
a single Euro coin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">4. The shower in my host family's apartment in Toulouse.
This was just a repeated offense over the course of 6 months. This
was not actually a shower, this was a bathtub with a shower nozzle that didn't
work most of the time so I had to constantly scrunch on my back under the
bathtub faucet trying to wash my hair all winter where, again, in 35-40
degrees, the family ALWAYS left the windows open, and there was rarely any hot
water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">5. In London at a hostel a man tried to get into the shower with
me. This had less to do with the shower itself and more to do with the
emotional trauma sustained and the fact that I lay awake with a knife in my
hand that night, but still. It goes on the list. Don't worry though! No
Danielles were physically harmed in any way in the making of this Worst Shower
Episode. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This was my list before</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Peru</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. But due to the dirt, the mosquitoes, the total lack of
light and not being able to see anything at all, combined with the cold of the
air and the cold of the water as well as the fatigue (remember I hadn't slept
yet? I remember), the shower of this night definitely bumped #2 from its place.
And it fought hard for #1.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Only one other person tried the shower after that, and he didn’t
have anything good to say about it either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once I had gotten clothing on and taped eight Hot Hands packets
to various parts of my body, I was able to enjoy the sight of the night sky,
which was STUNNING. Maybe one of the top 10 most beautiful things I have
seen alive in this world. With absolutely 0 light pollution for billions of
miles, every single star visible from Earth lit up the sky so that there was
almost more light than dark. There was no way to pick out constellations
because every scrap of sky was covered in bright points. It was hard to
believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dinner was equally marvelous as lunch with its 5 courses and
dessert and tea and good conversations, and soon it was time for bed at 8 p.m.
because we were going to be roused at 5 a.m. to eat breakfast and continue
climbing the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To come in</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Chapter </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">4: Dead Woman's Pass, utter despair, an oxygen tank, VICTORY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-67822608545883529672014-07-07T18:07:00.000-07:002014-07-23T11:57:57.679-07:00Machu Picchu: Chapter 2, The Horny Llama<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Leaving the Lima airport was bittersweet. It was nice to be headed towards our goal, but sad to leave what had now become our home. The flight itself was uneventful, we landed in Cusco and the other two got their bags (I still had only my pink backpack) and we said goodbye to our airport friends. We caught a very expensive taxi driven by a friendly driver and finally arrived at our hostel at 4:00 p.m., most of our day of acclimatization lost. M was not immediately present when we checked in, but had left a note. We didn't have to wait for her long, and we had a 4 person room which is super nice for a hostel. It didn't have a door that locked, which wasn't 'ideal, but still not half bad. The whole place was very open and therefore not heated which was unfortunate, as Cusco was quite cold. With the seasons opposite, we were heading into winter. Obviously I did not appreciate this. </span><br />
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Once we had collected M, the four of us went down the street to SAS Travel to check in and get our final information. SAS stands for something and something. South America...Stuff? Something Adventure Something? Savy Adventure Squids? I just don't know. But we went there and checked in and showed them our passports and then they asked for our immigration cards. Three of us pulled out little white pieces of official paper. </div>
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One of us said, "What the hell is that?"</div>
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Three of us said, "The piece of paper they told us to keep when we went through customs that they said was very important."</div>
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One of us said, "Aw shit."</div>
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So I had to run back to the hostel and sift through all the crumpled papers in my backpack and pockets praying that it hadn't been part of the handfuls of paper I had thrown away. Luckily, I found it squished among some trash. </div>
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I started to run back to SAS but after half a second stopped and tried not to die as my lungs constricted, my head rushed, and I gasped for breath. Then I continued leisurely onwards where I presented my immigration card and everything was okay. The man at the SAS desk went over our reservation with us and we discovered that they had charged and booked me and Jessica for the Huayna Picchu hike on the last day. J2 and I had originally opted out of the Huayna Picchu hike because at the time we were both out of shape and the idea of a "very strenuous, somewhat dangerous" hike at the end of 35 uphill mountain miles and 4 days of camping sounded terrible. Sitting there though, finding out we'd been signed up anyway, we decided we might as well. After all, J2 was now in the best shape of any of our lives, and I was an idiot. </div>
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SAS also told us they were doing a promotion and could offer us a free tour of the Sacred Valley in the morning. The catch here is that the Sacred Valley is several thousand feet lower than Cusco, and not the best place to acclimatize. Seeing as how we'd lost the whole first day, the second day was all we had to build our lungs and hearts and blood and whatever else. Additionally, we had to get up at 6 in the morning for the bus. Having not slept in 48 hours and about to embark on the most physically challenging undertaking of my life, this wasn't super appealing, but it was a once in a lifetime opportunity after all. </div>
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We had dinner at a fun restaurant nearby, and returned to the hostel to shower and sleep. Unfortunately the showers were outside in what as I said was the start of winter, so this was extremely difficult. It was a very short shower in which I did not wash my hair. As I mentioned, we had chosen this hostel because of its party nature, intending to party like crazy and live it up with such a conveniently located place to dance dance revolution only 1 minute away from our beds. However, reality was that by 9 p.m., we were all in bed ready for sleep. We could always party the night we got BACK from the hike. </div>
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Three of us fell asleep immediately. But I have always had a hard time with sleep, and I was awake for a little while, until the music from the Horny Llama started. </div>
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The Horny Llama was RIGHT next to our room. Right next to all the rooms. And the bar appeared to turn into a club around 10 p.m. A club filled with booming loud music. So loud that the bass was making the bunk bed frames vibrate. It was as if I had gone out to a club, found the spot in front of the speakers, and laid down. My heart was vibrating. My head was ringing. The music was kind of awesome. But as the hours ticked by I started feeling sicker and sicker. Breathing was becoming hard. Lying down in the altitude somehow makes it more difficult. I hadn't slept since the day before I left on the trip.</div>
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Somehow the others slept. I'm not entirely sure how. They say there were tired, but honestly I don't care how tired you are, that is some hard business to sleep through. I lay awake all night vibrating with the music and wondering if my shallow breathing and rushing head was a foreteller of death. Thank goodness for the repatriation of remains insurance I had bought!</div>
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At 5 in the morning people's alarms began to ring and I was unsure if I was relieved the night was over or horrified that now 72 hours had gone by without a single minute of sleep. My hands shook as I climbed out of the top bunk and landed in a sad heap on the floor. I drank some water from my bottle, cried a little, took a pill J2 handed me, and followed the others outside and down the road to SAS and climbed into a van full of strangers that drove us into the Sacred Valley, which was very beautiful.</div>
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We saw many Incan ruins, and learned that the Incans were not in fact Incans. Inca is the Quetchua word for king, and so technically the Incans were not the entire people, but only the rulers. The normal people were Quetchua. I think. This was my understanding through the haze of sleep deprivation and altitude inspired delirium. We walked around a few sites, learned about terrace farming techniques, and had lunch at a nice place with a buffet. I carefully avoided the steamed (not BOILED) vegetables, the cheese, the milk, and the salad. No one else chose to be as cautious. It is true that by the end of lunch I was beginning to feel like one of those paranoid cartoon caricatures with crazy eyes. "CHEESE. IT COULD KILL US ALL." and "OH MY GOD. THAT GREEN BEAN DOES NOT LOOK WET ENOUGH WE COULD ALL DIE." But I stuck by my principles faithfully and completely. </div>
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During lunch we got to know the other people in our group, many of whom were mildly interesting. One woman from Indiana described her small town as "50 miles past where Jesus lost his sandals" a phrase I will use for the rest of my life. Another had just gotten married--they were Indian, and it sounded like it was an arranged marriage. We had one man traveling alone who worked for FedEx transporting "dangerous materials" which was the most interesting of all. What is dangerous enough to be considered "dangerous" by FedEx but still legal to put in the mail?? A mystery I will spend my life solving. Possibly with repeated attempts to mail dangerous materials through FedEx. Trial and error! The scientific method! </div>
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In the evening we stopped in a town called Chincherro, famous for alpaca dyeing. The wool, not the whole llama. We were given a speech by a young girl named Anna about the different dye techniques and tools. She held up a small bone.</div>
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"This," she told us, "is the bone of a tourist who did not buy anything from us....haha. I just kidding. This is bone of llama we use for combing." </div>
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Everyone laughed. But everyone also bought a beautifully dyed alpaca souvenir. </div>
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That evening we had to be back at SAS at 7:00 for our pre-hike briefing. We all squeezed into a little attic room in the office. We were 17 in total minus our 3 guides. The guide gave us a basic idea of what to expect from each day and strongly encouraged all of us to hire a "chaskey" if we had not already, to carry our belongings up the mountain for us. </div>
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I was at this point pretty sure I was going to be dead as well by mid-afternoon the next day because I still had not slept at all. We got back to the hostel where I had intended to take a shower, but due to the cold and intense shivering and desire to live to ever be warm again, I decided against it. Instead I stared down an Italian boy at the hostel computer so I could use the internet to send final goodbyes to my loved ones. While sitting there in the empty common room, a movement by the couch caught my eye. At first I had no idea what it was because my eyes were telling my brain some unbelievable things, but as the movement hopped closer and closer, I realized it was indeed a white rabbit. What was a rabbit doing in a hostel common room in Peru? Had it escaped the kitchen? Were rabbits even native to Peru? Why was it indoors? Was it dangerous? It was closing in at an alarming rate. I still hadn't fully comprehended that it was a real rabbit. We stared each other down as it hopped closer and closer until at about a foot away, it broke eye contact and veered left, through the door way and down the hall out of sight and out of my life as unexpectedly as it had come. Shaken, confused, and mildly delirious from exhaustion, I gave up on the internet and went to bed where I did finally fall asleep at 2:00 a.m., as the club music was at about half volume. </div>
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This was exciting, until we remember that I had to wake up at 5 a.m. in order to begin the 35 mile greatest physical challenge of my life. </div>
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To come in Chapter 3: The Ascent</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-39401468477529285262014-06-25T20:21:00.001-07:002014-06-25T20:24:28.713-07:00Machu Picchu: Chapter 1, The Journey<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
The day of departure arrived. I went to work with my bright pink school girl backpack, a bright pink fleece, bright pink shoes, and a bright pink water proof jacket. I don't like pink. The reason for the bright colors though was that I hoped in the case of my falling off a cliff, getting lost in the woods, or being kidnapped by the Shining Path, my brightly colored clothing would help the authorities a) find me or b) easily identify my body. </div>
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Hard won wisdom I can now pass on to you, explaining this strategy to the salespeople at Sports Authority will only cause them to believe you are a deeply disturbed person and you may be treated accordingly. </div>
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I left work at Metro Center at 2:00 p.m. for my 5:20 flight. This seemed like plenty of time to take the metro to a bus and a bus all the way to Dulles. Unfortunately, what I did not count on was pre-Memorial Day traffic, This meant I was able to experience plenty of the traditional pre-boarding all-consuming panic of thinking I was about to miss my flight and ruin everything. It's hardly a trip without that, after all. </div>
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But the three of us boarded our flight together and breathed a sigh of relief that we would not miss the flight and our connection in El Salvador. </div>
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Then we proceeded to sit on the plane for 1.5 hours, As we were only supposed to have a 1 hour layover in El Salvador, this was Not Ideal. There was a mild amount of panic from us and the other passengers, but soon after takeoff we were reassured that the time would be made up and everyone would make their flight on time. They were true to their word, and when we landed in San Salvador we walked off the plane, wound 10 yards through a Duty Free store, and walked right onto the next plane and immediately took off. </div>
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VICTORY! Not only had we made the flight, we hadn't even had to suffer any time in the San Salvador airport. Because as my mother and Jessica pointed out, "If there is anything worse than the Miami airport, it is probably the San Salvador airport." </div>
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We relaxed on the plane and watched things like the Lego movie. Some people slept. I did not, since as we know I do not sleep anywhere other than a bed and then mostly only ideal bed circumstances. At one point I asked a young man on his way to Colombia about his experience hiking to Machu Picchu. </div>
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"It was rough. Haha. I thought I was pretty fit, but by the end of it I thought I was going to die. Everything hurt. The second day, with the stairs....it's just brutal. Here, have my orange."</div>
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We don't know why he gave me an orange. It was a kind and beautiful gesture. </div>
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I never even knew his name.</div>
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We arrived in Lima at 2:15 a.m. Our flight was set to depart at 4:25 a.m. so this gave us a reasonable window to collect bags, pass them through customs, buy some BOTTLED water, and continue on towards our gate for our final flight to Cusco. J2 and I settled in to a few chairs while J1 went to look for M, a friend of hers who was also traveling with us. J1 found her and brought her over, we had a lovely chat until around 4 in the morning at which point M's flight left. We told her we'd see her about 20 minutes after she landed, in the baggage claim at Cusco. </div>
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About 10 minutes after M left us, our flight was called, we all lined up, exhausted but excited to be continuing on, and boarded a shuttle to be taken to our plane. We stood packed in with other passengers and their luggage for a few minutes, falling asleep standing up, when the bus lights suddenly went off and we were all told to get off the bus, the flight was not leaving after all--bad weather over Cusco made the flight too dangerous. Annoyed, but accepting, we all got off the shuttle and went back to our seats to wait out what we were led to believe would be about an hour or two. </div>
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After an hour or two, we were still sitting there, but other flights began leaving for Cusco. These flights were on different airlines, so while we were annoyed, we did nothing more than grumble. The others fell asleep on their chairs and at 8:30 a.m. after waiting 6 hours, I left them and made my way towards the Avianca airline desk by our theoretical gate. </div>
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I found a rioting mob. </div>
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We had been all the way in the back of this medium sized basement terminal and from our nest in the back corner I had been unable to see or hear the mass of angry customers who had begun to crowd around the desk and forming a threatening hostile circle around the two Avianca employees. Everyone was shouting in Spanish and shaking fists over the heads of the people in front of them. Spanish is not my best language, and 40 people shouting in Spanish was stretching my language limits, but I determined that a) people were VERY angry, and b) there was in fact no problem with the weather. Many rageful passengers were shouting about how they were trying to get to their jobs. One angry yet friendly man told me in English that what had happened was that Avianca had sent our plane somewhere else and then never gotten us a replacement and now there were no planes. </div>
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<span style="color: black;">Then, insult to injury to insult, other Avianca planes started taking off towards Cusco.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">This seemed like a terrible business decision to me, and I stuck around a little longer watching the scene unfold and listening to the intense outraged shouting. The second the next Avianca flight left for Cusco without us on it, the decibel levels of rage soared. At some </span>point J1 and J2 came over to observe the scene<span style="color: #1f497d;">.</span> I began talking with a guy around our age who looked more confused than angry and turned out to be Canadian. Canadians don't seem to get angry. We chatted freely for a long time about travel and jobs and South America until I realized we were chatting TOO freely and I became suspicious and I confronted him with "YOU'RE NOT AN ENGINEER ARE YOU????" and he became more confused and said "Yes....I am...." </div>
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They're everywhere. He told me something very interesting that I did not know. That Canadian engineers all receive rings made of iron when they graduate because once a bridge fell down and killed a lot of people. I immediately dismissed him as full of crap but when I returned home I looked it up and discovered that this is a thing. You can read about it here:</div>
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iron_Ring" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/<wbr></wbr>Iron_Ring</a></div>
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Please note the bit about "The Ritual of the Calling" which as far as I'm concerned only cements my belie<span style="color: #1f497d;">f</span> that engineers are a total cult of weirdos. </div>
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The original friendly yet angry man who had done the explaining for me decided he was going to take the entire flight worth of passengers under his wing and get justice and started <span style="color: black;">making some demands that did actually end up getting met. He was that good. The most</span> important of these demands was a free lunch, so soon we found ourselves heading with our engineer and our loud demandy friend upstairs to a <span style="color: black;">cafe that served us ham sandwiches which I carefully checked for offensive items like lettuce. Convinced it was not about to kill me, I ate the sandwich and life began to feel</span> like maybe it wasn't over. Our loud friend was named Jan, and despite his fluent English AND his fluent Spanish, he turned out to be Turkish. He told us all about his life, which was a very exciting one. Currently he is working as a tour guide in Miami, but has also lived in Japan, China, and somewhere in South America. In addition to English and Spanish and Turkish, he is also fluent in Japanese. He <span style="color: black;">told us about his time living in Japan learning how to be a sushi chef--he claims to be the first white sushi chef in Japan. Well. Sort of white. He talked a lot about the training--spending the first 6 months being made to make rice over and over and over until his teacher felt it was perfect. Only then was he permitted to move on. He gave us a lot of life advice about living adventure, but always having a plan. The engineer began to tell me about working in mines.</span><span style="color: #1f497d;"></span></div>
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After lunch we all headed back downstairs to wait by our gate to see when our new plane might arrive. We were told 2 p.m. Remember that we had arrived at 2 a.m. Now it was about 10 a.m. We hung out in the chairs by the gate with our new friends which now also included a student at UNC on some kind of interesting several week trip and a couple from Spain who had been doing a semester abroad in New York City and were taking a Peru vacation before returning to Spain. In between chatting we were signing forms and petitions and legal documents and being given instructions on how to sue for financial damage<span style="color: #1f497d;">s</span> incurred. It turned out the only thing I could sue for was the cost of the ham sandwich and since I'd already gotten that I was left with a lot of useless papers. I did sign a petition damning Avianca, but pretty much all the papers were useless. </div>
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At 12:00 they changed our gate number, and we discovered that it was now upstairs in a different terminal so all of us made a massive trek together upstairs where we determined that our gate was in a locked hallway we could not get into in some special place sectioned off by big glass doors. Airport employees gaping at us from inside this section would not let us in so one girl started shouting very rude names at them in English through the glass, and other passengers began general angry sounds and Jan led the charge in demanding assistance from the closest airport employee. He was successful, and we were eventually let into our special section where we continued to wait until a plane pulled up to the gate. We got massively excited, right up until the plane left again 10 minutes later without us on it. </div>
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Finally though, at 2:00 p.m., we all boarded that plane and headed off towards Cusco, where we had no idea what M was doing or where she had waited for us or for how long. Additionally, we had sacrificed the day of acclimatization we had been told was so necessary to our well-being, which I had fought for and abandoned children at work for. </div>
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Our future was uncertain. </div>
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Questions we pondered:</div>
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1. Would we be able to find a taxi?</div>
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2. What was the Horny Llama going to be like?</div>
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3. Where was M?</div>
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4. Would we ever get to witness a Calling of the Engineers? What do they call them with? Whistles? The Pied Piper's pipe? Alien technology? </div>
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Several of these questions will be answered in Chapter Two, coming soon.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-58270167786806893062014-06-21T14:05:00.001-07:002014-06-21T14:05:57.701-07:00Machu Picchu: The Beginning<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Fortunately or unfortunately, things went pretty smoothly for me this time in South America. Fortunately, because for once I did not spend my vacation convinced I was going to die horribly and painfully in a foreign country. Unfortunately, because my story from this trip is pretty straightforward and not all that exciting. </span><br />
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Some people have asked why on earth I would return to South America after the Bolivia Experience. This is an excellent question. What happened was, my friend who we will call J1 said "Let's go to Machu Picchu," and I said, "Okay."</div>
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In January when we made these plans for the May trip, I realized that in order to make a 35 mile trek through the Andes mountains at elevations of up to 14,000 feet above sea level, I would need to make some changes to my lifestyle. For instance, exercise ever. Maybe eat some vegetables. With the help of my friend who will called be J2, I made an exercise plan that involved the elliptical at increasing incline 3-4 times a week along with climbing 15 flights of stairs 4 times up and down 2-3 times weekly. In 6 months I did manage to get on the elliptical a total of 3-4 times and I did climb those stairs 2 times. I failed in all ways to prepare myself physically for the trip and began to ask everyone I had ever heard of who had made the climb how physically challenging it was. </div>
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"It's really difficult."</div>
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"I'm pretty physically fit but I had a tough time with it."</div>
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"The second day....I wanted to die."</div>
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"The second day...I thought I was going to die."</div>
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This made me nervous, and yet I continued to not train at all. Periodically I would call J2. </div>
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"J2! What are you up to today?"</div>
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"I'm at the gym."</div>
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"Oh. That's nice. I'm going to get ice cream."</div>
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And</div>
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"J2! Where are you?"</div>
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"I'm on the fourth climb up all the stairs in my apartment building."</div>
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"I should do that. Instead I am going to lie down on this bed."</div>
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And</div>
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"J2! Let's do something tomorrow."</div>
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"I'm meeting with my personal trainer for three hours."</div>
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"I might stand up in three hours...maybe...."</div>
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On the vegetable front, mostly I ate a lot of Chips Ahoy and at least one doughnut more or less every day. Once, I am pretty sure I ate a tomato. I almost ate some green beans one Wednesday, but they disappeared out of the fridge by the time I got up the energy to go downstairs to find them. </div>
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I did, however, make some important changes to my preparation process in relation to the Bolivia process. For one, I did not bother looking up what vaccinations I needed until about two weeks before I was scheduled to leave. I did the same with visa requirements. Sometimes I would call my sister and shout "I CAN'T FIND MY PROOF OF YELLOW FEVER VACCINE. WHERE IS IT?" but this particular tactic never yielded any favorable results. </div>
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Luckily though, it turns out Bolivia provided me with all the necessary vaccinations and there were no visa requirements so while that could have provided a fantastic story of total failure, I came out a winner. No one even needed my proof of yellow fever vaccine papers. Peru doesn't even care if you run all over their country picking up highly contagious diseases that cause your kidneys to hemorrhage. </div>
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Additionally, legitimately concerned that I would, in fact, die this time, the night before leaving I found a travel/evacuation insurance policy that would repatriate my remains in the event of my death overseas. As the subject of remains repatriation was a big deal in Bolivia, I emailed my friend from Bolivia to tell her that this time I had gotten the insurance. I was very proud of myself until I received her response, which read (translated): "Hahahaha i my darling, if something happens to you in Peru there won't be any remains." I found this troubling, but there didn't seem to be any good course of action besides immediately going to bed and pretending I had never received her message. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I started packing two entire days before the start of the trip. This is a Huge Deal in my packing habits. One reason for this is that by this point I had decided my only chance of survival on this trek was to carry the least amount of weight possible. I could hardly manage to haul myself around. Therefore, for 10 days in Peru, I packed everything into my pink flower first grader backpack. This took some time, as a lot of rolling of clothes was involved and hard choices needed to be made. For example, did I really NEED more than 3 shirts for 10 days?<br />Which was more important, the Advil or the blister reducing band-aids? I succeeded at this endeavor by not taking nearly enough clothing or any useful emergency items such as anti-diarrhetics or extra socks.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Things to keep in mind as we head into Chapter 1 and the heart of this story:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. J1 sent us an email with several hostel choices, once of which owned its own bar called The Horny Llama. Another of which was a quiet hostel billed as a "spiritual, new age retreat." At the time, we were in party mindset and the idea of a fantastic dance/bar spot right next to our bedrooms was the dream. We chose the Horny Llama.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. We had read that you had to have at least 2 days of acclimatization time in the city of Cusco. Any less and you risked dangerous side effects of el soroche, the terrible dreaded altitude sickness with which I was acquainted. Our original desired trek date was for May 27 but they could only take us May 26. This involved on my end a lot of frantic calling around of bosses to see if I could take an extra day and abandon the children in the name of my own health and safety. They kindly agreed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
3. I had completely forgotten to call my credit card companies and bank to tell them I was leaving the country. </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-35946402775761408182014-02-26T21:04:00.002-08:002014-02-26T21:04:50.330-08:00Barcelona Christmas<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In
2008 I was living in France and having a fabulous time doing incredibly stupid
things across the European continent. At
Christmas time I decided to follow my friend to Spain where she knew a whole
bunch of people, some of whom were willing to lend us their apartment while
they were traveling. This Christmas was
absolutely filled with stories I could share, including how I had my first kiss
in this apartment right after accidentally locking myself in the bathroom,
which apparently some people find pretty sexy. Who knew.
But that’s not the story I’m going to tell. The story I have chosen is the story of how
my friend and I ended up wandering the streets of Barcelona at 4 a.m. because
we had forgotten to actually write down the address of this apartment before
leaving it to have Christmas Eve adventures.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It
started off amazing. We spent the
evening at an apartment with a number of expats from all over the world and danced
until nearly 4 am, at which point we decided maybe it was a little late and we
should go home. <span class="apple-converted-space"> It hadn’t occurred
to us quite yet that we had no idea where home was. </span> We only knew the metro stop nearest the
apartment, because that is where we had met our hosts earlier. Unfortunately,
the metro in Barcelona closed at some point and wasn’t going to reopen until 6
a.m. We could either wait two hours, or
attempt to take a night bus which theoretically would drop us a few streets
down from this metro stop. We would just
have to change buses once, and then ask the bus driver on the second bus to let
us know when to get off. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At 4
a.m, my friend and I were standing around shivering in the pre-dawn winter air
at a deserted bus stop waiting for a bus we hoped would actually come. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>After twenty minutes, it did. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Thank goodness, because the two of us
were ready to collapse on the street and wait for the metro to open at 6. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which
is what we should definitely have done.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But
we weren’t that smart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
bus itself was actually pretty crowded. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A
lot of Christmas partiers. They say Spain is the country that knows how to
party, and let me tell you, the stereotype doesn’t come from nowhere. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>So I shouldn’t have been so surprised
to find a packed bus full of slowly sobering people at 4:30 in the
morning. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We took the bus no
problem to Placa de Catalunya and got off, very proud of ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Until
we realized we had no idea where to find the bus we needed to transfer
to. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We
walked all around the square, going up to every bus driver asking if they were
the bus we wanted, and every time the driver pointed in some other
direction. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It was a giant
game of connect the dots but with buses, and we ran back and forth and around
and across until finally we found a bus driver who said, yes, get on, this is
your bus. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here
we came to a problem. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My
friend and I only knew what metro stop we were near. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>No other significant markers, not even
the name of the street we were on. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And
the bus driver had never heard of this metro stop. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He advised us to ask the other
passengers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It
was so wonderful that my friend was a native Spanish speaker.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>(my friend) started asking other
passengers about this metro stop, but no one had heard of it. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We began to panic, because there was
no way we would recognize anything, we didn’t even know the name of the street
we were staying on, and…and…all around panic. Eventually though we found
one man who said, oh yeah! Florída! Yes, yes, we’ll pass right by the metro
there, you’ll just have get off the bus, walk a ways, turn left, turn right,
and you’re right there. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He
told us that we should get off at the stop after he did. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This
meant that around 5:30 in the morning we stepped off the bus into an
area we had never seen before. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And
could not remember how the man had told us how to find the metro. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>What should we have done? <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m still not really sure. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There was no one around to ask
directions, we had no map…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whatever
we SHOULD have done, we certainly should absolutely not have done what we
did. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Which was picked a
direction and started walking. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My
friends, please don’t ever find yourselves wandering a foreign city in the wee
hours of the morning on Christmas day with all the drunk creepy people
completely lost. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It is a
BAD IDEA. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I cannot stress
this enough. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Everyone says,
do not go wandering alone in the night you could get murdered or raped or
whatnot and you may kind of shrug it off and think, well, clearly bad things
can happen but they probably won’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This
is FOOLISH THINKING. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Some
things maybe you have to learn the hard way. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I can tell you one thing, next time
I’m taking a taxi no matter what. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>This
was a horrible experience. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We
saw fights, we hid behind walls and in doorframes from crazy people, we ran to
avoid groups of very drunk guys who looked indescribably frightening, and in
the end we stopped on a street corner, horribly lost and afraid to go in any
direction for fear of running into people or getting even farther from
home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Finally,
we saw a police car. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We
started to run after it, hoping to catch their attention and get directions, or
even better, a ride. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>But we
weren’t fast enough, and we stopped again on the sidewalk, dejected and
despairing. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>But miracle of
miracles, the police car stopped just within our view. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Without saying a word both of us
started to run at the same time towards the car, but before we made it the
police officers jumped out of the car and ran into a building. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We slowed a little, and in the next
few seconds, two more police cars showed up and stopped in front of the
building. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>All the officers
got out and ran inside. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My
friend and I looked at each other. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We
couldn’t decide which was worse. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Continuing
into the unknown, or waiting around by the police cars in front of a building
where god knows what crime had been or was being committed. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There were a lot of police officers,
so we were afraid it was a pretty big crime. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>In the end we decided to wait, because
criminals in handcuffs scared us less than the criminals running around loose
on the streets. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We
waited about twenty minutes. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
have no idea what on earth those police officers were doing in there, perhaps
having coffee and tea with the perpetrators, because they all came out together
laughing and smiling, with no criminals in tow, and were quite surprised to see
two frightened looking girls huddled together against one of their cars. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My friend took over, for obvious
reasons, and got directions to our metro stop. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The police officer talking to us
thought it was hilarious that a) we had gotten so lost, and b) we didn’t even
know the name of the street we were staying on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Travel
tip #1, always know where you live. Could come in handy. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Travel tip #2, carry a map, because
knowing where you live is often useless unless you know how to get there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
policeman flirted like mad with both of us. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He told us nothing would happen to us
in Barcelona, it’s a wonderfully safe city, and all we had to do was walk four
blocks down and six blocks over and we’d be fine. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; line-height: 14.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 16.2pt;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We
thanked them and walked until we were out of sight and then we ran until we got
to our apartment. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We went
to bed immediately. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="ecxmsonormal" style="background: white; line-height: 14.45pt; margin-bottom: 16.2pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
next morning brought new madness and poor decisions, and the next week
brought the amount of adventure some people don’t have in a lifetime. Maybe this blog will revisit that week at some point in the future. </span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-8621271919333080852014-01-10T16:03:00.001-08:002014-01-10T16:03:21.547-08:00Remote AccessA long time ago, I returned from my year in France expecting to start my new career in publishing only to find that just as few people wanted to speak to me in 2008 as did in 2007. With no prospects, growing debt, and no take backs on my decision not to renew my teaching contract, I took a job as a software tester at my father's company. Yes, I worked in software development. This doesn't fit with what anyone knows about me, or what I know about me, and sometimes I forget it's even true. But for 9 months I worked alongside engineers and filed bug reports, making a contribution to society and only once blew up the computer. I could tell several ridiculous stories from this time of my life, and I may end up getting to them in other entries, but this one is going to focus on the day I learned about "remote access."<br />
<br />
I was probably in my fourth or fifth month at the company. It was around this time that the financial situation, which had been sharply declining since the day I arrived, took a turn for the worse. The place was in so much trouble that they could no longer afford to pay their rent, so they were slowly phasing out the office, which meant at first half, and then eventually all, employees were working from home.<br />
<br />
Except for me.<br />
<br />
I had to be on a special testing computer and they hadn't quite figured out yet how to let me work from home. This meant that by the end of it all I was literally the only person coming into the office daily which led to fun situations like that time they forgot for a whole week to tell me I'd been laid off. Ha! That was fun.<br />
<br />
But that comes later. On this day, I was not yet out of a job, but I was alone, and my boss had called in and told me something specific he wanted tested. It involved a complex series of commands and functions and something that might have been html but could have just been gibberish. At any rate, I agreed to take care of it straight away, opened up a command prompt, and typed in something that to me looked like abcd/open/file\::::\\/. I got back an angry error message. So I retyped it. Got back the error. Retyped it. Error.<br />
<br />
I got frustrated. I was typing it in EXACTLY like he said. I knew it. So I typed FUCK YOU PIECE OF SHIT COMPUTER.<br />
<br />
Error, it said.<br />
<br />
I'LL ERROR THE HELL OUT OF YOU YOU HATEFUL MACHINE I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL<br />
<br />
Error.<br />
<br />
My phone rang.<br />
<br />
It was my boss. He said, "Hi Danielle. Just wanted to check in....having any...problems?"<br />
"Yes, actually," I said. "Having quite an issue here. It's just giving me an error message."<br />
"Did you accidentally hit the backslash instead of the forward slash after the file?"<br />
"Uuumm....yes! Yes I did! Wow. Thanks."<br />
"No problem."<br />
<br />
We hung up. I thought my boss was pretty amazing to figure out so quickly where I had gone wrong, but I just put that down to his being smarter than me.<br />
<br />
I went back to my typing. No error! Yay! On to step 2!! I typed in what looked to me like :::'';;,;kl(fileserver////Ping<br />
<br />
Error.<br />
<br />
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, I typed into the command box.<br />
<br />
Error.<br />
<br />
I WILL FUCK UP YOUR SHIT, I replied.<br />
<br />
My phone rang.<br />
<br />
"Hi Danielle, just wanted to make sure things are going more smoothly."<br />
"Actually, having another problem over here. When I..."<br />
"Did you put the : at the beginning instead of the end?""<br />
"Um...yes. I did."<br />
<br />
This time I was a little suspicious, but I hung up, rearranged the : and continued onward without dwelling on it. I got to the next step.<br />
<br />
Error.<br />
<br />
THAT'S IT I WILL SMASH YOU TO BLOODY MOTHERFUCKING PIECES<br />
<br />
I had hardly finished typing when my phone rang again.<br />
<br />
"Hi Danielle just wanted to clarify that there's no space between the / and the \ okay?"<br />
"Okay..."<br />
<br />
Now I was convinced my boss was made of magic.<br />
<br />
I went home that night and was telling my father the whole story (he no longer worked at that company by this time) and he just stares at me and before I get halfway through the story he said, "Danielle...you do realize your boss can SEE your computer screen?"<br />
"No no," I said. "He can't. He's not in the office."<br />
"He has software that allows him to connect to you computer and see your screen. He's been checking on you. That's how he knows when you're having a problem."<br />
This was possibly the most horrific news I could ever have received. Ever. I stopped breathing. "So....he saw..."<br />
"Yes," said my father.<br />
"Shit," I said.<br />
"Yup," said my father. "any time you see a little red eye icon at the bottom of your screen, he's watching you."<br />
<br />
This was especially bad news, because this was NOT the first time I'd gotten frustrated at the computer and used some pretty bad words. Also, when I was testing the text boxes, I would type things like "LOOK OVER THERE. ISN'T THAT A BADGER WITH A GUN?" and "THERE WERE TWO MUFFINS IN AN OVEN....HAHAHAHAHAHAH." And I had seen that little red eye ALL THE TIME and never thought about what it was.<br />
<br />
He had seen everything. He never mentioned a damn thing. Not to me, and not to my father, who he spoke to regularly. <br />
<br />
At first, I was very, very careful. And no longer surprised that my boss always mysteriously knew when to call me to make sure I wasn't having a problem. Soon though, when it was clear he was never going to fire me for using profanity or being generally weird, I started having some fun. When I could see he was logged in, I would immediately start testing the text boxes and write in the weirdest jokes I could think of. I even looked a few up at home so I would be prepared. I liked to think I brightened his day. <br />
<br />
One day, I was having a major problem. I could not get the commands I needed to work, and I was typing them over and over vainly. Then I noticed the little red eye. I typed it in a few more times so he would see that I was clearly stuck and call, but he stayed quiet. No phone call. No sign. He kept pretending he wasn't there. I repeated the same futile action for five more minutes, daring him to call me. The red eye remained, but the phone didn't ring. No email popped up. I stopped typing for a minute and stared at the still computer screen. The red eye stared back. <br />
<br />
Finally, deliberately, I opened Notepad and typed, "I know you're there. I need your help."<br />
<br />
For nearly a full minute, the note remained there, unanswered. He was trying to keep up the charade. But finally, slowly, my mouse arrow moved on its own and words eerily appeared under my note with the correct command. <br />
<br />
From them on, the spell was broken. I didn't bother with anymore jokes, I watched my language, and I wrote a few more HELP ME notes in Notepad. Soon after that I was apparently laid off, no one told me for a week, and when they did, I awkwardly moved on to teaching at Fox Chapel Area High School. Which was pretty special. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-48277977553262904862013-12-30T19:55:00.000-08:002013-12-30T19:55:48.035-08:00Year of Firsts: PiercingsI did this at the beginning of November, but it was a secret from the family until last week. No one in my family has pierced ears. Not my sister, not my mother, not my grandmother, not my aunt, not anyone. Growing up, anytime anyone in or out of the family mentioned ear piercings my mother would take the opportunity to tell me and my sister exactly how terrible getting your ears pierced was, using words like "mutilation," "puss," "infection," and "agony." Then she would reach over and pinch our ears with her nails. Sometimes if no one had mentioned piercings for a long time she would randomly just pinch us and remind us of the horror that awaited us if we tried to pierce our ears. And that was just for ears. Nose rings would ruin your future and belly button rings would kill you outright.<br />
<br />
She started this with us young enough that it actually worked. No matter how many friends and strangers I saw walking around with beautiful earrings and perfectly un-diseased ears, I still had no desire to do it after I turned 18. Or after 21. Or 25. I was pretty convinced I would die with un-mutilated ears.<br />
<br />
But then the Year of Firsts came, and FriendJ was getting her nose pierced, and it seemed like a logical step.<br />
<br />
I made the decision extremely last minute so as not to have time to back out of it. FriendJ had picked out a tattoo/piercing shop in Virginia (uuuuuuuugh VIRGINIA) and we went on a Friday evening just before closing and had a nice, long consultation with a patient boy named Peter whose face was made 50% out of metal. He spent a good amount of time reassuring me that Death was a negligible risk of ear piercings. He was very kind. He even gave me a small, round, pink stuffed creature to hold during the ordeal like a small child and he did not have a trace of mockery on his face. Though any mocking looks could have been concealed by all the glinting metals.<br />
<br />
Everyone had told me it hardly hurt at all, but I don't like seeing needles if they are about to go into my skin so I told Peter I would just keep my eyes shut while he made all his preparations. This means I missed seeing what the needle looked like, which is best, because afterwards my friends told me that it was a hollow needle, and the largest they had seen. I yelled a terrible word when the needle went through. If the creature had been live instead of stuffed, I would have killed it brutally and barbarically. But I did not cry! Even though it hurt worse than the worst I had ever imagined and continued to be agony filled as Peter said, "Okay! Now the other one!"<br />
<br />
I want everyone to take a moment to think about how proud they are of me that I let him do the other one.<br />
<br />
I continued to be in terrible pain for days, but I had completed a pretty big First! I had Overcome Fears! I had Defied Authority!<br />
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Things went remarkably well for 7 weeks, right up until I saw the Authority whose name is Mother, last week for our family vacation. She took the initial news moderately well, although she did spent the next 5 days pinching my sister's ears at a new high rate.<br />
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I was pretty pleased with myself for proving her wrong. Nothing terrible had happened! Everything was JUST FINE.<br />
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Until 5 days into the vacation at which point we were in the middle of the Caribbean Sea with no land in sight for two days, no internet and no phone, when my left ear began to swell grotesquely and hurt as though someone with strong fingers was pinching my ear.<br />
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The irony.<br />
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I kept it quiet for a few days instead of going to the ship doctor, because my favorite way of handling medical situations is to pretend they are not happening and assume they will go away. Of course, it did not go away. It continued to get worse and worse until I finally decided to take the earring out to clean and replace it and discovered that I could not get the earring out. This was panic inducing and involved me locked in a hotel bathroom yelling incoherently for a few hours. The Authority had such a fit that my little sister ran away from the hotel. She forgot her shoes, however, so she didn't make it especially far.<br />
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Eventually though, the earrings came out, gold set ones went in, and I am now mutilated just like everyone else normal.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-37533252298621031922013-12-02T20:22:00.003-08:002013-12-02T20:27:20.494-08:00Year of Firsts: RecapDecember! The Year of Firsts is coming to an end. Very few of them actually made it to blog posts, so I thought I'd share some of the list here, categorized. This is not the full list.<br />
It's been a damn good year.<br />
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DANCING:<br />
Waltz<br />
Contra<br />
Square<br />
Country line<br />
Two stepping<br />
Zumba<br />
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SPORTS (this word is interpreted VERY loosely for purposes of this list):<br />
Bocce<br />
Flip cup and beer pong (very very very loosely)<br />
Pool team tryout<br />
45 minutes of medieval European MMA<br />
Paintball<br />
Yoga<br />
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FOOD:<br />
Rattlesnake<br />
Antelope<br />
Alligator<br />
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ADVENTURE:<br />
Volcano hike<br />
Seeing the rainforest<br />
Camping<br />
Treasure hunting<br />
Flash mob<br />
Mechanical bull riding<br />
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PLACES:<br />
Dallas<br />
Austin<br />
Costa Rica<br />
New Mexico<br />
the National Arboretum<br />
Central Park<br />
The Renaissance Faire<br />
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Uncategorized: Finding a new and exciting job to be started in just one week, where for the First time, I will be a Director.<br />
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Also, one final secret, to be revealed at the end of the year.<br />
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I've got a few weeks left. Who knows what could happen.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-29625684084994851022013-11-28T20:51:00.000-08:002013-11-28T20:51:16.012-08:00Prepositions and Turkey BallsSix years ago I was in France teaching French youth about the holiday and thought it would be fun to do with them the cute little hand turkey exercise we do here as children. I had them trace their hands and make it into a turkey drawing and have them write 5 things they were thankful for, one in each finger/feather. I had drawn my own example turkey and written a few things I was thankful for, like friends and family, and then some silly ones like Matt Damon and dessert. I passed it around as I explained the holiday, and the idea of "being thankful." For whatever reason though, it wasn't translating very well and there were a lot of confused whispers because my students preferred to whisper confusedly in French than ever ask me any direct questions. Eventually I heard a girl ask "Why is there a person named Dessert in her turkey?" It was at this point I realized we were confusing being thankful TO with being thankful FOR.<br />
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Damn prepositions.<br />
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We cleared it up and drew some turkeys, but I will always remember how the young ones thought I knew a person named Dessert.<br />
<br />
Later I went home to my Welsh roommate who I discovered believed that all Americans celebrate Thanksgiving exactly how they do on Friends. I hadn't even seen Friends. We both learned a lot.<br />
I explained that "turkey balls" is not a traditional dish.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-70738584183546901452013-10-26T14:21:00.000-07:002013-10-26T14:21:59.425-07:00Parallel Parking<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
In 2003, I finally got my driver’s license. I was 17 years old, I had a 1992 Honda Civic, and in 2003 three of the four doors still opened. </div>
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It was summer, I’d had my license for two weeks, when I arrived at Rachael’s house in the afternoon. It was one of those rare beautiful days, sunny, warm, not too hot for pants. In good spirits, I pulled onto the block. I immediately noticed that the street was particularly parked up. There was exactly one spot available, in between two cars across the street from the house. It wasn't huge, but it was just right for my Honda. All it took was a little parallel parking skill.</div>
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Which I did not have. But I had at least passed the test, so I knew I COULD do it. Maybe. I had plenty of time, and I couldn't see anyone around, so I pulled up alongside the first car and prepared to back up. </div>
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I backed right in the curb.</div>
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So I pulled out, and backed up again. Hit the curb at a wide angle.</div>
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Frustrated, but not ready to give up, I prepared for another try. And that’s when I noticed the neighbor standing on his lawn watching me, grinning. </div>
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The neighbor was 16 years old, and his name was Adam. He thought I was absolutely hilarious. I pointedly ignored him.</div>
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I backed into the curb.</div>
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“Getting closer!” Adam called out, pumping a fist in the air encouragingly. I did not answer.</div>
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I backed ONTO the curb.</div>
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“Turn it a little more to the left…no…right….yes….like that…hahaha!” said Adam. </div>
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I prayed to God and asked that if only I could parallel park this car in only one more try I would never ask for help again.</div>
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It didn't work. But I couldn't give up at this point. Especially since Adam had suddenly shut up and gone inside.</div>
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Left alone, my panic started to subside. But only for a minute, because after a minute, Adam came out with a lawn chair, made a show of flopping down into it, and settled himself in to watch my performance. Occasionally he would clap, on every try he would shout directions and make judgments upon my driving skills.</div>
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Somewhere around attempt #11, Adam realized something. His grin vanished, his eyes opened wide, he leaped from his lawn chair and started running straight at me, screaming, “THAT’S MY PORSCHE!!!!!!!!!”</div>
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I realized he wasn't running straight at me, but at the car just in front of me, which was, in fact, a Porsche, a fact that I had not noticed in my concentration, and which Adam had not noticed in his wicked glee. Adam was frantically jumping into his car trying to start the engine when I made my final back-up maneuver. I was sort of in—but my back wheel was up on the sidewalk. I sighed, and was about to try again, when I heard an older male voice.</div>
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“Oh no, sweetheart. That’s good enough. Leave it there.”</div>
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I stuck my head through the window to see a man holding a dog on a leash, standing and watching. I heard Adam’s car start. “I can just leave the car like this?” I asked the man.</div>
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“I would,” he said.</div>
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I sighed, and turned off my engine. Relieved, Adam turned off his car as well. I grabbed my belongings and bolted into Rachael’s house without looking back.</div>
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Despite all the time I spent at Rachael’s house that summer and the summers to come, I never saw Adam again.</div>
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UNTIL ONE DAY 8 YEARS LATER I WAS IN A BAR with Rachael and upon walking in, she said, “Oh hey, I know that guy!!” and made a beeline for a guy about our own age sitting at a table with a friend. I followed her, because I always follow her, and we pulled up some chairs and sat with this guy and his friends. We were all introduced, the guy’s name was Adam, his friend’s name has been forgotten in the pages of my memory. Rachael soon became engrossed in conversation with his friend, and I felt obligated to start talking. I asked him how he knew Rachael. He told me he’d been her neighbor growing up. I said that was very nice.</div>
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Then I said, “YOUR NAME IS ADAM AND YOU GREW UP AS RACHAEL’S NEIGHBOR????”</div>
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At my shouting, Rachael turned around. “What is going on?”</div>
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I said, “THIS IS YOUR NEIGHBOR. ADAM.”</div>
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She said, “Yeah, so?”</div>
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I said nothing.</div>
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She said, “AAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”</div>
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Adam said, “Uh……what?”</div>
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Rachael said, “She tried to parallel park in front of your house once.”</div>
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Adam said, “YOU’RE THE GIRL WITH THE BLUE HONDA CIVIC!!!”</div>
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I died of shame. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-25843467771983373842013-10-15T18:56:00.000-07:002013-10-15T18:56:27.040-07:00Year of Firsts: Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Next on the list of Firsts was to learn to shoot a gun. Until Sunday, I had never touched a gun. In fact, I had never seen a gun in the real world apart from the handguns police officers keep holstered on their belts and the military weaponry carried around by soldiers I’ve run into in other countries. However, since we all know now that exactly NO ONE is coming for me in the event of the zombie apocalypse, I decided to take matters into my own hands and learn some vital skills that may someday help me survive in the hostile decimated world.</div>
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Two kind hearted gun-owning friends and one non-gun-owning-yet-gun-<wbr></wbr>enthusiast friend agreed to assist me in my First. Since we don’t know if these friends want their names on the internet, we will call them Friend1, Friend2, and Friend3 (the numbers do not indicate order of importance, so please do not write in with complaints). Sunday morning, filled with trepidation, I put on a white sweatshirt and wrapped a brilliantly pink scarf around my neck to be sure I was not mistaken for a tree, a deer, a duck, or a target board. Anyone who has been to a shooting range versus the woods on the first day of hunting season probably realizes that this was stupid and pointless. But as we know, the whole point of the First exercise is to tread beyond the line of ignorance drawn where I was born. </div>
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The drive was long, the weather was rainy, and my head was filled with daydreams of getting accidentally shot in the face by a normally mild-mannered gun-owner seized by a fit of insanity, or by myself seized in a fit of total incompetence. When we arrived, Friend1 removed several shotguns from the trunk of the car and handed one to me. Struck with the horror of suddenly for the first time in my life holding an actual, real, un-plastic, un-water-filled gun, I couldn’t figure out how to hold it while also keeping it as far away from me as possible but then not wanting to admit to wanting to keep it as far away as possible so also holding it nonchalantly in a discreet yet totally cool manner.</div>
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“Stop holding it like a purse,” instructed Friend1.</div>
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I made my best attempt.</div>
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We walked into the store. Immediately on my left was a door covered in photos of men next to large dead creatures. Immediately in front of me were lots of guns. Lots and lots and lots of guns. Within half a second I went from a person who had never seen a gun to someone who has seen eight billion guns in very close quarters. One of them was pink. One of them was monstrously large and had a notecard on it that read “This is not a real gun.” It was the most comforting notecard I have ever read, even after the Women’s Studies Notecard Incident of 2003. </div>
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“Hey!” said Friend3, pointing. I looked, and discovered a paper target of a zombie with little red capsules that burst like blood when you hit them. Practical application learning device!</div>
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We went to the counter to fill out paperwork. I had to write my driver’s license on a paper stating I was mentally sound and not about to sue anyone and then sign it. Friend1 asked for bullets for the shotguns.</div>
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“We don’t have any left,” the employee told him. “There’s been a real shortage of that type of ammunition since the 2008 election. Mysterious. The companies are all still producing it, they keep making it, but where is it going? No one can find it to buy it. Could be a conspiracy…”</div>
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If only I could remember everything he said. He did implicate Obama in the plot to ruin gun owners’ lives. I was super pleased. What could be a better part of my gun experience than a gun owner spouting conspiracy theories with Obama at the heart of the nefarious cloud of mystery?</div>
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Yet, EVEN BETTER was the conversation between a second employee and a customer I caught the tiniest bit of on the way out. The employee was explaining the best way to shoot a groundhog in the garden. </div>
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Oh yeah.</div>
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That happened.</div>
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When we had collected everything we needed (bullets, clay pigeons, ear protection, eye protection) we headed out into the rain to begin shooting. I am not exactly sure what I expected. It’s not that I didn’t expect what I saw, but I also didn’t not expect it either. In any event, there was no way I was in any danger of being mistaken for a deer, or anything other than a confused liberal who had wandered across the Virginia border. There was a defined area where shooters stood all in a line, shooting straight ahead at targets located at various distances. This greatly lessened the chances of getting shot, making my pink scarf unnecessary. </div>
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Friend1 showed me how to load the shotgun (which life has taught us is also known by some as a "boomstick") and how to load the clay pigeon launcher. Both were of equal difficulty. I learned that pumping the gun causes the useful result of actually moving the bullet into the chamber from which it is fired, and is not, in fact, simply an action used by men in movies to make themselves look really cool while making a dramatic sound. I learned to brace the gun against my body for the kick back, which turned out to be significantly less than I feared. I had envisioned myself being knocked over violently into the mud. While I did feel it, it did not affect my balance or cause me any concern. This was pretty exciting.</div>
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But not as exciting as my 8<sup>th</sup> or 9<sup>th</sup> try at the flying orange discs when I actually shot one in the air.</div>
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“Holy shit!” said Friend3. “You hit it!!”</div>
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“Did I?” I said, confused. “I did???”</div>
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“Yes…you did,” said Friend3</div>
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“THAT’S AMAZING!!” I got quite excited for myself.</div>
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From there we moved over a few yards to shoot a handgun. I am pretty sure I did manage to hit the paper the target was printed on, which is probably enough accuracy to at least slow down an advancing zombie. Looking three targets over to the right, I saw that instead of the traditional circular target someone had affixed a sketch of what appeared to be a zombie Osama Bin Laden. At least, we are assuming it was supposed to be specifically Bin Laden.</div>
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After we had all shot many rounds into an unsuspecting paper, a voice on a microphone explained that everyone should finish their round, cease shooting, and when everyone had ceased, a red late came on over each station and everyone was safe to inspect or change their targets. During this time, Friend1 suggested I take a little walk down the line to see the guns being used by others. I wandered off, hands in my pockets, trying to look natural, and hide my total horror and terror at the sight of some of the weaponry others so very near me were using for their target practice.</div>
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After 1.5 hours I needed to head back to the safety of the North, so we packed up and drove out into the continual rain. Verdict? I still don’t believe people should be keeping the types of weaponry so many Americans keep in their homes. That shit’s ridiculous. What we need in this country are high powered taser guns. I say let every American home have one or ten of those. Taser the crap out of intruders and the children and neighbors you mistake for intruders. Enough to knock them unconscious for a good ten hours. I can totally get behind that. However, I do now see the appeal of sport shooting in places like gun ranges and I also believe in hunters being able to have certain types of guns for hunting purposes.</div>
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Anyway, now I know how to shoot a gun (or some kinds of guns) should the apocalypse come. Take that, ExBoyfriend1. I may survive for 24 hours after all. Provided someone happens to drop a shotgun immediately in my vicinity along with the proper ammunition. And I have at least an hour between each set of 3 zombies in which to load new ammo. Whatever. I’m working on it.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-34094538559963502422013-09-10T20:46:00.002-07:002013-09-10T20:46:21.116-07:00Riding in Cars With Boys<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">I made a lot of poor decisions while living in small town France. There's not much to do there besides make terrible decisions. </span><br />
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My small town had exactly one bar, and this bar was usually mainly populated with my own high school students. However, one night, my roommate and I met two handsome Algerian/French guys of more or less our own age and drank and talked in the bar until a little past midnight at which point the roommate and I started complaining about how there was so little to do at night in our town. The boys exchanged looks, downed their beers, and told us they had something to show us. We just had to get in their car and they would take us somewhere magical. </div>
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I don't know about the rest you of you, but to me, right now, this sounds like code for WE ARE GOING TO DRIVE YOU INTO THE WOODS TO RAPE AND MURDER YOU AND NO ONE WILL COME FOR YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE SILLY FOREIGNERS.<br /></div>
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In fact, even at the time it sounded a little like that. But the roommate and I left the bar with them, got in their car, and let them drive us off through town....</div>
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....AND INTO THE WOODS. Yes, that's right, they drove us right into the night black woods and I suddenly realized exactly how idiotic I had just been. We drove through the woods for maybe 5 minutes, which, if you are a 22 year old female in the backseat of a car driven by two strange men in the middle of the night, is a really long time. </div>
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But when we came out of the trees, an absolutely beautiful sight awaited. They drove a few hundred yards and parked the car near the edge of the hill we had come out on, got out of the car, and gestured down below. It was amazingly beautiful. Magical, even. You could see miles and miles and miles of French countryside lit up in clusters as each little town revealed itself in street lamps and house lights. The moon was full and glowing and left a swath of light over the whole countryside like a fairy path. The air was light and a tiny breeze picked up the sound of leaves--the only sound. </div>
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We watched for a few minutes, and then one of the guys turned on the car radio, opened all the doors, and we spent until dawn dancing just the four of us, the whole world sleeping below. It was one of the best nights I have ever spent. There was no one around, the music kept playing, we never got tired, the lights moved and blinked below us. The guys were perfect gentlemen--never made a single effort at inappropriate touching, never made us feel uncomfortable, and, and at dawn drove us back to our door and said goodbye and we slept until 2 in the afternoon. It was one of those nights you remember for your whole life, the way it looked and sounded and felt perfect, all the planes of existence coming together to make you feel perfectly solid and completely surreal all at once. </div>
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So the moral of the story? Trust strangers, take risks, don't live your life in a bubble?</div>
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NO! Are you stupid? Are you high? NEVER GET IN CARS WITH STRANGE MEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. What is wrong with you????</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-36472442540216367492013-08-28T19:59:00.001-07:002013-08-28T19:59:50.510-07:00Easy Bake, Easy Break<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
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The other night I was sitting on the metro after an hour of zumba (another First!) following a night of yoga (I had to leave halfway through), when I found myself sitting in a near empty car with four teenagers, two girls and two boys. The girls were American, but the boys turned out to be foreign exchange students, one from Russia, one from...possibly also Russia, but he sounded different. Maybe Nordic. At one point in their conversation about America, Easy Bake Ovens came up and one girl found herself in the position of having to explain the concept to someone who had never heard mention of such a thing.<br /></div>
"It's this oven....box...plastic box, and inside is a light bulb and you have packets of powder that you mix with water and you put them in little pans and you put the pans in the...oven, and you cook them...the light bulb inside bakes them...and...stuff."<br /></div>
Very accurate, but the exchange students were baffled. It really is a baffling concept. and it brought me back to a tumultuous time in my childhood....<br /><br />The year was 1993, the year after my new sister was born, a year I was spending trying out new life choices and career ideas, the year after I realized I would never be a veterinarian after all. I was looking for a niche, and at some point I realized that this, for me, was baking. I was going to be amazing at baking. But I wasn't allowed to touch the stove, or the oven, or really even the microwave. This was when the Easy Bake Oven appeared on the periphery of my awareness. It was the solution to everything--an oven I would be allowed to touch, with items that were easy to bake (even then, in the throes of my baking phase, I think I knew deep in my core that at my center I was lazy and filled with hate for food-making) and looked AMAZING on the television. Everyone was SO HAPPY eating these very small and fantastically decorated cakes. If only I could make my parents very small cakes they would be proud of me! And then I could eat cake whenever I wanted!<br /><br />I knew I had to have one.<br /></div>
I went to my parents, who, at the time, were still struggling with the aftermath of both having only just finished their PhDs and needing to pay everything off, having bought their very first house and having just borne a second child....so they were not super into the idea of buying me what they referred to as "stupid crap" for the astronomical price of 29.99. <br /></div>
They said, "Danielle, if you want that stupid thing, you can save your money and buy it for yourself."<br /></div>
In 1993, to a girl with a 25 cent allowance per week and who had already started displaying what would turn out to be a life long spending-in-the-search-for-<wbr></wbr>immediate-gratification problem, $29.99 sounded back then more or less what $100,000 sounds like to me right now. Quite out of reach.<br /></div>
I was a dreamer, though, and once I had something like that in my head, it was impossible to shake. So for exactly one year, I saved every single cent of my allowance, conned my parents out of quarters for picking up sticks and leaves, hoarded my birthday money, and I seriously wouldn't have put it past myself to start stealing nickels from my 2 year old sister towards the end.<br /></div>
I clawed my way up to $30 and when I finally had it triumphant in my neon green plastic wallet, my mother agreed to take me to Toys R Us, where I bought my long awaited prize and learned some valuable lessons about what it feels like to work towards something and achieve your goals.<br /></div>
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For a few amazing weeks, I baked many tiny cakes and covered them in sprinkles and fed all of them to my parents. By which I mean my father, who told me they were indeed the most incredible desserts he had ever come across in his years of cake eating. I could not have been happier.</div>
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Then my grandparents came to visit, and my grandmother, in an attempt to bond with me I imagine, wanted to play with me and my Easy Bake Oven and managed to melt the plastic panhandle right in the center of my oven, jamming up the entire thing and destroying it beyond repair.<br /></div>
I learned a valuable lesson about what it feels like to work towards something and achieve your goals and then have every moment of sweat and toil and despair thrown back at you in a feeling much like when someone throws a snowball at you and you discover the snowball had a rock inside, by using your deductive reasoning and your face.<br /><br />It was a bitter, bitter blow, but I was a happy well raised child so I knew that justice would be done, everything would be righted, because no one could let such an atrocity actually take place and that my parents would buy me another one because they knew how hard I had worked, how much it had meant to me, and how unfair it would be to let my hard work go to waste. The world wasn't LIKE that. Right?<br /></div>
VALUABLE LESSONS WERE BEING LEARNED ALL OVER THE PLACE because no one replaced my Easy Bake Oven. No one. Not my grandmother, not my parents, and not even God. It was out of the question that I buy myself a new one, because coming up with ANOTHER $29.99 was not going to be possible. I'd lost everything. EVERYTHING.<br /></div>
So, I did the only thing I could do.<br /></div>
For THIRTEEN YEARS I brought up my Easy Bake Oven disaster at least three times a week to my parents, to my parents' friends, to our neighbors, to all of my friends, to everyone and anyone I met, I would tell them the story of heartbreak and injustice and my mother would roll her eyes and my father would not pay any attention and my sister would tell me to get over it.<br /><br />But I would not get over it!!! FOR THIRTEEN YEARS.<br /></div>
Until one day, when I was 24 years old and living with my parents as everyone had expected, I came home annoyed at things from work and started to stomp up the stairs when I tripped over a large box.<br /></div>
"GODDAMN IT!" I said and glared down at the box and realized.....<br /></div>
"A MOTHER******* EASY BAKE OVEN??????!!!!"<br /></div>
My mother came out of the kitchen. "I was hoping now you'd shut up about the Easy Bake Oven."<br /></div>
THE LIFE LESSONS CONTINUED ALL OVER THE PLACE! It turns out, if you whine and complain for MORE THAN A DECADE and annoy EVERYONE YOU LOVE, eventually you get what you deserve!!<br /><br />It was a joyous moment where the entire world righted.<br /></div>
I immediately baked a very small yellow cake and covered in sprinkles and took it with overflowing joy to my father, who was sitting in the computer room programming things with names like routers and nets.<br /></div>
"DAD DAD DAD DAD LOOK WHAT I MADE YOU!! A TINY CAKE! JUST LIKE YOU LOVE!"<br /></div>
My father visibly turned ashen and scooted his wheeled chair away from me. "OH NO. NO NO NO NO. NO. Please do not do this to me. I cannot eat that."<br /></div>
"What? But you LOVED my tiny yellow sprinkle cakes!"<br /></div>
"No, Danielle. I loved you. Those cakes are disgusting. Truly disgusting. They are possibly the worst tasting things in the world."<br /></div>
"That is ridiculous," I said. "I ate them too and I remember they were amazing. Watch." I took a forkfull of my tiny yellow cake. "MY GOD," I said, choking on horror, "THIS IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I HAVE EVER EATEN."<br /></div>
"Yes," said my father.<br /></div>
I started to see why my parents did not buy me a replacement when I was 9.<br /></div>
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So I guess the final lesson of the Easy Bake Oven is, sometimes, even if you can't see it, terrible events happen for a reason. The waxy death of my Easy Bake Oven may have broken my 9 year old heart, but it surely saved my parents'. And because they were not forced to eat tiny cakes cooked by light bulb for more than a few weeks, they didn't grow to resent and hate me and so my childhood continued on, more or less happy.<br /></div>
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To this day, every time I see $30 in my wallet (which is most days, because I'm a baller--and thanks to Rachael I know what that word means), I think about how I could buy myself an Easy Bake Oven any time I want. And that feeling gives me confidence and power. Easy </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-30563223010296481482013-08-12T22:38:00.000-07:002013-08-12T22:38:17.148-07:00Internet Strangers<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
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We got The Internet when I was twelve years old. It came on a gigantic square computer and it made all the exciting beeping sounds. AOL was Supreme Ruler, and chatrooms were the thing to do if you were young and bored and left in the house for a few hours with your 1 year old sister who would spend those hours trying to eat the ear off a stuffed rabbit.<br /></div>
"DO NOT TALK TO INTERNET STRANGERS," cautioned my parents, 80 times a day for 3-4 years of my life. "There are some terrible people out there," said my father. "40 year old men masquerading as 15 year old boys will lure you into coffee shops, kidnap you in a van, rape you, murder you, hack off your limbs and store your body in pieces in a freezer in their basements," said my mother. "Or they will show you photographs of their penises," said the world in general. I was given the general understanding that pretty much every middle aged man in the world was on the internet pretending to be a 15 year old boy, just waiting to show off a a photo of his genitals.<br /></div>
At 27, having now seen more photographs of penises than necessary, I do wonder how on Earth anyone expects those to lure any young girl anywhere. But parents were worried.<br /></div>
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"DO NOT LOG INTO INTERNET CHATROOMS!" They would repeat at intervals. "INTERNET STRANGERS ABOUND. THEY WILL TELL YOU THEY ARE 15 YEAR OLD BOYS."</div>
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The very first thing I did when I was left alone with the internet was take the 20 minutes to dial up AOL and log directly into chatrooms where I soon met someone who told me he was a 15 year old boy.<br /></div>
This is it! I thought. What intrigue! We discussed all kinds of things, our little sisters, our schools, our interests, and eventually, our travels. I enjoyed talking to this "kid" whose screen name is long forgotten, though I'm sure it was terrific. I was NiteshadeD. Or maybe Juniper25. Names fraught with meaning from fantasy novels which made me pretty awesome.<br /><br />In any case, we were probably talking every few days for about two weeks, for an hour or two at a time and I felt dangerous, living life on the edge, entering a tangled web of lies. I obviously had no intention of ever meeting this potential penis photographer, but the rebellion made me feel interesting and exciting. And finally, one day, it happened for me.<br /></div>
"my famly took a trip 2 ireland last summer that was definitaly the most beautiful place ive ever been," he wrote me. Middle aged internet predators can't be expected to have much care for spelling or capitalization. </div>
"I've never been to Ireland," I wrote back. </div>
"ill send u a pic," he wrote, and started to load a picture.</div>
IT'S HAPPENING! I thought. I WILL EXPOSE HIM FOR THE MIDDLE AGED INTERNET GIRLSTALKER HE IS! I WILL HAVE THE BEST STORIES AT SCHOOL TOMORROW.<br /></div>
But what ACTUALLY loaded on the screen was a photo of a 15 year old boy with a red face next to a little sister in what I can now tell you did indeed look exactly like Ireland.<br /></div>
He clearly was just a 15 year old boy with no sketchy motives and I lost interest and that was the end of our internet relationship.<br /></div>
I had completely forgotten about this until a recent conversation with my mother.<br /></div>
"You need to sign up for JDate. Your father and I agree. Your grandmother too. We'll pay for it. You need to do this. This is where everyone finds people."</div>
"What if....no."</div>
"Yes. I will give you my credit card."</div>
"How about....no."</div>
"Yes. This is happening."</div>
"I've been down this road. There are WEIRDOS on the internet. You have no idea."</div>
"There are plenty of nice men on the internet! My friend's husband's sister's second oldest daughter met her fiance on this site! So did....all of these other people I've heard of."</div>
"There are not as many nice men on the internet as you think. They all just send me photos of their penises."</div>
"Oh Danielle, what? You are probably putting something weird in your profile information. You always attract the crazies. There are plenty of nice men on there, all the other women see to find them."</div>
"You say that because you're not the one with the inbox filled with really strange sexual propositions."</div>
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"You just need to revise your profile. I'll take a look."</div>
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So basically my parents have gone from NEVER TALK TO INTERNET STRANGERS EVER to WE DEMAND THAT YOU TALK TO INTERNET STRANGERS AND WE WILL EVEN PAY FOR IT. And I have gone from never receiving any sketchy photos to finding nothing but.<br /></div>
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This is growing up. What was once new and exciting and edgy is now old and dull and painful.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-29469310942862070432013-07-24T19:13:00.001-07:002013-07-24T19:13:57.872-07:00What the Zombie Apocalypse Means to Me<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/13.7/2013/06/24/195235537/how-to-love-the-zombie-apocalypse" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Please read:</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/13.7/2013/06/24/195235537/how-to-love-the-zombie-apocalypse" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">http://www.npr.org/blogs/13.7/<wbr></wbr>2013/06/24/195235537/how-to-<wbr></wbr>love-the-zombie-apocalypse</a></div>
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My very first love, several years ago, put the zombie apocalypse on my radar. It had never crossed my mind before, I’d never heard anyone discussing it, but he was into having a plan. One evening, cuddled together, well past the first “I love you,” he started detailing his survival plan to me. At first I didn't pay too much attention, but as he continued through the plan, which I don’t remember especially well but involved his best friend (who as far as I could tell fervently wished my head would be eaten by zombies sooner rather than later), I realized that at no point in this plan did my love ever come to find me. I pointed this out, jokingly, because after all, it was a discussion about the zombie apocalypse. It was ridiculous. I expected him to say something silly like, “Of course I would come for you! I just….forgot to say that part.” Or really, ANYTHING but what he actually said, which was, “You’re weak. You’d be dead before I could get to you, so there’s no point.” </div>
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The fact that I still bring this up in conversation 4 years later should tell you exactly how deep the wound to my soul went. He saw my devastated face and tried to make it better. “But if I saw you later, and you were a zombie, I would shoot you in the face to put you out of your misery.”</div>
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I’m not sure about other girls, but this didn't exactly strike me as a super romantic concession.</div>
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After we broke up (not over zombie issues), the first guy I went out with afterwards was beautiful and muscular and drove a little red sports car and took me out for a lovely dinner and I started to believe maybe things would someday be okay again. Just before our second date, we stopped at his apartment and while he was in another room I scanned his bookshelf and discovered that he owned How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse, displayed right there front and center on his book shelf.</div>
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It was our last date. Not actually because of the zombie book so much as the fact that he was an ass during dinner, but still! I felt followed by zombies.</div>
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In 2011 I met my next Love and, after a time, when I was sure we were so very much in love, that this was It, that this was The One, I decided to ask the most important question I knew:</div>
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“In the case of the zombie apocalypse, would you come for me?”</div>
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Because this was It, because he was The One, because it was a STUPID QUESTION, I expected him to say, “Of COURSE I would come for you,” and heal all of my old soulwounds.</div>
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What he ACTUALLY said, after a distressingly long pause, was, “I need more information.”</div>
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I flew into a rage. “You need more INFORMATION? You need MORE information? You NEED more INForMAtion?!!”</div>
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He remained calm. “Well, yes. Where are you? Where am I? Do I have weapons?”</div>
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“This is a SILLY question. It does not require serious thought of any kind! You just have to SAY you would come for me.”</div>
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He wouldn't do it. The question plagued us for months, for the rest of the relationship even. He started asking his friends, strangers at parties, and every single person, to a MAN (and woman) with only ONE exception EVER said, “I need more information.” Strategies were relayed, weapons were discussed. It became a whole thing. I hated it. All I wanted was for someone to love me enough to agree to come for me if the zombie apocalypse were to happen WHICH IT WON’T. The person doesn't even have to ACTUALLY come for me, he just has to SAY he will. IS THAT SO HARD?</div>
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I should have known then that he was neither It nor the One, but I persisted in delusions for awhile longer until we too broke up (also not zombie issues). I went immediately for some of the usual dating sites and had soon set up some absolutely terrible dates with some absolutely terrible people, one of whom stands out because once again, the zombie apocalypse was brought up. I don’t remember why exactly, but since he started it, I decided to retell the story of my first boyfriend because at this point, it’s a just a funny story to tell during zombie apocalypse discussions.</div>
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But this guy did not think it was funny. Instead of laughing, or smiling, or even acting awkward to my awkward story, he studied me seriously for a moment before saying, “I wouldn't shoot you.” Before I could even say “thank you?” he continued, “I wouldn't waste a bullet on you.”</div>
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I was stunned. This really didn't seem like a great first date statement. I tried to make a joke out of it. “Ha! How kind of you to let me live in zombie form!”</div>
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“I said I wouldn't shoot you. I can think of a number of other ways to kill you.”</div>
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Maybe I’m a nervous type, but perhaps some of you others out there also feel it is a TERRIBLE IDEA to say something like to a woman you met on the internet on a first meeting.</div>
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Also a last meeting.</div>
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Despite the fact that I think the zombie apocalypse is STUPID, it has really become a force in my life, to the point that I have decided if I were to ever marry, I would only marry if we wrote our vows to say, “I would come for you in the zombie apocalypse.” And when I find someone willing to say it to me, I’ll know I've found REAL love. Or at least a man with enough brain power to understand the concept of rhetorical questions.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-35944570073558636632013-07-16T18:59:00.001-07:002013-07-16T18:59:39.002-07:00Guest Poster, Code Name "Becky"<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Becky is the second guest poster this blog has ever had! How exciting. Below is Becky's contribution to the chronicle of the world's poor decisions:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">(Becky planned to be a guest contributor so she could write about her many bad
decisions. However, she's decided that she would rather remain in denial about
her bad decisions-- at least for the time being--and write about the bad
decisions of others instead.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“America Fuck
Yea!!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Driving a
Corvette around town so you can rev up real fast and blast pimpin’ music...
this is the dream of many teenage boys, although hopefully by the time most of
them grow up they realize that this makes them douchebags. Several of them
don't, inevitably. But something all men should be aware of: if you live in
Berkeley, California, the tree-hugging capitol of the nation, being a grown man
burning rubber in a Corvette is a Very Bad Idea. You could risk losing clients,
your reputation, or possibly more.</span><br />
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My friend Todd did precisely this, however. Todd is not the type of person one
would expect to do this. Todd is a liberal, feminist UC Berkeley graduate who
listens to emo music. He did not even own a car for several years, as he
thought it would be fun to bike everywhere. After a while, however, he realized
that being car-less might be messing up his game with the ladies. Even women who
were car-less and claimed to love that sort of thing often ended up leaving Todd
for men with cars. So when Todd's friend who worked at Google was moving to
Africa and offered to sell Todd his Corvette for a few thousand dollars, Todd
took him up on the offer.</span><br />
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At first Todd was weirded out by the idea of driving a Corvette around Berkeley.
What if his client saw him; what if he ended up attracting like a magnet the
few gold-diggers who must lurk the streets of the Berkeley? But eventually Todd
got used to driving the Corvette, and even started to blast rap music while
revving up on occasion. He claimed that he was doing these things "ironically,"
in hipster fashion (which makes it so much better, of course).</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">
One day, however, Todd took the irony factor a little too far. While in the
dollar store, he happened upon some American flags. "Wouldn't it be
funny," Todd thought naively, "to buy some American flags to put in
the window of my Corvette?" Tickled pink with himself and his hipster
irony, Todd began cruising around Berkeley in his American flag decorated Corvette.
He might have even yelled "America Fuck Yea!!!" out the window once
or twice.</span><br />
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Todd's little "joke" lasted about one hour. He claimed, of course, he
only planned on doing it for a couple days. He had no desire to pretend to be a
douchebag any more than that. I could stop here, to leave you wondering what
happened to Todd and just what price he had to pay for his foolishness. We know
he at least made it out alive, for he lived to tell the tale.</span><br />
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I should also mention that all this was happening at the time of the Occupy
Protests, which caused revolutionary sentiment in Berkeley to rise to a fervor
comparable to the 1970s. Todd had not thought of this.</span><br />
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Instead, Todd made the mistake of leaving the American flags up in his window
when he went food shopping. As he was stocking his cart with organic vegetarian
food and reverting to his regular persona, protesters were making their way
through the parking lot. Although we can't say for sure, my guess is that the
protesters were not looking to make trouble. But probably the sight of an
impeccable Corvette with American flags in the window was more than they can
handle. And so when Todd returned to the parking lot, eager once again to play
the role of a meathead and scream "America Fuck Yea!!!" as he cruised
around town, he found himself in for a surprise. His beautiful Corvette had
been keyed across the front, scratching the paint and probably reducing the
value of the car by a couple thousand dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">As one might
conclude, Todd no longer drives around Berkeley with American flags in his
window. Nor does he rev up like a douchebag (except for a few rare occasions).
Who knows who else might have happened if Todd were to have continued on his
rampage unheeded? He is probably lucky his car is only scratched. So the moral
of this story, for those of you who are considering putting American flags in the
windows of your nice new car as a joke: Don't do it, unless you live somewhere
like Kansas or you're prepared to pay the price.<br />
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<!--[endif]--></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-70476565633023865652013-07-04T14:33:00.001-07:002013-07-04T14:33:55.970-07:00Year of Firsts: Ziplining<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
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Many of you have already heard this story, but others of you are not privileged enough to be on my exclusive email chains. If you are among the privileged, you can ignore this one.<br /></div>
One of my fears is a fear of heights. This is one of about four reasons I am the worst climber ever. I am also terrified of things that go fast. This is one of three reasons I do not ride roller coasters. I have a very hefty fear of sudden death. Also prolonged death.<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">In any case, when Alexa and I planned our trip to Costa Rica this past spring, and she said, "CAN WE GO ZIPLINING??!!!" my initial instinct was to say, "Hell no. What's the matter with you?" I am sure she expected me to answer that way, but couldn't resist asking. But when I thought about it, I realized it was another perfect First for the list, that would push past my fears and test my resolve. So I agreed. </span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The day arrived when we were in Monteverde and it was time to leave the hostel and climb into a van filled with strangers including a 10 year old boy who was SO EXCITED ABOUT ZIPLINING OMG SO EXCITED. I was not so excited. I was terrified. It's all well and good to make sweeping declarations about becoming a better person and surmounting your fears but when it comes down to it, a moderate resolve doesn't make the fears suddenly vanish. </span><br />
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<br />"Why is that girl crying?" the little boy asked his mother.<br />"Sssshhhhh," his mother said.<br />"She's just a little scared," said Alexa.<br />"Why is she scared?" asked the boy.<br />"Sssssshhhhhh," said his mother.<br />"Grrrgllllpffft," I said, fighting the hysteria.<br />"Pull yourself together," said Alexa. "HE'S excited. And he's ten."<br />"Yup! I am!" said the boy.<br />"Ssssshhh," said the boy's mother.<br /><br />We drove forth, and I continued to cry quietly while the boy bounced around in the backseat SO EXCITED OMG SO EXCITED.<br /><br />We were herded into an area where several very attractive young Costa Rican men invaded all of our personal space and hooked us up into terrifying looking harnesses. We were pushed out very quickly and practically ran through this new forest and up, up, up, up until we reached the first platform. I expected some kind of orientation, but instead we were simply told, "Left hand here, right hand here, right hand far back, don't brake until we tell you. Okay, who's first?"<br /><br />And then they hooked up the first person and pushed him off. <br /><br />"OH MY GOD," I said, choking on terror. <br /><br />"IS IT MY TURN YET?? IS IT? CAN I GO?" said the 10 year old boy.<br /><br />"YES IS IT HIS TURN, CAN HE GO?" I said, choking on shame.<br /><br />Soon, though, it was clearly my turn.<br /><br />"Go, go, go!" said one of the young men, whose name we think may be Lilo. Upon looking at him, I fell desperately in love with him. He was absolutely beautiful and I could tell he was the one for me.<br /><br />"Go!" he said again. I stood frozen, unable to move or respond in any way to this command. Misunderstanding my fear for a lack of English speaking skills, Lilo said, "Venga venga venga!!" this snapped me out of the trance and I moved forward, and so it was that Lilo believed for awhile that I did not actually understand English. For this reason all of our interactions hence forth took place in Spanish. <br /><br />As he hooked me up, I looked across at the next platform, which at least I could see. Then I looked down. I was VERY HIGH. If you have not been ziplining, and you are imagining right now how I high I was, I was FOUR TIMES AS HIGH AS THAT. <br /><br />I started to cry again.<br /><br />"Don't cry!" said my Love. <br />"I'm....not SNIFF...crying....I don't....AAAAH....cry....."<br />"Mmmmhmmm," he said, and pushed me off.<br />I screamed.<br /><br />A little bit.<br /><br /><div>
As we progressed, things got higher and longer, until we finally arrived at a platform where, looking across, you could not see the end of the line. It was on this platform that somehow I found myself the last person to go, and I was left alone in cool afternoon air with my TrueLove. It certainly was a romantic spot. The others were much too far away to hear, the breeze rustled the millions of leaves, the colors of the forest and the graying sky swirled around us, and the air smelled like dirt and green and rain. I wanted to take a moment to enjoy our alone time together and tried to stare deeply and soulfully into his eyes, but he was busy hooking me into the harness and preparing to launch me into the unknown. Finally though, he looked up. Before I could think of something impressively witty to say in Spanish, he spoke.<br /></div>
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"Are you nervous?"</div>
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"Yes. I am very very nervous."</div>
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"Me too."<br />I stared at him. "What.....why are YOU nervous?"</div>
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He looked me right in the eyes and said deadpan, "Today is my first day."</div>
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"WHAT?" I shrieked. "That's a joke. Haha! No, seriously, Is that a joke??"</div>
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He still didn't smile. "Adios," he said, and he pushed me forcefully off the platform.<br /></div>
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I zoomed along in terror for an hour, maybe eight, until I finally saw the end of the line, and arrived in safety at the next platform. Lilo landed soon after.<br /></div>
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"Don't cry!" he said.<br /></div>
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"I'm not crying!" I said, crying.<br /></div>
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After this though, I began to get the hang of things, but it continued to look like I was crying because of the wind in my eyes as I zipped along at 800 miles/second high above the tree tops.<br /></div>
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"Don't cry!" said everyone.<br /></div>
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"WIND!" I shouted in Spanish.<br /></div>
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I think that I enjoyed ziplining. I'm not entirely sure. I know that I would do it again if there was an opportunity, but I also know that I will not be going out LOOKING for opportunities. It is certainly an Experience, and way to view things you would never otherwise see, in a way you would never otherwise feel.<br /></div>
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Eventually, though we came to the end of the lines, and discovered there was new terror in store.<br /></div>
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"Tarzan jump!" said Lilo. "Daniela you will be the first to jump!"<br /></div>
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"Ha!" I said. "Haha! First! No. Maybe I will not jump at all."<br /></div>
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Lilo looked at me with brown eyes and I knew I would jump off that platform, however high it was. <br /></div>
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Despite the lovemadness, I was unable to go first. "Take this one!" I said, and pushed Alexa in front of me. Lilo shrugged, and began hooking Alexa up.<br /></div>
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"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh....." said Alexa, as she peered down at the ground far, far below. But she didn't have time to say much after that because she was immediately pushed forcefully off the edge. I do not remember her screaming. But she went flying hard and fast. When the other adventure guides down below had slowed her wild back and forth swinging and unhooked her, she called up to me as I stared fretfully down. "THAT WAS MUCH WORSE THAN SKY DIVING, JUST SO YOU KNOW," she shouted up. Because Alexa has sky dived.<br /></div>
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"Come here Daniela," said Lilo with his heart breakingly beautiful Spanish. "It is now your turn."<br /></div>
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"Oh no no no no no no no no I can't do this no no no no."<br /><br />So he shrugged and pulled the next guy up and pushed him off.<br /></div>
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"Daniela now it's your turn!"</div>
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"No puedo no puedo no puedo...."<br /><br />So he took the next one. We repeated this a few more times while he would interject with things like, "This is fun!" "Look how much fun the people are having!" "You can do this!"<br /></div>
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Finally, it was the ten year old boy's turn.</div>
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"THIS IS THE MOST AMAZING THING I'VE EVER SEEN I CAN'T WAIT TO JUMP OFF MY TURN MY TURN MY TURN! I AM SO EXCITED."<br /></div>
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I realized I could absolutely not let this small child jump in front of me while my TrueLove watched my shame.<br /></div>
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"No!" I said "I will go!" and I pushed the ten year old child out of my way. He was disgruntled, but his mother shushed him.<br /></div>
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"Okay," I said as Lilo attached my harness to a rope. "Just don't push---"</div>
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And he pushed me hard, right off the edge, without any further words of encouragement.<br /><br />I screamed like a small girl child as all of the adventure guides laughed. It would seem that Alexa filmed the whole ordeal. So now we can remember the small girl child shrieks forever.<br /></div>
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"Don't look so scared!" you can hear one of them yell.</div>
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"She always looks like that! That is just her face!" you can hear Alexa respond.</div>
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I did not cry. Probably just because I was dehydrated.<br /><br />That was basically the end of the whole business, we went back to return our equipment, I said a very brief goodbye to my TrueLove who didn't seem to notice, and we got back in the van to head to the hostel.</div>
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Another successful First! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4928893886166994692.post-44987781002609773742013-06-27T18:44:00.001-07:002013-06-27T18:44:43.094-07:00Year of Firsts: Yoga<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
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I have long been against yoga. Why this is so, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I've just always been pretty anti exercise-for-the-sake-of-<wbr></wbr>exercise. I mean, I think it's a fantastic IDEA, people SHOULD exercise, but I have never been able to handle things like exercise bikes or treadmills or weights or doing things to exercise that are nothing more than that--exercises. I prefer to get exercise while doing something, like fencing or climbing. Although obviously I fail at doing either of those things with any kind of consistency so bottom line is I end up without exercise.<br /></div>
Yoga, though, has always seemed to me even more hateful than anything else. It's tied up in all the peace love bullshit, and seemed to involve a lot of sitting around and contorting and not accomplishing much of anything. <br /></div>
In the summer, Lululemon (there you go, Lululemon, I'm paying you back in free advertising) hosts free yoga classes in the Dupont Circle, which is very near my office. Since this is my year of crossing boundaries and trying Firsts, I decided a free yoga class was an excellent next step. I figured it would be a good push on the physical capabilities front and the keeping an open mind front.<br /></div>
I went with one of the girls at work who has done yoga, and plays soccer, and eats well, and is generally physically superior to me in every way. She is kind hearted though, and one of the few people I trusted not to dissolve into total mockery. At least, not when it comes to me doing yoga.<br /></div>
I sauntered in with my new yoga mat and my workout pants and prepared to flop around uselessly so I could say that I had done it. What actually happened, though, was one of the most intense workouts I have ever undergone, outside of the medieval European martial art sword fighting introduction (please see appropriate blog entry if necessary).<br /></div>
The first ten minutes weren't too bad. Then I started to burn in most of my muscles. We were doing a lot of downward facing dog, which I feel is supposed to be the easy beginner pose but to me was the lowest level of hell. I suspect I am simply doing it wrong, but in the meantime it is wreaking havoc on my wrists and my upper arms. My knees came down every 5 seconds.<br /><br />"Bring your right foot slowly up to the edge of the mat," said the serene, petite instructor in an indoor voice.<br /><br />My right foot lurched forward as my body lurched to the left.<br /></div>
"Stand in your warrior pose," she continued, voice like a low breeze.<br /></div>
I popped up, arms flailing as I teetered into warrior pose. I tried to bring my arms up gracefully, shifting balance to go from warrior to forward lunge, but I couldn't stretch them all the way and in the meantime my thighs were growing weak.<br /></div>
"Bring your leg up into your tree pose." The woman sounded like she had never been un-calm in her life.<br /></div>
I brought my leg up into tree pose and fell over.<br /></div>
There was a lot of this, over the hour, as my legs weakened and began to shake, as my arms began to burn, as every muscle stretched and strained and I became short of breath. I have never felt so worked out in my life.<br /></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">I've done this twice now, and I'll be continuing through the summer, as it becomes hot yoga in the DC sun. Maybe by the end of it, downward facing dog won't make me cry. But we'll see. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0