Travel Buddies

I think most travelers travel for the people. Yes, you’ll get a few tourists who really just want to see some monuments and call it a day, but that’s not your long-term, bit-by-the-travel-bug, I just got home from 6 months abroad and am already planning my next trip, traveler. That’s why travelers sometimes go places that are frankly ugly or uncomfortable. It’s not about the place, per se; it’s about the people.

When I think about my favorite people on earth, a short list comes to mind. On it is a French woman I knew for 4 days in Sao Paulo, an Irish woman with whom I spent 2 days in Ilha Grande, some Canadian climbers who helped me pass 2 days in Lima, an American with whom I passed one lovely evening in Barcelona, an Australian journalist whom I accompanied to a nightclub that same night, an Iraqi war vet in the Bay area whom I circled round but never got to know particularly well, and then the more traditional choices, my sister, college and high school friends, former colleagues. But how can that be? How was it that I connected with someone on such a deep level, for a period of 2-5 days, knowing we would never see each other again? How can someone with whom I spent 15 hours be on the same list as a best friend of 15 years?

Counterintuitively, I think the shortness of the time period is a contributing factor. I sometimes find it hard to confide in a person who lives in my hometown. If I show them my vulnerabilities, I then have to see them around all the time and fear they might judge me for whatever secret I shared. And so I say to myself, maybe it’s better to keep that particular story locked up.

But when I travel, I can open up. I can tell a complete stranger about my illnesses and my fears. I can openly say what I despise and love about my country, I can say what I am ashamed of and proud of in being an American.

The reason I know it’s not just me is that I see this expressed in traveler’s blog posts, Instagram shout-outs, Facebook statutes. After we travel, we have no good way to thank our travel buddies. Why say “I want to be your best friend” to someone you’ll never see again? Why say “I love you”? It’s probably true, but what’s the point? There is no future there. We only just met. And yet those are the people who changed me. They are the ones who showed me a world other than the one into which I was born. Those people that I talked to for 10 hours taught me more about myself and this world than people I have known for 10 years.

As time passes, I remember the conversations we had in more detail than the ones I have with people on a regular basis. I remember the table setting, the flowers, the wine we drank, the way the waiter hit on us, I remember what you told me about your ex-boyfriend, I remember details of your face when I couldn’t remember a face I saw ten minutes ago in torts class, I remember that you were fearless, having broken into a new industry in a foreign country, I remember your mix of maturity and childishness, I remember your yellow shoes. And I remember changing. I remember my attitudes, my beliefs, my assumptions, my plans for the future, my priorities, my dreams, changing. I remember my world expanding in the course of a dinner.

Of course I love my fellow travelers. How could I not? They changed me. They changed my mind, my heart, my soul, even if we only spent a heartbeat together.

Lima

I'm liking Lima a lot. There is plenty to see - ruins in the heart of the urban landscape, museums, a mix of colonial Spanish buildings and modern architecture. I seem to be in the minority of the hostel crowd, though. More folks seem to prefer the countryside and Cusco.

(Governor's Palace)

(Plaza San Martin)

Today I went to the reconstructed ruins of Huaca Pucllana. This was a sacred sight in the current neighborhood of Miraflores that was used by people who lived here before the Incas. Three successive (and different) peoples used the site. The first, the Lima, carried out religious ceremonies that involved sacrificing young women. The second group, the Wari, appear to have sacrificed infants. The third, the Yschma, merely left offerings of food and drink (phew).

(The Lima appear to have ritualistically smashed pots whenever they constructed a new building)

(Reconstruction of a tomb for infants)

The site has a pyramid that is built of Adobe in such a way that it could withstand seismic activities. They call it the "bookshelf" method for reasons obvious when you look at photos. In a quake, the bricks could shift slightly without the entire structure collapsing.

It was quite cool that the ruins are right smack in the middle of this modern city.

6am musings after a night dodging mosquitoes

I have noticed that when I travel, emotions are closer to the surface. So for example when I have trouble using a bank card, even though I have several backups that are functional, I panic and worry and am depressed all day until I solve the problem. Or when I watch the sunset, I find myself tearing up.

This is absurd because Los Angeles has spectacular sunsets that don't make me cry and I regularly face setbacks worse than a disfunctional debit card. I used to think there were certain places that affected me more strongly, namely, Paris. But now I'm beginning to think it's the effect of travel.

When we are at home, the majority of our energy and self goes to our jobs, school, personal relationships. So even when we pause to look at a pretty sunset, our focus is really elsewhere. I don't think this is bad; if anything it's probably necessary. Living life takes energy, thought, planning. There isn't much left over to examine the world closely.

But when one has saved up to travel, one has the luxury to let the world sink in. My fulltime job right now is to examine the world and the people living on it.

I also used to see travel as somewhat selfish, in that it meant I was enjoying myself instead if working hard at a job or education that would get me a job. But in fact when I am at home, when I am working or in school, I am occupied most the time with myself. My job, my money, my plans for the weekend, my boyfriend, my workout. When I travel, it's about the place. I am still the protagonist, but the "work" I do is to discover a place. How do I get to this part of Rio? What is the history of this city? What do people eat here? What is the economy like? How do I say "thank you"? 

Rio will be the same when I leave, but I will not be the same when I leave Rio.

Rio Tour: Considering Chickens

A few quick notes from a tour I took the other day.

The tour started in a national park (the largest national park inside a city on earth). The park is an Atlantic rainforest, which means the soil quality is higher than in a tropical rainforest. The trees are shorter in the Atlantic rainforest but there is still a high level of biodiversity. We then drove to Christ the Redeemer for views over rio. Unsurprisingly , the area around the statue was very touristy but the views were more the worth the crowds. 

We drove back down into the city into a neighborhood called Santa Teresa. We had lunch and then saw the Escalera de Selarón. A quick note on lunch - all the beef I have had so far in Rio is insanely good. Even hole-in-the-wall burger joints have fantastic beef. I ordered steak for lunch and was not disappointed.

After taking a few photos of the steps, we drove to sugarloaf mountain in time for sunset.

I spent most the day with a Scottish woman, British woman, and a French woman who know lives in Cape Town and speaks English with a cool hybrid French / South African language. She told me that Cape Town has a respectable film making industry. Apparently the American film industry uses the South African production capabilities from time to time, for a much lower price than they might pay in Los Angeles for the same service. (Mad Max was filmed in Namibia and some of the production work was done in Cape Town.)

Throughout the day I discussed socioeconomic concerns with the tour guide. He was born in a favela. He taught himself Spanish and English and is now quite highly educated from what I can tell (the tour covered a broad range of topics, from ocean and rainforest biology to history, art and current events in Brazil). He said that there is basically no way out of the favelas. There is no primary education for the children of the favelas. There IS public education in Brazil but the entrance exams are prohibitively difficult for those born into poverty. The private schools have easier entrance exams but are expensive. He said some folks in the favelas have been given iPhones (?? Not sure from whom) and get a small amount of money from the government each month and are thus content with their situation and don't try to get educated.

He drew a parallel between chickens in the marketplace and people in the favelas. He said that the chickens are not locked in cages, but they don't leave their owners because they are provided with easy access to food. The chickens are unaware that they will be slaughtered and sold. The tour guide said the people in the favelas are like these chickens, except that people are theoretically capable of logical reasoning while chickens are not.

I'm not going to say whether I agree with his viewpoints or not but I think it's valuable to write down his thoughts. My tour guide is certainly one in a bajillion - one of the very few born into a favela who end up with a lower middle class life.

This is a subject for another post but I haven't seen much evidence of a middle class here. 

First Day in Rio (late post)

June 5

I landed in rio around 8:30 this morning. I made a MAJOR rookie mistake and forgot to bring USD. I had zero cash. What a noob. Luckily there were plenty of atms in the airport. I've also noticed that most businesses here seem to prefer credit to cash, which is unexpected (though awesome). Maybe that's only true in tourist areas, however.

I took a bus from the airport to Copacabana. In the hour long ride, I saw more examples of extreme poverty than I have ever seen in one place (and I'm from LA). I actually don't think we drove by the favelas but I will confirm that when I know more. (Confirmed - favelas are in a different part of the city up on hillsides). We drove by miles and miles of crumbling mid-size high rises. Laundry lines, rudimentary water tanks and various vehicles indicated that the no doubt unsafe buildings are inhabited. One interesting observation - some of the trucks and cars parked in front of the decrepit apartment complexes looked somewhat new and appeared to be in decent condition. Made me wonder if they belonged to folks who don't live in the run-down buildings ...? Or maybe rio has a major housing problem but cars are relatively cheap? I'm speculating off a Jetlagged bus ride so take this with a shaker full of salt.

I checked in to my hostel and then took a nap on the beach. Vendors moved about, selling water, beer, hammocks, hats, sunglasses, and shrimp kebabs. Men and women of all body types wore fairly revealing swimsuits. It was kinda cool actually - there doesn't appear to be as much body shaming in Rio as in LA. 

I'm back at my hostel now meeting other travelers.  A group of us are going to a street party later tonight. I asked if there was a dress code and the dude at the front desk laughed at me. Apparently you can party in Rio in flip flops. Good to know!

P.S. FOUND A CLIMBING GYM GOING ASAP

Benign / Malignant

One week after my surgery and my exhilarating benign diagnosis, my best friend from childhood called to tell me his tumor is malignant. He then explained that he still intends to graduate this June, and is hopeful that his teachers will let him record lectures or do extra assignments to make graduation a reality. We talked of plans for the future - how we can still hike in Patagonia but how that will need to be postponed while he receives a full year of chemotherapy. We have tentative plans to see the new Avengers movie this weekend if I'm sufficiently recovered to sit upright in a theater for two hours. If I have anything to say about it I damned well will be.

When I was in the hospital, a writer friend wrote a beautiful get well card that opened with, "Benign! Amazing how context can make a word about harmlessness so exciting." He is right. "Benign" means I can go back to my high-pressure law firm job next week. "Benign" means I can travel in South America this summer. "Benign" means I can go off to law school in Virginia this fall.

"Malignant" means months upon months in bed, struggling to eat enough food to stay somewhat healthy, feeling too shitty to even watch TV. "Malignant," in my friend's case, means a postponement of a young life that was poised to graduate and launch itself upon the world.

I wrote in an earlier post that illness is boring. Terrifying, but boring. I feel that even more strongly today. "Malignant" means a year of inaction. And of course, this is the best case scenario - postponing a life is still better than losing it.

I begin to have a sneaking suspicion that death will be the most boring experience of all. No more laughing, no more suffering, no more growing, no more worrying, no more hoping, no more screaming.

If I could grant wishes, I would grant my friend years and years of laughing, suffering, growing, worrying, hoping and screaming. Maybe when the boredom of death finally comes after decades upon decades of living, we will be ready for it. We are not ready now.

I am unafraid

Last night I woke up at the witching hour because my pain medicine had worn off early. It hurt too much to stand. I called for help and my groggy father groggily administered narcotics and apple sauce. He offered to sit with me but I said no; I was fine. It was both lie and truth. It takes between 20 and 30 minutes for the medicine to work so I wasn't exactly out of the woods.

The pain was bad enough that I started shaking, my knees supported by a pillow, my back by three more, my hands clutching my abdomen where they gutted me to remove an unnatural piece of my own flesh. Meditation worked for short periods. I could take in a deep breath (into my chest - no belly breathing yet), let it out, and relax my quaking legs. The pain remained but lessened in stillness. By the time I drew my next breath, the quivering resumed, but the relief in between breaths was enough.

I made it through the witching hour in silence. A warm flush crept through my limbs once the drugs kicked in, and that was how I knew I was safe. But, all through that witching hour, I was unafraid. The breaths we draw may be calming or they may be painful, but they are the vehicle which carries us through life.

For a few weeks, I thought that my allotted number of breaths might only add up to 25 years. Now, I know it will be more. If I am lucky, I may even get another 60 years or so to breathe. Even if the coming years are filled with silent, witching hour breaths of pain, I will breathe them gladly, and I will be unafraid.

On Carpe Diem and Boredom

I don't have anything to say about illness that hasn't already been said. I will write anyway because this is new to me.

Within the last month, two things happened: 1) doctors found a mass on my right ovary, probably benign, measuring 4 x 4 x 7 cm and 2) doctors found a mass pressing on the colon of my best friend from childhood, so far known to be between 7 and 10 cm on one side. 

In response, I canceled my four month trip to South America. He failed a class in his second-to-last term of college.

One thing that is subtly difficult is that the radio mostly only plays songs about love and partying. Do you know how odd it is to be told you have a mass in your abdomen, walk out of the hospital, get in the car, turn on the radio and hear, "baby I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake it off" or "if you're lips are moving then you lie, lie, lie"? (for the record I love T. Swift. and loved Meghan Trainor before she released that really sexist song about her future husband.) Even that one Tim McGraw song about cancer is too.... uplifting. Its called "Live Like You Were Dying." It's about how being terminally ill teaches you to do the crazy things you never did and forces you to follow your dreams. (Some lyrics: "I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain climbing... I hope someday you get the chance to live like you were dying.")

The problem is I already knew all that. I had booked a four month trip to South America. My friend is wrapping up a college degree. When you’re faced with your own mortality, you’re supposed to learn how to seize the moment or some shit, the ever cliché carpe diem. But what if you already knew about carpe diem? I WAS GOING TO TRAVEL ALONE FOR FOUR MONTHS BECAUSE I ALREADY KNEW HOW TO CARPE THAT FUCKING DIEM. I guess they just wanted to confirm. GUYS LESSON LEARNED YOU CAN MAKE IT GO AWAY NOW. THANKS THOUGH. YOU’VE BEEN VERY THOROUGH.

Another thing that is subtly difficult is that it’s boring to be sick. Illness brings with it a series of mundane tasks. Sitting in waiting rooms. Transcribing voicemails from nurses. Reading a health insurance policy. By the time the doctor sees me, I’m usually too bored to be scared. I felt this when I took the LSAT, actually – we had to wait around for more than an hour before the test and so I was half asleep at my desk when the proctor said, “GO!” 

Ever since they found the mass, I’m occasionally very scared, occasionally very angry, and occasionally very sad, but usually I’m just excruciatingly bored. Being sick is stressful but it’s also boring as hell. Hiking in Patagonia would have been wayyyyy more exciting.

Before I go, one more observation: I am much more emotional about my friend’s illness than about my own. I don’t know why, necessarily. My diagnosis made me freeze up. Then I started problem solving. Must cancel flights. Must check up on health insurance. Must draft a will. His illness made me so angry I couldn’t hold the mouse at work from shaking so hard. Why? Why two months before he was supposed to graduate? Why didn’t they catch it when he first had symptoms over winter break? I don’t know if it’s a matter of perspective, that I have stronger feelings about another’s illness. Maybe I have to be calm and philosophical about my own as a form of self-preservation. Maybe I secretly think I did something wrong and karma is getting me good, while I know HE did nothing wrong and it’s just dumb luck that he’s sick. Maybe it’s scarier to watch someone you love die than it is to die yourself. 

I don’t really know. I just know I'm gonna go hiking in Patagonia someday, and he’s coming with me.