Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Ending
7 weeks of traveling have ended, and I am once again at the small, blue internet cafe in my Lima neighborhood of Surco. Although the house is filled with strangers now and my community has moved on, it is good to be here. The faces, smells, and sights of Peru...even Lima, which is rather distinct from the rest of the country...are so different than the rest of South America, from my experience. And, there is something about being here...it feels comfortable.
When I walked into the house, and I met some of the new volunteers, one jumped up. She said, oh, you are Marci...I work at Deporte y Vida, and the kids are always asking me if I know you or if we can do things like what you did, like make playdough. I smiled, and nodded. At camp, we call that a benchmark.
Today, I wandered through my neighborhood, made one last stop at the local artesan market, and caught up on e-mails. In about 4 hours, I will head back to the Lima airport for the last time. I have been there many, many times in the last 5 months, and everytime, I cannot help but think of the first visit...the first time I sat in that airport and it happened to for an entire night, en route to Ayacucho. I still had a smell on my clothes from the detergent used in my mothers house, I could not get a Spanish word out, and I wondered what I was doing here. And now, everything has come full circle.
This is the final blog entry. I can hardly believe it, actually. It even feels a bit more strange to end this record than to be going home. I honestly have loved every minute of this adventure, but feel ready to retire my backpack for a while. However, the ending of the blog feels very final. This is the end of my streaming words, and the end of my need to remember and share details. This is the end of my logging on to check and respond to comments, and the end of taking notes on the back on napkins for the sake of entries. This is the end of my knowledge that you, the person who seems to follow my adventure, is with me. I will, of course, write forever in other capacities...perhaps I will blog again someday...in another stint of traveling. But, as for right now, this is the end. Thank you for reading.
I had a pattern of ending each blog entry with words that looked forward to the next entry, or part of the trip. Today, I have no more words pointing to the next section of my South American adventure. Instead, I will quote the old childrens book (that I am sure you have read), Madeline. This book ends simply, and without a complicated goodbye...
That is all. There isnt anymore.
When I walked into the house, and I met some of the new volunteers, one jumped up. She said, oh, you are Marci...I work at Deporte y Vida, and the kids are always asking me if I know you or if we can do things like what you did, like make playdough. I smiled, and nodded. At camp, we call that a benchmark.
Today, I wandered through my neighborhood, made one last stop at the local artesan market, and caught up on e-mails. In about 4 hours, I will head back to the Lima airport for the last time. I have been there many, many times in the last 5 months, and everytime, I cannot help but think of the first visit...the first time I sat in that airport and it happened to for an entire night, en route to Ayacucho. I still had a smell on my clothes from the detergent used in my mothers house, I could not get a Spanish word out, and I wondered what I was doing here. And now, everything has come full circle.
This is the final blog entry. I can hardly believe it, actually. It even feels a bit more strange to end this record than to be going home. I honestly have loved every minute of this adventure, but feel ready to retire my backpack for a while. However, the ending of the blog feels very final. This is the end of my streaming words, and the end of my need to remember and share details. This is the end of my logging on to check and respond to comments, and the end of taking notes on the back on napkins for the sake of entries. This is the end of my knowledge that you, the person who seems to follow my adventure, is with me. I will, of course, write forever in other capacities...perhaps I will blog again someday...in another stint of traveling. But, as for right now, this is the end. Thank you for reading.
I had a pattern of ending each blog entry with words that looked forward to the next entry, or part of the trip. Today, I have no more words pointing to the next section of my South American adventure. Instead, I will quote the old childrens book (that I am sure you have read), Madeline. This book ends simply, and without a complicated goodbye...
That is all. There isnt anymore.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Argentina, from bottom to top (meat included)
The bus rides ended, and Mollie and I had the esteemed pleasure of leaving Calafate in an airplane. Sure, we spent the last few hours in our return to Calafate in a selection of the best of the best in Calafate establishments. You know, the amazing vegetarian style/whole food restaurant, the bookstore/bar, and the ice cream shop on the corner. Classic Mollie and Marci style.
Both the Calafate and Ushuaia airports are small, and reminiscent of the good ole Lansing airport...with four gates and everything. Landing in Ushuaia was unbelievable, with the multitude of mountains, snow, and sparkling bodies of water abounding. And, we even found the weather to be nice...and by nice, I mean, we were wrapped in everything we owned, but still thought that it was colder in Bariloche (our frame of cold referrence). We spent the night wandering through the small town, which is really more established than we expected. As the major port of Antarctic cruises, with a multitude of travelers passing through during the season (not when we were there), the main streets are long and lined with tons of shops and restuarants. Everything is labeled with the end of the world...the end of the world cafe, the end of the world ice cream store, the end of the world t-shirt store.
Mollie turned to me and said, I knew I would follow you to the end of the world. Sigh.
We ate in a restaurant on the water that had nothing to do with the end of the world, called Tante Ninas. We were sad to learn that the tante was not in fact a Jewish aunt with a Yiddish name, and the title came from German. But, we enjoyed a wonderful meal, followed by a stop at a random bar that was fashioned as a Che Guevara shrine (he was born in Rosario, Argentina in the north). We love Motorcycle Diaries (especially when we feel like we are living it constantly through Patagonia) and...communism.
We woke up the next morning, and realized that the cold of Ushuaia was not a joke. Alas, before our flight to Buenos Aires (yes...we only spent one day in Ushuaia), we hurried off to Tierra del Fuego. We heard of a few short hikes, and just wanted to get a taste of this world famous national park. A bus driver dropped us off in the park, showed us a mapped route that would be through part of the park, and let us go.
The terrain was similar to my first hike, the llama trek. It was a squishy, spongey green grass that formed into small mounds lined with llama dung. However, unlike the llama trek, this grass was congealed with dew that had frosted over night. Cold. The foliage was naturally ever present, and the snow capped mountains wowed us, as they had before. We liked the park, but moved quickly through in the interest of making our flight (which you can probably tell from my breezy description). Tierra del Fuego...beautiful, check.
Before we left the hostel in Ushuaia, I rearranged my pack. This was probably the 1000th time that I have needed to do this, and it usually results in my shedding some belongings throughout South America. In this instance, I got everything packed away, except my hiking boots. They are huge, and I always struggle to get them, which tends to mean that I have to wear them. However, this time, I did not want to. I have had them since I was 16 and traveled to Israel (replacing only the cushioning pad in the bottom), they smelled potently wretched after rediculous saturation post Inca trail, and the caked mud had discolored them so much that I actually could not remember what they originally looked like. I really was not planning on using my boots anymore; my hiking in South America was over (for this trip). In a brief pause, hanging over the zipper of my pack, I knew what I was going to do with my boots. I decided to leave my boots in Ushuaia, the end of the world. With that, I asked the hostel employee if she knew anyone who needed them, and she cheerfully said yes. With that, I handed them over.
The flight to Buenos Aires was long, and we were pleasantly surprised to be served a vegetarian lasagna by the Argentine airline, which is so uncharacteristic South American and made us really happy (and also ignore the strange Chinese missionary who sat next to Mollie and told us that we looked Israeli...whatever that means). When we got there, we stripped off our long sleeves, scarves, and hats, and revelled in the 75 degree breeze from the baggage claim doors. We took a city bus to the hostel, which gave us a nice panoramic taste of the city. We had not been in a city in a long time, and the bustle, lights, and crowded curbs felt exciting. The city is amazing...huge, and stretching with vibrant streets, markets, monuments, green spaces, outdoor entertainers, and elaborate architecture.
We got to our hostel, which was dramatically different than the hostels throughout Patagonia (which was fitting). The lights were low past the entry, the reception desk was hard to decipher as anything other than a bar in fact, and loud house music blarred from nearby speakers. We loved it.
After getting our room and deciding that we had to head off to the Jewish neighborhood to check out the scene and enjoy a little Kosher parilla (meat restaurant...oh, the vegetarianism is really out the window now), we hurried to get back to the street. Upon exit, we bumped into a random guy standing in our way on the stairwell. He was stationary, and staring at us.
Marci Soifer! He said, matter-of-factly. My heart sunk a little. I had no idea who this was. Was he another volunteer from my program who I did not remember? Did he cruise on another Galapagos boat that I had spent time with? Was he from the seder in Bariloche? Who was this guy?
I told him that felt horrible about it, but really had no idea who he was. And, trying to push out an uncomfortably awkward laugh, I requested a clue.
Assuring me that he looked different when we knew each other, as he was now with newly grown long hair and oodles of facial hair. Mollie put her hands up to his face, to cover the facial hair to jog my memory.
He told me that he used to work with me at a camp in upstate New York. Immediately, I knew this was Naji, an Israeli who had worked with me at Sprout Lake two years ago. We spoke for a little while, and it turns out that he is now spending time (months) living in the same hostel Buenos Aires and studying tango. Its a small world afterall.
Mollie and I left, and started our trail of gallavanting through the city, starting at the kosher parilla. We ate and ate (great food), went out, spent time in cafes, met up with friends and friends of friends, danced quite a bit, wandered through markets, sat on park lawns listening to music, and got to know the public transportation and street names. We visited the sites too...the Casa Rosada, the Obelisco, Recoleta Cementary, but we really focused ourselves in neighborhoods and the glimmers of Buenos Aires that we figured made it Buenos Aires. Except, we did not dance much tango, nor did we drink mate. Next time.
We even visited an enormously beautiful synagogue on Friday night, to get another taste of the city...the Jews here. It was fantastic, and nice to be in a synagogue again. It was grand, and decorated with stained glass and sweeping ceilings, over elaborate wooden pews. Thinking about the Jewish population of Buenos Aires or Argentina inevitably brings the Holocaust to my mind, as I know that so many of the survivors immigrated to Argentina post World War II. As I looked at the elderly couples aisles in front of and behind us, I wondered how many of them had escaped or been liberated.
And, for our final meal together...or, as we called it, the last supper, Mollie and I ate dinner tonight at the kosher parilla again (do not get too excited...chicken is still as far as I have gone back into the carnivorous world). We thought it was fitting, and were interested in coating our stomachs with some more of that goodness. After just discussing the post-Holocaust population, an elderly couple next to us broke out of their Spanish conversation to pass us en route to the exit. The man, in perfect English, asked us if we were from the United States. Smiling, Mollie said yes. He told us that he and his wife were from Hungary. Mollie and I eyed each other...they were surely Holocaust survivors. I wanted to talk to them, but that was it. They walked away.
So, now I am packing the possessions I have left (which is really a lot less than I came with), spending some last minute time with Mollie (sadly), and trying to find Naji to take a picture of the two of us to prove that we indeed rendevous-ed in Buenos Aires (this is for you, CYJ Sprout Lake head staff 2006). Other than that, I leave in a few hours for Lima. I will go back for a night, to say hello and to pick up some stuff I left there in storage. I am really looking forward to being in Peru again, even for a breif stay. And, I can hardly believe that this is almost it. It is almost time to reture my backpack.
Both the Calafate and Ushuaia airports are small, and reminiscent of the good ole Lansing airport...with four gates and everything. Landing in Ushuaia was unbelievable, with the multitude of mountains, snow, and sparkling bodies of water abounding. And, we even found the weather to be nice...and by nice, I mean, we were wrapped in everything we owned, but still thought that it was colder in Bariloche (our frame of cold referrence). We spent the night wandering through the small town, which is really more established than we expected. As the major port of Antarctic cruises, with a multitude of travelers passing through during the season (not when we were there), the main streets are long and lined with tons of shops and restuarants. Everything is labeled with the end of the world...the end of the world cafe, the end of the world ice cream store, the end of the world t-shirt store.
Mollie turned to me and said, I knew I would follow you to the end of the world. Sigh.
We ate in a restaurant on the water that had nothing to do with the end of the world, called Tante Ninas. We were sad to learn that the tante was not in fact a Jewish aunt with a Yiddish name, and the title came from German. But, we enjoyed a wonderful meal, followed by a stop at a random bar that was fashioned as a Che Guevara shrine (he was born in Rosario, Argentina in the north). We love Motorcycle Diaries (especially when we feel like we are living it constantly through Patagonia) and...communism.
We woke up the next morning, and realized that the cold of Ushuaia was not a joke. Alas, before our flight to Buenos Aires (yes...we only spent one day in Ushuaia), we hurried off to Tierra del Fuego. We heard of a few short hikes, and just wanted to get a taste of this world famous national park. A bus driver dropped us off in the park, showed us a mapped route that would be through part of the park, and let us go.
The terrain was similar to my first hike, the llama trek. It was a squishy, spongey green grass that formed into small mounds lined with llama dung. However, unlike the llama trek, this grass was congealed with dew that had frosted over night. Cold. The foliage was naturally ever present, and the snow capped mountains wowed us, as they had before. We liked the park, but moved quickly through in the interest of making our flight (which you can probably tell from my breezy description). Tierra del Fuego...beautiful, check.
Before we left the hostel in Ushuaia, I rearranged my pack. This was probably the 1000th time that I have needed to do this, and it usually results in my shedding some belongings throughout South America. In this instance, I got everything packed away, except my hiking boots. They are huge, and I always struggle to get them, which tends to mean that I have to wear them. However, this time, I did not want to. I have had them since I was 16 and traveled to Israel (replacing only the cushioning pad in the bottom), they smelled potently wretched after rediculous saturation post Inca trail, and the caked mud had discolored them so much that I actually could not remember what they originally looked like. I really was not planning on using my boots anymore; my hiking in South America was over (for this trip). In a brief pause, hanging over the zipper of my pack, I knew what I was going to do with my boots. I decided to leave my boots in Ushuaia, the end of the world. With that, I asked the hostel employee if she knew anyone who needed them, and she cheerfully said yes. With that, I handed them over.
The flight to Buenos Aires was long, and we were pleasantly surprised to be served a vegetarian lasagna by the Argentine airline, which is so uncharacteristic South American and made us really happy (and also ignore the strange Chinese missionary who sat next to Mollie and told us that we looked Israeli...whatever that means). When we got there, we stripped off our long sleeves, scarves, and hats, and revelled in the 75 degree breeze from the baggage claim doors. We took a city bus to the hostel, which gave us a nice panoramic taste of the city. We had not been in a city in a long time, and the bustle, lights, and crowded curbs felt exciting. The city is amazing...huge, and stretching with vibrant streets, markets, monuments, green spaces, outdoor entertainers, and elaborate architecture.
We got to our hostel, which was dramatically different than the hostels throughout Patagonia (which was fitting). The lights were low past the entry, the reception desk was hard to decipher as anything other than a bar in fact, and loud house music blarred from nearby speakers. We loved it.
After getting our room and deciding that we had to head off to the Jewish neighborhood to check out the scene and enjoy a little Kosher parilla (meat restaurant...oh, the vegetarianism is really out the window now), we hurried to get back to the street. Upon exit, we bumped into a random guy standing in our way on the stairwell. He was stationary, and staring at us.
Marci Soifer! He said, matter-of-factly. My heart sunk a little. I had no idea who this was. Was he another volunteer from my program who I did not remember? Did he cruise on another Galapagos boat that I had spent time with? Was he from the seder in Bariloche? Who was this guy?
I told him that felt horrible about it, but really had no idea who he was. And, trying to push out an uncomfortably awkward laugh, I requested a clue.
Assuring me that he looked different when we knew each other, as he was now with newly grown long hair and oodles of facial hair. Mollie put her hands up to his face, to cover the facial hair to jog my memory.
He told me that he used to work with me at a camp in upstate New York. Immediately, I knew this was Naji, an Israeli who had worked with me at Sprout Lake two years ago. We spoke for a little while, and it turns out that he is now spending time (months) living in the same hostel Buenos Aires and studying tango. Its a small world afterall.
Mollie and I left, and started our trail of gallavanting through the city, starting at the kosher parilla. We ate and ate (great food), went out, spent time in cafes, met up with friends and friends of friends, danced quite a bit, wandered through markets, sat on park lawns listening to music, and got to know the public transportation and street names. We visited the sites too...the Casa Rosada, the Obelisco, Recoleta Cementary, but we really focused ourselves in neighborhoods and the glimmers of Buenos Aires that we figured made it Buenos Aires. Except, we did not dance much tango, nor did we drink mate. Next time.
We even visited an enormously beautiful synagogue on Friday night, to get another taste of the city...the Jews here. It was fantastic, and nice to be in a synagogue again. It was grand, and decorated with stained glass and sweeping ceilings, over elaborate wooden pews. Thinking about the Jewish population of Buenos Aires or Argentina inevitably brings the Holocaust to my mind, as I know that so many of the survivors immigrated to Argentina post World War II. As I looked at the elderly couples aisles in front of and behind us, I wondered how many of them had escaped or been liberated.
And, for our final meal together...or, as we called it, the last supper, Mollie and I ate dinner tonight at the kosher parilla again (do not get too excited...chicken is still as far as I have gone back into the carnivorous world). We thought it was fitting, and were interested in coating our stomachs with some more of that goodness. After just discussing the post-Holocaust population, an elderly couple next to us broke out of their Spanish conversation to pass us en route to the exit. The man, in perfect English, asked us if we were from the United States. Smiling, Mollie said yes. He told us that he and his wife were from Hungary. Mollie and I eyed each other...they were surely Holocaust survivors. I wanted to talk to them, but that was it. They walked away.
So, now I am packing the possessions I have left (which is really a lot less than I came with), spending some last minute time with Mollie (sadly), and trying to find Naji to take a picture of the two of us to prove that we indeed rendevous-ed in Buenos Aires (this is for you, CYJ Sprout Lake head staff 2006). Other than that, I leave in a few hours for Lima. I will go back for a night, to say hello and to pick up some stuff I left there in storage. I am really looking forward to being in Peru again, even for a breif stay. And, I can hardly believe that this is almost it. It is almost time to reture my backpack.
