The Gringa Chronicles Part 2

Our plane was set to take off at ten am Saturday.  At seven pm on Friday I got the email that our flights were canceled due to weather in Newark, our connecting city.  After coming up with some pretty creative (if I do say so myself) obscenities with which to describe the city of Newark and its mother, the camel it rode in on and its fine inhabitants, I did what every well seasoned traveler loathes:  I called the airline.   

Nothing is more frustrating than calling an airline not long after a mass cancelation.  Hold times are simply ludicrous (I was on hold for an hour and a half, I wish I was exaggerating here), customer service reps are tired, fed up, bitchy and have English skills that can only be described as “sketchy”, and solutions to your problem are few, far between, unsatisfactory and typically expensive.  Luckily, I got through to a relatively helpful and empathetic Indian customer service rep that spoke and understood English fluently (I know he was Indian because he told me, don’t make me block you for posting accusatory comments).  However, options were at a minimum.  All flights on the East Coast were grounded, the rest were sold out.  Just when it looked like we were either going to A.) miss two whole days of our trip or B.) have to drive to effing Indianapolis to catch a flight to Arizona, to connect to Mexico, to have a layover in El Salvador, do a little dance, click our heels three times, spit, pray and pay off a local to catch a flight to Lima (I’m only slightly exaggerating), an idea hit me. 

It was like a ray of light, a message sent down from the gods of good travel, a vision from a mystic dream of a world where turbulence doesn’t exist, airline associates are pleasant and layovers are few (okay, now I’m exaggerating):  We’re within driving distance of Toronto! 

We caught the last two flights out of Toronto and away we went!  Thank the travel gods for the land of moose, crappy hockey and poutine!

We arrived in Lima late Monday night to find that my cell phone doesn’t work internationally.   Which would have only been a mild inconvenience except that when we arrived we saw no one we recognized and my Spanish was rusty…. A less than ideal situation to be in.  We searched the airport for my cousin or my sister, since we really didn’t know what anyone else we were meeting looked like (I’d never met my step mother at this point).  Latin American taxi drivers, who I am convinced have chips implanted in their brains so that they have access to radar that zeroes in on lost and confused gringos, swarmed the Rock Star and I almost immediately.  Since the Rock Star had never traveled before he was, adorably, attempting to be polite. 

“You’re going to have to learn to be an asshole here, just for sanity’s sake” I said to him, frowning.

“They’re just trying to make a living, I don’t want to be rude!”  How cute is that?

“Suit yourself, but you’ll see.”

Within ten minutes he had found the ability to be rude.  And all it took was the same taxi driver asking us if we wanted a taxi six times. 

Alas, I found my baby sister with my cousin standing right behind her!  We got to the car where I met my cousin’s husband (cousin in law?) and we ceremoniously cracked four beers and headed out, across the city of Lima to my cousin’s house.

Lima, Peru is an interesting city.  My personal theory is that all major cities look the same.  New York looks a lot like Miami (sans palm trees), which looks a lot like Tokyo (with only slightly more English), which looks a lot like Denver, which looks a lot like Rome (minus the ruins).  Lima didn’t necessarily change that theory.  Lima looks a lot like New York.  It is bustling, hot, dirty.  There are good areas, bad areas, street merchants, beggars and bars.  What really differentiates cities is their character and Lima definitely has character.

Contrary to popular opinion, Lima was not the capital of the ancient Inca Empire, that distinction goes to the city of Cusco (more on Cusco later).  After the Spanish took over Latin America in the sixteenth century Lima became the capital of the viceroyalty of Peru, which it has remained.  After the Conquistadors sucked every major resource out of the region, Peru took well deserved independence and Lima became the capital of the now sovereign nation and economic stagnation set in.  Throughout much of the early twentieth century the military sporadically took over the Peruvian government and instituted harsh policies and repression.  “Agrarian reforms” (read: land redistribution) undertaken by military dictator Juan Velasco Alvarado plummeted Peru into poverty and kept it on the brink of civil war.  Democracy returned in the 1980s and by the mid 1990s an economic boom had begun (this is a ridiculously synopsized version of Peruvian history, for a more detailed version READ A FUCKING BOOK).  Lima is now home to one of the hemispheres most burgeoning economies and one of the largest urban populations in the Americas. 

All of this history is visible in Lima.  There are still economic slums.  There is still a vibrant indigenous Andean culture and there are upscale restaurants and gated communities, of which we were guests.  The city is truly beautiful with palm trees, genuinely Latin American calles, phenomenal food and a local culture that allows gringos (assuming you don’t wear the word “tourist” on your metaphorical forehead) to blend into the background rather well.  But crime is still a thing, as in any major city, regardless of hemisphere. 

I have always maintained that in Latin America you need two things to obtain a taxi ride:  1.) about ten American dollars, converted to local currency and, 2.) no fear of death.  With this experience and the knowledge that the Rock Star has never ridden in a cab in Latin America under my belt, we (myself, my sister and the Rock Star), walked out of the gated community we stayed in and hailed a cab. 

I still have the Rock Star’s nail marks in my knee.  Driving in most of Latin America is driving through the creative use of horns and apparently this was a bit of culture shock for the Rock Star.  His face was actually green when we arrived at our destination: Inka Market. 

Inka Market is pretty much a market like one finds in most Latin American cities:  walking only, cheap souvenirs, some mid-range souvenirs, and lots of haggling.  Haggling is an interesting thing for gringas traveling abroad.   Imagine walking into WalMart for to buy a camera.  The price tag says $100.  You call the poor, probably high school aged, underpaid and overworked counter associate (assuming you can find him/her) over and proceed to offer to buy the camera for 30 bucks.  That’s pretty much haggling and it’s a ridiculously foreign idea for most of us (we would find out later that my cousin is the world’s greatest gringa haggler, but more on that later). 

After a couple hours walking around the market, working on our Spanish and changing over dollars to soles with a seriously sketchy guy sitting under a tree (hey, the shop keeper said he was legit), we hailed yet another cab and headed to my step mother’s house. 

My step mother was, unbeknownst to us, five minutes from calling the cops at this point.  Apparently, taxi kidnappings are still a well known problem in Peru and no one knew where we were, nor had any way to contact us.  Visions of the Shining Path guerillas and the horrible things they would do to three unassuming white Americans that don’t speak Spanish ran through her head and nearly ruined the day. 

But alas, with many apologies and big hugs I was finally face to face with my Dad’s final wife (he had had three, all told).  Shortly after a bouncing, energetic, ridiculously adorable six year old boy bounded up to me and wrapped his arms around my legs.  My brother.  The main reason for the trip.  The final piece in the international circle that is my family.  He spoke quickly and excitedly and gesticulated wildly .  

 All in perfect Spanish.   

This might be an issue.   

But it felt like home, and it felt like love, and I have rarely been so happy. 

Stay tuned for Part 3! 

The Gringa Chronicles (Part 1)

Buffalo in December is as close to living in the metaphoric frozen over hell as one gets.  It's cold. Not normal cold. Cold that makes snot freeze while still in one's nose.  Snow is beautiful unless you have responsibilities that require you to leave the house. The snow piles in a way that turns all residents of the Queen City into amateur archaeologists every morning as a requirement to drive to work, and when work is over it's dark. Because night time starts at 430 pm in the winter time in Buffalo. 

So under these circumstances the Rock Star and I decided a vacation was due, so off we went to The land of Incas, llamas and coca.  

This bears some explanation. The hell that is the Christmas season in Buffalo aside, I had ulterior motives for our vacation. My cousin and her family, my step mother and little brother are all in Peru. As the second Christmas without my dad was fast approaching it was time for me to go, I needed to be with my family, I needed to meet my brother. As the Rock Star and I were gone for a week this blog will be broken into multiple parts. This one will deal with the back story of how our Peru trip came to be. 

Rewind to April 2012.

Driving down a back dirt road on my way to Tennessee with the Rock Star for a quick vacation when my baby sister calls, obviously upset.  My knee jerk assumption is that she is experiencing some form of male douche baggery and needs some sisterly advice, or someone to confirm said douche baggery. 

Instead she informed me that my father's plane had gone down in the South Pacific and he was now missing.  

The earth stopped spinning. Life as I had known it had just ceased to exist. I lost my footing, metaphorically and actually, and the ability to catch my breath eluded me. 

The Rock Star jumped into action, got me back in the car, turned us around and drove directly to my sister's house 12 hours away where the story of what would become my father's death finally unfolded over days of talking to various government officials and existing, somehow simultaneously, in four different time zones. I'll related the abridged version here. 

My father was one of three pilots on a small island called Palau.  On April 1, 2012 he was effectively the only pilot on the island when the police decided they needed the services of a pilot to assist in a search for "clam poachers" (an assertion that the government clings to, but that my sister and I take issue with) who had given chase after being stopped off the coast.  The poachers gave chase to a larger vessel, they paused long enough to set the vessel on fire and then continued across the Pacific.  It was at this point that the police decided to enlist the services of my father, sending two police officers with him to attempt to determine where the poachers had fled to.  Dad searched the area for hours until his GPS malfunctioned. What happened next is undetermined.  Somehow my father lost his bearings and couldn't find the airport.  His last May Day call was that he was out of fuel, gliding and going to attempt a water landing.  

No one on board has been heard from since. 

No wreckage has been recovered. 

All three lost at sea, still, at the time of this writing.  

Willie Mays Towai, Palauan police officer left behind a mother, siblings and a little girl.  Earle Decherong, also a Palauan police officer, left behind a large, wonderful family including two little girls of his own.  And my father left us.  A large, extended family.  Friends around the globe. And three children: myself, at 27, my sister, at 22 and my baby brother at just 5 years old. 

A week later, after confirming for my mother that kidnappers in the South Pacific don't take the chubby white girls with bad attitudes (we're more trouble than we're worth), and convincing my friends that, yes, Palau exists and then, subsequently, pointing it out for them on a map (NY public schools need to work on their geography program), I left for Palau. 

I was there for a month, grieving, making friends, spending time with my sister- who stayed for six months, and absorbing an island culture of free roaming chickens, children, and alcohol. It was while on island my cousin, sister, step mother and I decided that this trip would happen now. I had never met my brother and Dad's kids needed to be together all in one place to complete our process of closure. 

In the days I spent in Palau I came to understand many things. Islanders don't put signs up to warn people that the road is washed out. Chickens are pets. Children bounce. Drunk driving laws are negotiable. Poisonous snake are attracted to white girls from Buffalo. My father was loved beyond compare. Family is important always, but it is essential in times of great loss and tragedy. 

A year and a half later the Rock Star and I drove across the border to board a plane in Canada that would take us first to Miami and then to Lima, Peru so that I could meet my brother and spend time with my cousin, her kids and husband and my step mother. 

Stay tuned for part 2! 

Irrational Laughter

Have you ever been so fed up with life you devolve into irrational laughter?   According to the Rock Star this is called “a nervous breakdown”.  In my family we call it “Tuesday”.  Whatever.  The straw that apparently broke my nervous breakdown’s back was triggered by my dog Facebook stalking someone I don’t know by wedging herself in between myself and my laptop and then trying to itch her back on my keyboard.  Which leads me to believe that the “Canine College” she attended as a puppy was less than aptly named.  At any rate, I haven’t blogged in a bit so perhaps some background is due here. 

Flashback one month.   Late October 2013. 

I set my purse down on the kitchen table and sigh.  Heavily.  The Rock Star, somewhat needlessly asks, slowly, “how was your day, honey?”

Another heavy sigh as I throw my hands in the air.  “The nurses at the hospital flea dipped Cheryl today.  Take that information however you want.”  Cue whiskey. 

About a month ago Cheryl (name has been changed to compromise with my mother) had a stroke and she was taken in by a simply amazing family member of mine.  As we went to feed her cat we discovered that Cheryl has a hoarding problem.  Not like, she collects weird stuff, or she’s a little messy, or “maybe you don’t need all 38 of those cans of tuna anymore”, more like “holy sweet Jesus what the hell did we miss and why isn’t this on that show?!”  Those closest to her, myself included are confused, horrified and heartbroken.  We wonder if we should have seen this, could have helped, or triggered this in anyway.  I wonder if this is genetic, if I should feel shame, if I should write and publish this blog at all. 

As entertaining as A&E may think this problem is, and as much as I myself have laughed at it in the past, when you’re staring down a heap of 35 year old utility bills stacked to the ceiling, it’s not funny anymore.  It’s sad.  It makes you wonder how lonely someone has to be to seek emotional fulfillment in trash.  And so the cleaning commences.  The Rock Star and I spent a long afternoon sifting through refuse to salvage what was left that was valuable as Cheryl recovers in a physical rehabilitation facility for stroke victims as her needs outgrew the capacity of the person she was staying with. 

But life continues, the hoarding disorder of a loved one aside.  Part of that life is work, the second prong of my misshapen fork (spork?) of stress induced irrational laughter.  My job has a tendency to be stressful, I like my job, I like what I do and the freedom with which I’m allowed to do it.  It’s a good job.  But it can be stressful. 

Part of (okay most of) this stress is the demanding nature of the person I work for.  Not demanding in a bad way, just demanding in a “get all of this done and then do some more because everything is priority number one and I yell when it’s not done” sort of way.  I typically know that I’m doing things right when he takes up smoking.  Again.  I know I’m really doing things right when he fires me.  Again.  I don’t much dig authority and he loves being authoritative.  He is large and intimidating and I find that adorable and apparently that’s offensive.  I have a natural desire to point out stupidity and apparently that is offensive as well.  Also offensive is answering questions with the response “as soon as I find my cape”, “about an hour after hell freezes over” and “aren’t you being missed in a bowel of hell somewhere?”  On a related note, referring to your boss as “Adolph the Heating Guy” will get you pulled into a closed door meeting you do not want to be in. Who knew?

Combine this natural head butting with work entering a phase Boss Man refers to as “busy season” and I refer to as “pure unadulterated hell” and what you get is obscenity echoing through the cubicles at work and uncomfortable meetings with those considered “upper management”.  You haven’t lived until you’ve had to awkwardly explain why you were justified in telling your boss to go fuck himself in front the lady selling the company insurance (who, by the way, looked terrified yet amused). 

What complicates all of this work stress is the fact that, vacant bowels of hell and not completely exaggerated Nazi comparisons aside, I like my boss.  He’s a good guy, he’s funny and I hate to admit how much his horribly off key renditions of terrible Christmas songs boost morale.  Fighting daily on a professional level with someone you genuinely like on a personal level is a drag.  It impairs my ability to make adorably snarky comments and not binge drink when I get home. 

I can only spend so many hours weighing the pros and cons of becoming A.) a stripper B.) a pirate or C.) a drug dealer so many times before here I am irrationally laughing at my dog crawling on my laptop.  But, alas, there is a light at the end of my crowded, hoarded, time constrained, work stressed tunnel: I’m going on vacation!  Yes, indeed, I will be in South America in just a few short days and I and the Rock Star cannot be more excited.  I’m going to meet my brother, the youngest of my dad’s children, who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting in person.  For the first time all of my dad’s children will be in the same room along with my cousin and her family.  Time to cheer up, sober up and start packing!  Stay tuned for updates and pictures!

How I Learned To Quit Fearing THE Number....

So, I tried really hard to keep my blog apolitical.  I mean, I tried REALLY hard.  And for those that know me well, holding out for three whole blog posts is celebratory and shows personal growth. 

At any rate, I found myself, this week, at one of the rare junctures where what I’m reading pertains directly to what is happening in my life.  It’s an odd feeling, what I’m sure people that attend church or subscribe to some form of organized religion consider an “experience”.  I just kind of figure that my life tends to revolve around sex a lot so having a discussion about sex while reading a book about sex is not really a stretch of the imagination.

  

Regardless, the discussion was one of numbers.  Specifically, THE numbers, as in THE number of people one has had sex with.  To get it out of the way now, no, I’m not revealing my THE number here.  Not because I’m ashamed of it—I want that made clear—but because the Rock Star and I have an unspoken rule that we don’t care and don’t want to know this about each other.  It is out of respect for him that I won’t publish it publically in a blog.  And for my mother who is not only very supportive of my blog writing, but also very enlightened, but still doesn’t want to know how many boys her little girl has diddled.  So back to the discussion, a coworker of mine was discussing his sex life and threw a number at me.  A number that made me giggle.  Just a little! And not in a mean way, more in an “aw that’s sorta cute” way.  He then proceeded to ask my number, and for a brief moment I hesitated, and for the first time in a long time, I considered lying.  I got over it and said the honest truth and was pleasantly surprised when the coworker didn’t ridicule me or give me THAT look.  THAT look, the one that every girl that hasn’t guarded her vagina like its Fort fucking Knox has gotten at least one point in life or another.  You know THAT look, the one of judgment and disgust and curiosity all rolled up with a healthy dose of “maybe she’d do me too”.  But I didn’t get THAT look and our friendship, as far as I can tell, proceeds today as it did the day before. 

Regardless of my coworker’s kick assery, I was stunned by the slight hesitation.  Me?  The unabashed, unashamed feminazi herself tripped up by a question about sex?  Why would I feel shame?  I’m not, under any circumstances, virginal (stop laughing, Dean!).  Nor do I equate sex with love.  But I’ve never been ashamed of that.  And I’ve never given two shits what anyone has ever really thought of that mind set (my mother excluded, hi mom!  And sorry!).   The reason I never really felt shame about the sex itself is that I never really equated sex with my self worth, either.  I’ve heard the whiny “don’t you respect yourself?!” BS more times than I care to count.  And the answer is yes, absolutely, I respect myself over anyone else I know, probably undeservedly sometimes, and often to a fault.  Whether or not I had sex with someone has never really affected that because I didn’t equate wanting to get laid with who I am as a person.  Nor did I consider my vagina a commodity that I had to barter for financial support, or love, or stability.  I don’t need to be a virgin to attract a stable mate—I’ll do that with my brains, sense of humor and qualities beyond what I have between my legs and how many or how few people have seen it up close.  It hit me, finally, that I wasn’t ashamed as much as I was worried about revealing THE number to a coworker that I like and respect.  I was worried about getting THAT look from a friend that I deeply care about. My issue wasn’t about me or my past-- it was about the perception of that past by others.  It wasn’t shame I was feeling, it was fear.  

A couple days before this illuminating and slightly depressing conversation I began reading a great book, (“Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape”), essentially, a collection of essays about rape culture and how we, as women, go about changing it.  And this is the juncture where my reading and my reality collided—the issue of slut shaming.  I realized in a big way through my coworker’s unanticipated confession and my reaction to my own that slut shaming is more pervasive than I thought, and through my reading I realized that it fits in to a broader context of rape culture and culturally ordained misogyny.  

My fear at the question of THE number wasn’t rooted in rational thought, rather, it was rooted in a mind-set defined by a culture that tells myself and all women that our sexuality is something to be locked away, saved, hidden until it can be bartered for something of value.  Something such as financial stability, a good husband or even professional success; this culturally ordained mind-set thus simultaneously raises the vagina to something both of unstatable (yes, I’m aware that’s not a word) value and yet only valuable when given fresh and new, and, thus, capable of depreciating with use.  This is the same manner of thinking that warns against a male penis so supremely powerful that it can alter a woman’s physiology (hence the term “loose”, and it can’t, by the way, sorry boys); but it also does something more detrimental—it turns sex into something other than a pleasurable act between consenting adults, it makes it into a commodity, where one person (the female) loses value and another person (the male) gains value.  Every time one of us feels shame or fear when we admit that we haven’t locked our nether regions down like JFK after a brown person utters the word “bomb” we become victimized by our own culture.  

And this, my dear and wonderful readers, is bullshit.  Total, undeniable, irrevocable bullshit, and patriarchal bullshit at that.  And I’m not trying to come off as some man hating, arm pit hair growing (though it is, in the defense of arm pit hair, winter) women above men advocate here—consider the reverse of this patriarchal thinking:  if women’s sexuality is highly valuable and depreciates with use, then male sexuality is, by this line of thought, inherently not valuable and even capable of inflicting damage.  Male sexuality is something that is used and given in pursuit of acquiring this highly valuable experience of sex with a female.  I won’t even go into where this relegates gay men and women.  

Regardless of how many people have experienced it, my sexuality is fucking valuable.  Highly fucking valuable and those that have been lucky enough to be in close proximity of it should feel special and happy that they have been able to experience something so undeniably awesome.  I’m not damaged because I’ve had more than a sexual partner and a half and I shouldn’t feel fear because someone may perceive me that way because that perception shouldn’t be there in the first place.  My choices were made for a myriad of reasons, some good, others not so much, but that still doesn’t equate to damage.  And the perception of women that have sex at their own leisure as damaged goods is detrimental to both men and women and serves to hold us back from true growth and progress.  I’m proud of my coworker for brushing off THE number as something that is just a fact of my existence and I’m hoping that this becomes more commonplace than getting THAT look. 

 It’s beneficial to both sexes for sex to be seen as a great experience where no one necessarily gains (nor loses) anything—think of the implications of this: a world where people don’t seek to hurt others through sexually based violence, and where men and women don’t see sex (or a lack there of) as a way of increasing personal value or virtue.  It’s a powerful thought, and towards this goal I hope that more women (and men!) will kick their fears about revealing THE number because only our own acceptance and unflintching honesty can create this vision.   

But I’m still not telling my mom.  Some things are sacred.