The Inspriational Qualities of the Snopocalypse

The city of Buffalo and Mother Nature have an odd relationship.  It is abusive and competitive.  Mother Nature is the natural enemy of Buffalo and its fair residents; she thinks she is better and stronger and tougher than us and we maintain that she is wrong.  Being the type of people we are we respond with middle fingers, expletives and flat refusals to be afraid of something as silly and trifling as the forces of the very planet we depend on for survival.  We’re a tough people, we scoff at… Well… Pretty much everything.  Due to this constant fight against the bitch that Mother Nature tends to be we tend to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to warnings that others would consider “dire” or “important” or “urgent” when it comes to weather.  Thus, very rarely are there driving conditions so horrific that Western New Yorkers will stay home rather than risk driving.  After all, you have to drive to get to work, or, more importantly, the bar.  Typically, Western New York drivers will drive in any and all conditions—snow, rain, sun, drunk, sober, tired, awake and any combination of those….  But what hell was visited today on the Western New York region was beyond what most of us expected.  

Snow is far from unusual in this area in fact, the absence of snow actually worries us more than the presence of snow at any given time.  It is seriously more “normal” to all of us to see a slight frost in August than it is to see green grass in December.  So when the National Weather Service informed the area that we were about to experience what is called a “polar vortex” most of us shrugged it off… In the interest of honesty, most of us didn’t know what a polar vortex (after a highly unscientific poll the polar vortex has now been named the Snopocalypse) was, nor did we care.  The blizzard warnings were also shrugged off, after all, they were probably all coming from meteorologists in San Francisco or somewhere who believed a few inches equaled a blizzard.  We got this.  Sit down.  

After the second time I went in a ditch on my way home from work yesterday I began to think that perhaps I should have listened to the meteorologists in San Francisco.  Driving during a polar vortex (most of us still don’t know what the hell that is) is pure, unadulterated hell that only a place like Buffalo can visit upon a population.  The snow blows across the road in 45 mph wind gusts and visibility ends at your hood ornament.  The slowest head on collisions in history tend to occur at this time as visibility also ends at the lines on the roads so “lanes” become a mere suggestion at best and an intangible dream at worst.  I know this because I was involved in one of the slowest head on collisions ever today.  Myself and another car hit, head on, at 10 mph.  10.  We stopped briefly, swerved, shrugged to each other and kept driving to escape the frozen hell that Snopocalypse has conjured.  

Naturally, as I was driving 7.5 mph and realizing exactly how creepy it is to see headlights emerge out of white nothingness or, worse, watch the snow blow in and the tail lights in front of you disappear, while I was squinting to see the nearest telephone pole ten feet away to determine if I was, in fact, on a paved road, I began to think of this blog and the final parts of the Gringa Chronicles (which I’m well aware need to get finished sooner rather than later).  So to warm myself up, here’s more Gringa Chronicles. 

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After the ill fated market trip, lunch with my step mother and baby brother, and some dire warnings about soliciting cab rides in Peru, the Rock Star, Little Sister and I departed (in a hired cab from an actual company) to the mall in Lima to make dinner reservations and take in some scenery at the nearby parks.   
We watched the ocean for awhile and marveled at the intricate positioning and imagination that can only be described as "dexterous" of the very well endowed Statues in El Parque Del Amor ("Love Park" for those that don't speak Spanish. Google it.  Seriously.).  As we made our way up the stairs (because everything in this country is somehow up a flight of freaking stairs) to a balcony overlook I noticed a small book wedged between a garbage can and the wall. As I am the curious but lazy type I had my sister pick it up.

I realized I may have handled this situation wrong when the Rock Star’s face turned red, his eyes got wide and in a low-key yet somehow still simultaneously terrified and angry voice he whisper-yelled “Put it down!  Put it down now!  Now!”  He sounded like something out of a badly made horror film. 

Little Sister and I stared at him blankly.  We looked at each other.  And then continued staring.  The Rock Star opened the book and pointed to page upon page of what looked like financial transactions.  It dawned on us both, simultaneously, that we were currently standing in a mall in the largest cocaine producing region on earth holding a hidden book full of financial spreadsheets.  

We promptly put the book down.  And then we giggled.  The Rock Star’s face got redder.  And then we noticed the heavily armed security guard also picking up the book and looking, suspiciously , in our general direction.  Ever creative, I began describing what I imagined a Latin American women’s prison looked like.  Lots of green paint for some reason (not sure why), no indoor plumbing and angry Hispanic women with lots of scars filled my head.  As my sister and I discussed the probability of my vision being the Rock Star again turned red and started gesticulating and horror movie voicing wildly.  He pointed out that the well armed, suspicious security guard probably speaks English because he was still staring and didn’t find my imagined description of Latin American prison funny at all.   

Moral:  Latin American security guards have no measurable sense of humor. 

Tour of a Latin American prison successfully averted, we set off the next day for Cusco. 

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Cusco, Peru is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world, it is the former capital of the Inca Empire and it sits at an elevation of around 11,000 feet.  To put that in perspective, Buffalo, NY sits at an elevation of 600 feet.  Cusco is simply beautiful, and for a history nerd like myself it is nothing if not the perfect place.  Altitude sickness hit us almost instantly, which meant migraines, nose bleeds and light headedness and it was quickly determined that taking us from 600 feet to 11,000 feet nearly instantly wasn’t going to work out well so we set off the next morning for Machu Picchu to see the ruins and work our way back up.  

After a long and scenic drive through the sacred valley we jumped on a train.  After the train we climbed some stairs (seriously) to the heart of the city of Machu Picchu (not to be confused with the ruins).  The city sits on the banks of the Urubamba River which was a major lifeline of the Inca emperor, used for everything from cleaning and drinking to transportation.  The city does not allow for actually traffic besides trains and foot traffic.  Everything is brought in by train to the city and then transported throughout the city by hand.  Even, as my cousin’s husband related to us, building materials when new buildings are constructed, as he found out when his hotel was remodeled.  To his credit, the remodeling, hand carried materials included, was a success and the hotel was beautiful-- a large dining room and sitting area on the main floor, beautiful rooms upstairs and a gorgeous hot tub downstairs.  We spent the first night having a wonderful dinner, catching up and relaxing before heading off to the ruins the next morning.

 

The ruins at Machu Picchu are awe inspiring.  The city unfolds between two mountains, Machu Picchu (hence the name) and Huayna Picchu, I refer to it as a city because that is the most typical explanation for exactly what Machu Picchu was—a city like estate for the emperor Pachacuti, arguably the most influential and certainly the most famous of the Inca emperors.  Other theories include a late capital after the Spanish “discovered” Cusco and its thousands of inhabitants, or possibly a site of worship.  

The Spanish never came to Machu Picchu during colonization and the city was abandoned in the late 16^th century only to be “discovered” again in 1911 by Hiram Bingham, an American explorer and history nerd extraordinaire.  Since the Spanish weren’t around to destroy the city and rebuild it to their liking, Mr Bingham found the city comparatively well preserved.  Locals were growing corn there but, for the most part, weren’t really disturbing much.  Least of which the unreasonable amount of stairs. 

I’ve never met an ancient Incan, but I can surmise from seeing their cities that they had calves that could be used to crack a walnut if walnuts grew in Peru (which they might).  Anyway, the city includes multiple temples, an urban sector, an agrarian sector, sacred rocks (yes, plural) and a sacred sun dial.  The views from the mountain are breathtaking and no city on earth has as much cardio seamlessly worked into its civil engineering.  

My brother gave everyone in the group mild coronary events through his running off.  Nothing on earth moves as quickly as the excited six year old offspring of a man that was adventurous enough to have passed away chasing possible drug runners through the South Pacific.  Nothing.  My brother talked miles per minute to our guide, ran and jumped and played and climbed.  And sometimes he did these things on the side of a cliff.  Latin Americans have little use for silly things like guard rails as they obstruct the view.  This sounds like a trivial concern to those that haven’t climbed forty eight flights of stone stairs to see said view. But in between huffing and puffing my jiggly butt up ancient stairways, nearly vomiting blood every time I could find my brother and touching the sacred rock you aren’t supposed to touch I was able to spend so truly awesome quality time with my family in a simply magnificent place.  

As the bus wound back down the mountain to the city (Rule #1 of travel in mountainous Latin American nations is do not, under any circumstances, look downward out the window of the bus.  Ever) I was able to reflect on the trip.  We had only been in the country for a couple of days and had already taken in so much.   

But, more importantly, we felt like a family.       

The trip ends in the next Chronicle (promise!).  Stay tuned!