In the End...An Epilogue

Tulum, Quintana Roo, Mexico
22 de Noviembre de 2009

In the end I spent about 25 full, wonderful, very satisfying days in Mexico. Almost all of them were spent on the altiplano. I´d always wanted to live in Mexico City and this was the year I did it. It just confirmed what I´ve felt for some time. As much as I love the beach, life in those towns is downright boring. That is not the case in Mexico City. Somewhere in that giant monster of a city, or its environs, is where I´d like to be.

Through a few connections that I made on my last visit to the city (May 2008), I had ¨friends¨ to do things with. And with those friends I made more. In the end I was invited to two dinner parties, two house parties and from one of those house parties an invitation to go out on the town. It´s the first time in years I´ve rolled home at 3:30 am. I even got an invitation to Huatulco, on the Pacific, for sometime next spring. Twist my arm!

In the end I spent two weeks off the altiplano: a week traveling from DF to Cuernavaca, Tasco and Acapulco, and another week on the Caribbean coast visiting one of my teachers from my days living in Playa del Carmen.

In the end I wrapped up my stay with a long weekend on the beach in Tulum, two hours south of Cancun!

In the end I met loads of Mexicans, but very few non-nationals. Until I got to the Cancun corridor, there really weren´t many. All of which was fine by me because it forced me to rely on my Spanish. Indeed, days would go by without English. This does not by any means indicate 
I´ve become fluent. Hardly. It´s just that I am more comfortable in the language and can navigate my way around language potholes.

In the end I can say that November is an astounding time to visit Mexico. There are few tourists, the weather is great and it´s sunny all the time.

In the end I averaged $18,.13 per night for hotel rentals. And I didn´t slum it. Four nights were at a beach hotel in Acapulco and in Tulum I had a cabin right on the Caribbean for three nights.

In the end, as is always the case with Mexico, I´m already planning my next get away. Huatulco in the spring and Mexcio City, again, for its Bicentennial in September 2010.

In the end I can say more and more that Mexico, of all the places I´ve been in the world, is more and more my adopted country and where I want to live out the rest of my days.

In the end, it was great!!!!!!!!

Mexico: an Evaluation

Tulum, Quintanta Roo, Mexico
22 de Novmimbre de 2009

The week that I left home for Mexico there was an article in the local newspaper with this headline: 14 BEHEADED BODIES FOUND IN ACAPULCO.

I want to use the word Sensational to describe this, but even that word is insuffiencent. What a gross injustice it does to Mexico and to Mexicans.

The thrust of the article was that 14 bodies had been found, all beheaded, but a close reading would tell you that it didn´t actually happen IN Acapulco, but nearby, in a much smaller community. Yes, there were beheadings, but this was yet another in a LONG list of horrors that have befallen people who get involved in the drug cartels. These beheadings, these nasty, nasty drug deals, not only horrify Americans, but Mexicans as well. BUT THEY DO NOT HAPPEN TO TOURISTS.

As a result of this type of yellow journalism plastered all over foreign newspapers is that the average joe tourist in Iowa is just plain staying away. Yes, it IS true that Guererro, the state in which you´ll find Acapulco, is one of the most dangterous in the country, but THE TOURIST IS NOT THE TARGET, nor is the average Mexican.

Last spring, when the Swine Flu first emerged, it was Mexico that all eyes were on. There were cases in the USA and in the rest of the world, but it was Mexico that bore the brunt of the damage. Mexico was at center stage. And it wasn´t only the American press that presented a grim pictuer. I was in Peru at the time and Peruvian headlines were in a panic. All flights were cancelled to and from the country. Each day a new report would tell of another infected person who´d just come from Mexico.

Mexican health occicials did what they thought best at the time. The country virtually shut down for two weeks. Almost all restaurants closed. People were laid off. A local friend lost his business as a result of this. He was never able to financially recover from the shut down.

And tourists stayed away by the hundreds of thousands. Spring into summer, and then autumn. Tourism was at an all time low. By summer whole resorts had shut down. People were laid off and many have note been able to get rehired.

2009 was not kind to Mexico.

Savvy travlers, of course, knew otherwise. What did a drug cartel have to do with the average tourist? Nothing! Did tourists get H1N1 by visiting Mexico? Yes, but probably more likey now, now that we know about transmission. so tourists did come and are returning., but probaly not in the numbers to totally rebuild the Mexican tourist infrastructure. That will take time.

And why? Because world press had nothing better to write about than sensationalized stories that do little more than scare people away.

I´ve been a long time visitor to Mexico. Not once have I had a problem. Not once have I been physically assaulted, robbed, shot at or caught in a crossfire of rival gangs. I take the usual precautions, ask a lot of questions, and watch my back.

One thing I won´t do is give in to fears. I love Mexico and have always made it my mission to to inform others of its safety. And I´ll make it my mission to return again, and again, and again....

It is, after all, my adopted home.

Acapulco--A Day on the Beach

14 de Noviembre de 2009
Acapulco, Mexico

Tuesday. November 10th. In another life I´d be working on this date. In ths new life, though, I´m sitting on the beach in Acapulco, facing La Bahia, Acapulco´s gorgeous, wide bay. There´s not a cloud in sight, a light breeze keeps everything in balance. The thermometer on my day pack reads 100 in the sun, 85 in the shade. It´s my second day here and already my skin has begun to turn brown. This is not hard to take.

I came early to the beach, rented a lounge chair, reacquainted myself with esential beach personnel--Casi who fields me Diet Cokes for twice the going rate. Jose, who sold me a tour the day before, and who watches my stuff when I´m away from it. For three hours I´ve been in an idyll of indolence--dosing, reading, listening to the surf--¨the pulse of the earth,¨ Steve says, then cooling off in the sea.¨ By noon I need to do some cerebral jumping jacks.¨By noon there´s a good deal of beach traffic. Beach vendors hawk everything. Indeed, you never have to leave the beach. For the most part it´s easy to ignore them if no eye contact is establised, which is what I´ve done all morning. Now, though, I decide to take a closer look.

It´s lunchtime, but there´s no way on God´s good earth that I´d eat anything being sold from the vendors. One man offers me a plate of fresh oysters, Several others are selling quesadillas stuffed with cheese and chicken served with a green salsa. A woman has a pail of shrimp.

These guys have been walking up and down the beach for who knows how long, under a hot, hot sun, carrying their food in baskets balanced on their heads. Yeah! Right! I´m almost going to eat an animal product served under these conditions. I´m already on an antibiotic from something I ate a few days earlier. I´ll stick to water and Casi´s Diet Cokes and the fruit that I brought with me.

There is food that I do consider, though. Fresh watermelon, mango, pineapple, attractively sliced, and served on a skewer--almost like a giant fresh fruit popsicle.

¨Helados. Muy ricos.¨ Yes, I could go for an ice cream. They guy who´s been carrying his homemade creation in a copper container tells me he has lemon, coconut and pumpkin. This isn´t really ice cream but, rather, gelato--a type of Italian ice cream made from water. It´s worth the risk. He steers me towards the pumpkin--calabaza--which is a generic term for all mmbers of the squash family. He offers me a spoonful. I stop. ¨Yum,¨ I tell him. ¨Yum¨ doesn´t exactly transate well into Spanish. There´s delicioso or saboroso, but YUM conveys so much more. I take his biggest offering and savor every bite. I rub my stomach and tell him it´s delicioso. He seems quite pleased. I´ll buy from this guy again!

I´m hardly stressed, but if I were there is plenty of beach massage available. My expereriences have lead me to be a bit wary of massages. Sometimes, but not often, massage = sex. My friend Glenda can attest to that.

We were in Indonesia, summer, in the 90´s. We´d hired a car and driver for the day and by the end of the day I wanted a massage. They´re always so cheap in the developing world.

¨Joe," I ask, ¨Where can I get a massage?¨

¨Oh, Mr. Daniel, I know a good place.¨

English isn´t his strong suit, but he gets by. I encircle my left pointer finger with my thumb then insert my right index finger into it. ¨No sex, Joe. No fucky.¨

He seems somewhat shocked. ¨No, Mr. Daniel. No fucky.¨

He brings me to the massage place. I should have known. I was far less savvy in those days. No one speaks English. A big hulk of a guy is at the front door. The woman behind the counter opens a book and shows me a collection of woman. I´m to choose one of them. Dah!

I pick one, she´s called for, I follow her. She starts to take of my clothes. Her clothes. I tell her I want a massage. Nothing more. I lay down. She massages my legs, then moves her hands way too far up. I push them down. I´m not relaxed. Five minutes into this I figure it out. I gather my clothes and leave the cubicle. I try to leave the facility but hulk gets in my way. I pay the equivalent of $10.00 and get out. I´m back at the hotel way too early. I tell Glenda the story.

The way I look at it I had two choices: turn this into drama or a $10.00 joke. I choose the latter and still have fun telling the story.

I fend off a lot of masajistas, all of whm want to show me how their fingers will feel on my shoulders. ¨No toca,¨ I tell them. ¨Don´t touch.¨¨

I say no to all massages!

Too many kids are selling things. Kids who should be in school. Ever the teacher! They hawk gum, key chains, hard candy. I feel badly for them. They´re poor and someone has sent them out to do this. From these kids I do buy a thing or two--all consumables. Who needs a key chain?

Another girl, too young, with her mother, is selling gaudily designed wind chimes of dolphins, bears and birds.

Dolphins, bears and birds? Who thought to put this combination together? Who buys this junk?

And jewelry. Did I mention jewelry? So much, almost all of it handmade, although the occasional vendor comes buy with a stash of nice Mexican silver. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings made from beads, seeds, shells. Nice stuff if this is what you´re looking for, which I´not. I still have a long necklace I bought from a very old, very poor woman in Paraguay.

Out in the bay fisherman are at work. A fast boat carries a tourist on a parchute. Light flickers on the surf--the top of each wave glitters with diamonds. A jet ski slices the bay. A few people walk the beach. A woman with a bikini she´s been poured into, breasts bursting the seams. A fat European in a Speedo three sizes too small.

But it´s a quiet day, really. Acapulco, mid-week in November is very much off season. What a great time to be here. Cool beans, I think. I´ll do this again.

More vendors with piles of beach supplies: sand tractors, pails and shovels, life jackets, water pistols, sun glasses, hammocks, sandles, bathing suits, beach blankets, straw hats and bags that do look good enough to buy. My neighbors on the beach, a young Mexican family, buy life jackets for the kids. The mother buys several straw bags. ¨One for the beach and one for home,¨she tells her husband. She bargains the guy down to 140 pesos each. A good deal.

On my other side all the females of another Mexican family are having their hair braided. Lucky vendor. She´ll take in a fair wage today

Lots of people are selling locally produced 0% UVA protection sun screen. Coconut oil, sold in three different hues--amber, light amber, dark amber--the way we buy maple syrup. Turtle cream and carrot oil, too. I buy a bottle of carrot oil for 40 pesos, down from 60, and still wonder why.

I have a book to read, and crosswords to do, which I do when I slip out of slumber. But if didn´t have something to read I could buy magazines and newspapers from several vendors. Not much in English, though.

I could do all my Christmas shopping is the span of two hours. Onyx dolphins. Wooden aligators. Painted sea shells. And those dolphin/bear/bird wind chimes. Everyone would want one of those. But I resist. It´s hard, but I resist.

Sadly, there are also the desafortunados who ply the beach. One man hobbles on the soft sand. He´s got one leg and it´s not easy navigating with a pair of crutches. Another man, young, shows me a note: ¨I can´t talk. Can you give me money?¨ He walks with a limp and is disabled in other ways. I pull out my change purse for both these men.

After a few hours I´ve had enough. This is getting old. I´ve established way too much eye contact and am being victimized in a way. I´m also tired of writing, not to mention I'm just plain hot. I put away my writing gear, swim a bit, rearrange my lounge chair and regroup for an afternoon of nothing. But I´m easily distracted. Overhead, a low flying airplace buzzes back and forth. It´s low enough to hear its loudspeaker:

¨Esta noche. Esta noche a Parque Papagayo. Un circo fantastico! Treinta pesos para adultos, Cinco pesitos para los niños.¨ Thirty pesos gets you into tonight´s circus at Papagayo Park.

I´m tempted. Not so much for the circus, but for Mexican carnival food. I love Mexican carnival food. Deep fried bananas served hot and oily with a generous dollop of sweetened condensed milk. Esquites. Corn off the cob served with mayonaise and salsa. All yum!

Ahead of me, a young family plays in the surf. This children all wear life vests. This is dangerous water--deep with a strong undertow. There was a photo of a bloated cadaver in this morning´s paper of a young man from Mexico City who'd been dragged out to sea on his 21st birthday. The children stay very close to their parents.
My mind wanders. They are young and old, these vendors. Unemployed. It´s tough work walking this beach all day under a fierce, hot sun. How many ¨no´s¨ do they get in a day before they make a sale? Where do they live and under what conditions? I´ve seen the slums of Acapulco. They´re not pretty. I wonder just what kind of life these people lead off the beach.

These are all honest trades. With the right amount of capital and the right kind of guidance, some of these folks could do quite well.

By 4:30 I´ve had enough sun. I´m dehydrated and sick to my stomach. I pack up and start my return to the hotel.

Still, even in my lethargic state, I keep scanning the beach, looking for the ice cream man. I would love one more, giant sized, pumpkin ice cream. But I guess that will have to wait for another day.

Day of the Dead--Mexico City, 2009--Photo Essay

Day of the Dead

Mexico City, Mexico

October 31--November 1, 2009

Candy Skeletons

Fun skeletons were everywhere.

El Pan de Muerto--Day of the Dead Bread

An Aztec Ceremony in the Alameda Park honoring their dead--October 31, 2009

antheon Dolores--The Main Cemetary

in Mexico City. Tombs were decorated with marigolds and thousands of people

were present.

Mariachi Bands played music for a price. It was a joyous occasion.

Ofrendas--altars honoring the dead--were in homes, hotels and even on the street.

The city was a beehive of activity in the days leading up to the Day of the Dead--November 1st. This was not a sad time, but a time to remember those who had died and to laugh at death--to tell death that there is life eternal on the other side.

The Best Seat in the House--A ride on the Metro of Mexico City

Mexico City, Mexico
30 de Octubre de 2009

¨Cinco pesos. Pagame cinco pesos.¨
¨Five pesos. Pay be five pesos.

The item for sale is a cheesy yellow and white plastic key chain cum flashlight/magnifying glass.

There are no takers.

A minute later: A blind man sings a capelllo:

¨La Zona Rosa en un lugar de dolor.¨ The Red Zone is a place of sorrow.¨

He wends his way through the dense crowd, white cane leading the way, a styrofoam cup begging for coins. People drop in a peso or two in.

It´s late morning, late October. I´m riding Mexico City´s impossibly efficient, enormously entertaining metro system from Revolucion, the stop near my hotel, to Tasqueña, south of town, a mere 20 minute ride, where I´ll connect to another train system to get me to my final destination, the Dolores Patiño Olmed Museum.

For me, riding this subway is one of the best shows in town. In twenty minutes it snakes its way below urban sprawl, cutting the city to pieces as it burrrows through the soft, loamy soup of bedrock that Mexico City was built on. It zigzags from one station to the next, crisscrossing the city; ocassionally it resurrects itself above ground. The city whizzes by.

The train is a sinuously long shopping mall. In all, I count 14 vendors in this 20 minute ride. Four are blind. They´re carrying specially designed day packs that carry a CD player. They´re hawking pirated CD´s for 10 pesos--less than a buck. I´ve bought before, but how can I pass up a collection of 50 jazz cuts?

¨Veinte ocho boleros. Diez pesos. Un regalo bueno.¨
¨Tweny eight boleros. Ten pesos. Makes a great gift.¨

I´m so tempted, but just how many of these CD´s do I buy? I´ve got scores of them back home.

Money´s tight in Mexico City and there´s no law prohibiting anyone from selling anything on the metro, street or anywhere.

Another man is selling kleenex, another a credt card wallet. Bags of candy. Tic Tacs. Gum. All 5 pesos. I buy a box of Tic Tacs and two books of Day of the Dead poetry.

I´m the only tourist on the train. There aren´t many of us. I´m loving the crunch of people, the controlled chaos. It´s not just the ¨metro as shopping mall¨ that excites me. Ocassionally the metro pulls up from underground and we speed past urban sprawl, past small city gardens. People live here. It´s home. Poinsietta trees are in bloom. It´s the right time of year. (The last time I saw these trees in bloom was six months ago, in Peru, in its antipodal autumn. Sometimes I get a little confused. OK. I´m in Mexico. I´m in the Northern Hemisphere. It´s late October.)

All around me locals seem impervious to the vendors. Few buy. It´s hard to make ends meet for almost all Mexicans these days. There´s not much extra money around for this sort of stuff. Tough times for the vendors.

I´m wholly alert, watching, listening, taking in everything, constantly jotting thing down in my writer´s notebook. A week from now I´ll be happy to leave it, but for now it´s fun.

It´s a great ride. Skinny Mexican boys are making out with their girlfriends. In a city of 25,000,000 privacy is where you find it. Groups of high school kids, dressed in their school uniforms, hop on and off, their animated laughter a nice contrast to the drab looks I see on too many faces. This ride could get tough day after day.

I´m buzzed. Twenty minutes for this kind of show hardly seems enough. I arrive at my destination, catch the Tren Ligero, my connector train, to my final destination where I´ll enjoy a quiet day at the museum; I´ll repeat this trip later in the afternoon at rush hour. It just won´t be the same. The best spectacle is at off-peak hours.

And for all this? How much did I pay for all this?
Two pesos. 15 cents.
Fifteen cents for the best seat in town!
Performance art at bargain prices!

Mexico: Fall 2009

Mexico City, Mexico
30 de Octubre, de 2009

Sometimes, the hardest part of a vacation is just getting out of town. I did, I´m glad, but it wasn´t easy. After a very tenuous start, I dropped down into Mexico City two nights ago--the 28th of October. I was exhausted, feeling more like a zombie than a human being. Three hours sleep the night before was not a good way to start this trip.

Still, when I got to my hotel the urge to get out onto the streets was too much. So, in search of a caffeine free Diet Coke, I set out. It was still early. The street stalls were still active. All my favorites: tropical fruit fresh from the lowlands; ice cream shops selling paletas de coco--coconut popsicles; the smells of Mexican fast food: empanadas, tacos, enchiladas. In five minutes I was in a sensual, urban overload. It was great to be back.

Then! Could it be? Could it be that the Universe conspired to put me in the same exact spot as a parade working its way down the steet! It had. I heard the music first--a wild frenzy of Aztec rhythms. A contingent of indigenous, dressed in full Aztez clothing, were dancing in unison, playing their drums, chanting something I couldn´t understand. And then, behind them...a larger group of people, most carrying statues of a saint. Kids dressed in robes that matched the honored saint. I´d arrived for the monthly Saint Jude Thaddeus feast day. What a way to start the real stay in Mexico.

I´d planned this trip to Mexico over a year ago. I wanted it to coincide with the 
country´s celebration of the the Day of the Dead--el dia de los muertos--which is traditionally observed on November 1st and 2nd. A year ago, however, I had the good fortune to be teaching Spanish at Plattsburgh High School, so this trip got postponed until now.

This posting is not about my observations of the celebration. That will come later. This is but a prelude to let you know that I´ll be in Mexico for 27 days, with the first week in a city I have a great passion for--its capital, Mexico City. From here, I´ll had down to the coast, spend a few days in Acapulco, then head north to Ixtapa and back to Mexico City in mid November. On the 16th I fly to Cancun where I´ll reunite with local friends in Playa del Carmen and wrap up the trip with a long weeked on the beach in Tulum. I´ll return home just in time for Thanksgiving.

Life is good!

This has not been a good year for Mexico or its people. The global international financial crisis hit this country particularly hard. Drug cartels have been in the international press for months. Then, in April, Swine Flu put Mexico in the world´s hot seat. No one was coming. People canceled vacations. The capital shut down for two weeks. People were laid off. Things have only begun to improve ever so slightly.

Summer, which is usually the rainy season, was dry with no rain. Mexico City´s reservoir is at 30% and there are signs all over the place that ask for conservation. Speculation is that the city may be out of water by February, 2010. Couple all that with an increase in taxes and you´ve got a populace on the edge.

So, it´s a toss up. I could easily have given in to all the fears I heard from people or take advantage of few tourists, lower prices and a cool beans festival. Of course I chose the later!

Viva Mexico!

In the End...an Epilogue

Montreal, PQ
August 4, 2009

In the end I arrived home on the morning of May 5th to warm reunions and loving arms. I was very glad to be home.

In the end I traveled for 110 days, through six countries. I'd spent in excess of 200 hours on board buses that brought me over the Andes from Chile to Argentina then back over the Andes from Uruguay to Paraguay, Bolivia and Peru.

In the end I chalked up countries #92, 93, 94, 95 and 96. And, yes, I do count.

In the end I spent $2,943.22 on accommodations for an average of $26.76 night, which included a five week stay in a fully furnished one bedroom apartment in an upscale neighborhood of Buenos Aires.

In the end I spent $2,406.58 on transportation for an average of $21.88 a day. This included the return flight from Montreal to South America, my flight to Easter Island, two internal flights and too-numerous-to-count buses, trains, taxis, metros and boats.

In the end I returned home with the equivalent of a month's salary in my checkbook, which just goes to show that travel doesn't have to cost and arm and a leg.

In the end I lost 15 pounds, all of which I've put back on.

In the end, despite the dire warnings of well-meaning people (OMG. You're going THERE? They kill you THERE. Be careful, Dan. I've read stories about THERE. It's very dangerous THERE.), I never had a single negative encounter. Oh, sure, there were a few jerks, but they're everywhere. When people try to remind me how dangerous it is to travel, I remind them that the only time I was ever robbed was in my own state, in my own country,and the only time I was ever physically accosted was in Canada.

In the end I did meet heaps of people, as I said I would at the opening of this blog. Our lives would intersect for a bus ride, a shared experience, a meal. People like Seth of Sacramento, a lawyer, who finally took his firm's offer of a six week sabbatical and who was spending two weeks in South America, two weeks in South Africa and two weeks in Israel. Or James and Jo and their two children who were spending the winter on Easter Island. Or, of Miki of Tokyo, who was in her 13th month traveling solo around the world at 20 and who spoke nothing but Japanese when she left home. Or Dan and Carla of North Carolina who, with their two children, sold everything, bought a boat, and were sailing, slowly, around the world. No sooner did we meet then we'd disperse, and in the end these people scattered to every continent on the globe

In the end I was exhausted and had reached that point in long trip where I just didn't care any more. I'd seen too much and was overstimulated. In the end it was time to go home.
In the end, no matter how far we travel, it is, cartographically, not much more than a sinuous scribble on a the map, a ribbon of road traveled. Despite what people say, it's not really a small world, especially when seen from the seat of a bus.

In the end, no matter how tired I was, I began plotting my next big get-away even before I'd gotten home. In the end, there are still four more countries to notch on the belt before I see #100. And I can tell you right now it won't be over at that point. I'm still just warming up.

In the end I was very glad to be home.

The Last Week: Arequipa and Colca Canyon

Plattsburgh, NY

July 26, 2009

By the end of April I was exhausted. After my phenomenal stay on Lake Titicaca, I sailed back to the Peruvian coastal city of Puno, caught a five hour bus to Arequipa and spent four wonderful, but tiring, days there, touring the city and surrounding countryside. But, I was overwhelmed and in visual and experiencial overload. I was surrounded by 20,000, snow-capped volcanoes, the weather were perfect: warm with a blistering, cloudless blue sky. The city center was an exceptional example of Colonial architecture (the Convent of Santa Catalina was one of the highlights of this very long trip. I spent two days in the Colca Canyon (one of the deepest in the world), with a great group of people, but I just didn't care anymore. (It was here, though, I had this photo snapped which one second prize in the Plattsburgh Press Republican's annual "Take the Press with you on Vacation" challenge. I really should hae one first prize!) It was time to call a halt to this trip.

So...instead of spending more time in the area and traveling on to Nazca to visit the geoglyphs there, I booked a flight to Lima where I would spend the last five days doing, essentially, as little as possible. This trip had come to an end and that was OK. I'd spent way too much time alone and I was tired of hotels and bad beds, so instead of booking myself into another hotel, I stayed my entire time in a hostel.

I'd forgotten how nice hostels can be. This one, located in the Miraflores area of Lima (an upscale neighborhood and very close to the ocean), was an old mansion that had been converted to hostel living. I was able to cook my own meals, talk to a wide variety of people, most of whom were just getting started on their journey, read and relax on the verandah. When I wanted to do something, which wasn't often, I'd explore the neighborhood, walk to the sea, or into the dirty city center. I'd seen Lima before and was satisfied with that visit. No need to see things twice.

I was quite happy to chill out. It was a long way from Buenos Aires to Lima, all done through an antipodal autumn, and I knew I'd return, so I didn't feel badly about this loss of interest.

On May 4th I spent a final day in the city, caught a taxi to the airport and boarded a late night Air Canada flight from Lima, in mid autumn, to Toronto and onwards to Montreal, touching down to early spring. All in an overnight

flight!

This trip was history!

Juana and the Contents of My Backpack--a Day on la Isla de Amantani, Peru

Arequipa, Peru
26 de abril de 2009

Her name is Juana. Maybe she 40. I don´t know; it´s hard to tell. She´s my "host mother" for the nights that I´m staying on Isla Amantani on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca. She leads me up and away from the port to her house, 200 meters above the lake. She shows me to my room which I have to duck to get into. It´s got two beds, a table with a candle on it and a chair. Before tourists came to Lake Titicaca this was probably a place to bed down animals. It´s just got that feel about. I´ve stayed in places like this before--on Greek islands a long time ago before tourism went amok. Indeed, right next to my room is the pen with the family´s eight sheep. I like the place immediately.

I settle in. She returns thirty minutes later with lunch--a bowl of quinoa soup loaded with potatoes and fresh vegetables grown on the island.

I am in her house. I am in Peru. I am on Lake Titicaca. The shoreline is 12,000 feet above sea level. The sky is a brilliant blue--the kind of blue that only comes at very high altitudes. I am very much in the present. Where I am and what I am doing is not lost on me. I have traveled a lot in my life and I have seen many places. Lake Titicaca is my idea of travel paradise.
It´s a simple meal, and because breakfast was out of memory, I eat it quickly, along with some crackers that I´ve brought to supplement what I know will be meager meals.

It´s mid day. The door is open to let in sunlight, but Juana knocks just the same. She´s here to pick up the plates.

"¿Hablas Español?" she says. "Si," I tell her. Not all tourists speak Spanish. She sits down on the bed with all my luggage. "Se murio mi esposo, hace seis meses.¨" My husband died six months ago. "Tengo cinco niños sin un padre.¨" I have five children without a father.

I´m a bit thrown off balance. This is one of the times I wish I didn´t speak Spanish, "Lo siento,¨" I say. I´m sorry. She asks for nothing. I think she just needs to tell the story one more time to another person. It´s OK. For some I reason I´m alright with death and dying. I just listen.

"Cancer," she said. "Tenia 45 años." He was 45. Now the children have no father. She rents this room to tourists two or three times a month. The agency gives her $8.00 to house and feed these people.

She just talks and I listen. Quechua is her first language, Spanish her second. That´s always good for me because her Spanish vocabulary isn´t as well developed as her native tongue.

As abruptly as she started, she stands up, takes the dishes and leaves.

It´s OK. For some other unknown reason this hasn´t unsettled me. I just wonder, though, how many more times she needs to tell the story before she finds some balance in her life.

I´m on the island for three nights. On a previous visit I´d done the "two day, one night" standard tour, but felt as if I was being wrenched from this island. I always said I´d stay longer the next time I visited. I´ve bonded well with others on the tour. At 4:00 pm we all meet in the town plaza to hike up to Pachatata, at 13,000 feet, to watch the sunset and later for a dance where Juana dresses me up in island clothing. The next morning I go to the port to bid them all goodbye. Secretly I´m glad they´re gone. Now I have the island to myself until the next batch of tourists arrives at 1:30.

I spend two delicious days trekking the island. Up and down, zigzagging my way across this marvelous place. On my second day, I pack lunch: an apple, a brick of crackers, a bag of peanuts, cookies. I´ve taken all morning to hike to the other side of the island. It´s autumn and the first harvest is underway--potatoes and oka, a tuberous vegetable resembling something between a carrot and a vegetable.

At midday I sit down in a rather conspicuous spot, so people coming down the path won´t be startled when they see me. The average tourist doesn´t stay for more than a night and is always on the same track. My presence isn´t an every day occurance. There´s a buzz all around me. People are descending the mountain above me carrying cloth packs full of produce or the remains of the plants which they´ll feed to their sheep. Before they see me I speak out: Hola! Buenos tardes.¨ Hi. Good afternoon. ¨Te gustaria una galleta?¨ Would you like a cracker? No one says no. Some people shake my hand. All of them seem grateful. Some of them have a small conversation with me, but what do we have in common? It´s all small talk, but very friendly. One man wants to know how the global ecomic crisis has affecting me.

For some reason my day pack has exploded and the contents surround me. When I see all the stuff I have, and I´m not really carrying all that much, I´m a bit startled.. I´m just curious how much I´m really carrying. I take inventory:

1 Nikon camera with lens--------------------------------- $1,200.00
2 sets of Rx glasses--regular and sunglasses------- 900.00
1 iPod------------------------------------------------------------------ 250.00
1 pair ¨Columbia¨ hiking boots------------------------------ 100.00
1 tripod------------------------------------------------------------------ 50.00
1 ¨Columbia¨hiking shirt, on sale----------------------------- 40.00
1 Rx nose spray----------------------------------------------------- 40.00
1 Rx inhaler------------------------------------------------------------ 40.00
1 backpack------------------------------------------------------------- 30.00
1 camera bag---------------------------------------------------------- 25.00
1 book: Eat. Love. Pray ------------------------------------------ 12.00
1 bottle eyedrops----------------------------------------------------- 8.00
1 pair gloves------------------------------------------------------------ 5.00
1 hat------------------------------------------------------------------------ 5.00
1 thermometer/whistle---------------------------------------------- 5.00
1 New Testament----------------------------------------------------- 5.00
1 lip balm----------------------------------------------------------------- 1 .00

Well, I´m shocked. All of this is essential. I can´t imagine being on the loose without most of this stuff. I use the calculator on the iPod: I´m carrying $2,616.00 worth of stuff. And this is just a day hike.
Then I think about the average Peruvian yearly salary: $2,000.00. But then I think even more deeply: what does an isleno make? There´s no industry on this island. Their ¨job¨ is to harvest enough food to feed themselves, maybe sell some of it to buy other stuff. No one has an iPod. No one has a $1,200.00 camera. Probably no one even owns a camera. I probably have more medical stuff in my day pack then they have in their homes.

By the time I´m done with this task, I´ve given all my crackers and peanuts away. Each person got one. I didn´t eat a whole lot, but it´s been a great lunch. A lot of people got a cracker. The mountain is rather quiet, most everyone´s gone home to their own lunch. I pack up my ¨stuff,¨ and move on.

I round the island, ask directions and find that the only way back to the village in which I´m living is up and over Pachamama, the island´s highest peak, at 13,500 feet. It´s a very slow process. I´ve learned not to move quickly. Step by step I get get to the summit--and it´s mine, all mine. No one is there yet. Today´s batch of tourists are just beginning to congregate at the plaza. I stay until I see the first signs of them beginning the slow ascent, then I begin to walk down.

It´s just before sunset when I arrive at Juana´s . No one is home. I´d love to take a shower, but there´s none to be had. I should have run a bucketful of water that morning when the house had water access from 6:00 to 8:00 am.

Dusk turns to dark quickly. I´m not too far from the equator and there´s very little twilight. I light the candle in my room, choose a piece of music from the iPod and collapse on the bed. I have no idea how long I´ve been in this self imposed twilight. I´m tired.

There´s a knock on the door. It´s Juana. She tells me that she´s been waiting for me at the plaza. She was worried. I am deeply touched. A few minutes later she brings me dinner--all fresh vegetables, an egg and a cup of tea.

It´s quite dark when she returns to gather up the dishes. This time she sits on the bed. "I miss my my husband," she tells me. "The children have no father." She begins to cry. I reach out and take her hand. There is nothing else to do. There is a deep silence between us. It´s OK. She needs to do this. It´s then that I realize we were met to meet, Juana and I. More and more I think less and less of this type of encounter as coincidence. Time passes. She tells me there is no money. No jobs. That it costs $50.00 a month to send her son to high school. Could I help her? And then, just as before, this ends as abrubtly as it started.

It´s very dark, but not too late, but I´m exhausted. I slip into bed on this cold autumnal altiplano night and drift off to sleep. I´m up at first light. I have all sort of plans for the morning: fill the water receptacles, bring the sheep down to the pasture below the house where I saw them feeding yesterday. But Juana comes in early with breakfast and tells me we have to leave at 7:00. "Another day," she says. ¨Another port.¨ I hustle to get ready. I eat quickly then together we scramble down the hill and walk along the beach to the boat. They´re waiting for me. Juana and I say goodbye. I board and we take off. It´s only minutes, but when I look up to wave goodbye to Juana she´s gone. I scan the shore and paths above it but don´t see her. We've separated. Each of us has returned to the world we know--her to the island the she´s never left and me to my great passion--seeing the world.

But the memory of her lives on. Days have passed and I still think of her. She is, in a sense, the universal poor "everywoman." There are millions of her on the planet. Women who´ve been abandoned or widowed or who had children but no husband. In a sense, though, Juana is luckier than most. She has her home. She has her children. She has a community who´s known her all her life. She has a garden on the mountain that feeds her family. She´s got chickens that lay eggs. She's got a herd of sheep. She's got a view of Lake Titicaca and a sunset that a million dollars couldn´t buy back home.

What she doesn´t have is the contents of my backpack, nor the means to ever acquire even a small portion of it. But I wonder. Who´s got the most? In the end it´s a toss. We´re both pretty well off. But in different ways.

Someday I´ll get back to Juana´s. I´ll carry "stuff¨" she needs and in return she´ll give me "stuff" I´d never find at sea level. I feel as if I made a friend up there and that all of this was met to be.

But who knows.

Chacaltaya, Bolivia

Arequipa, Peru.

26 de abril de 2009

I like to get high. I really like to get high. Which is why I booked a tour out of La Paz ($7.13) to Chacaltaya, the highest ski center in the world--or, at least, what used to be until global warming changed a few things.

We were an international group of 8--our guide, me, Therese from Stockholm, two Germans and three Brazilians. We left La Paz early in the morning, and climbed up to El Alto, the city on the altiplano, then zigzagged our way up a narrow ribbon of dirt road which would ultimately should have brought us to the ski center's lodge at 15,900 feet.

It had rained in La Paz the day, but by the time we got to 14, 000 feet we encountered snow. The van, unable to climb any further, can to a halt at 14,300 feet. The guide told us to get out of the vehicle and, without any explanation, simply started walking up the rocky slope of the mountain.

He was a terrible guide. Within minutes he'd left Therese and I in the dust. Imagine, leaving two tourists stranded at 14,300 feet. Therese was sick and I'd been battling my usual high altitude issues. But...we were not about to quit. Nor were we willing to race up the mountain just to stay with the group.

So, off we went. The storm from the day before hadn't totally blow out the clouds, and the new moisture on the mountain coupled with the lingering affect of the snowfall made for a foggy hike. We could sort of see the group ahead of us, but I'd been the Chacaltaya before and knew where we were headed.

Therese and I, we had a good time. We'd count 20 steps then stop for a break. We were, after all, over two miles in altitude. We slowly made our way to the ridge, stopping often to search out fossils and unusual rocks. Once, we found a rock in shape of South America, had had out photos taken with it. Honestly, we were exhausted. It had taken us well over an 90 minutes to climb to the ridge.

Well, the views from the ridge were amazing. We'd climbed to 15,500 feet and before us lay magnificent views of Bolivia's highest peaks--Illimani, Muruarata, and Huayana Potosi,. all over 20,000 feet! We played in the snow, made snowballs, took lots and lots of photos and generally felt like a tour group of two. From the ridge, it was a relatively easy slog up a snowy road to the ski lodge at 15,900 feet.

Almost immediately we saw our "guide" who was quite displeased with us. "Where had we been?" and "We've been waiting for you." It was my turn to let him know how displeased I was. We were also told that we'd have to turn around almost immediately as we'd have to walk down the way we climbed. I just ignored the guy. In truth, the rest of the group had climbed the top of the ski lifts--at 17,225 feet, and we just now descending. So, we took our time again--climbing at least to 16,000 feet just to say we'd done it, taking more photos and generally having a great time.

I had been to Chacaltaya before---in July of 2005. By then, the ski center was no longer is use. One could still see the glacier and the ski lift that had been anchored into it. But so much of it had melted that skiing off that glacier was no longer possible. In April of 2009, less than four years later, not a speck of glacier was left and all evidence of lift lines had been removed. This was deeply disconcerting, and real evidence that the environment, at least in this part of the Andes, is getting warmer, and at a rate that seemed startingly fast.

Once the group was amassed we began the descent, but it was too much of a temptation not to show the Brazilians how to make a snowman. It was, after all, perfect snowman snow--wet and sticking in the mid afternoon sun. So I stopped, really annoying the guide, and gave a demonstration. Two of the Brazilians rolled the torso and head and I let them assemble the snowman. Someone put a hat on him; we found rocks for eyes, nose and mouth. Each of us had our picture taken--except for the guide who kept attempting to push us on.

The descent was much easier and in time the snow tapered off to rocks. Somehow the van had been turned around and we were headed in the direction of La Paz. From there is was an easy 90 minute ride back to the center where we were deposited at our respective hotels.

It was a memorable day--and my only one with snow in this summer/winter of 2009. Therese made a great travel companion and the idea of leaving a snowman at 15,000 kept me smiling for days.

Bolivia--It´s UnBoliviable!

LA PAZ, BOLIVIA
18 DE ABRIL DE 2009

PARDON ME IF I GET A LITTLE TOO ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT BOLIVIA. IT´S ONE THE FEW PLACES LEFT IN THE WORLD THAT STILL HAS THE ABILITY TO KNOCK MY SOCKS OFF. IT´S A COUNTRY OF SUPERLATIVES:

• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST CAPITAL IN THE WORLD. (LA PAZ)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST CITY IN THE WORLD. (POTOSI)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST SKI CENTER IN THE WORLD. (CHACALTAYA AT 15,000 FEET)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST NAVIGABLE LAKE IN THE WORLD. (LAKE TITICACA)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST AND DRIEST DESERT IN THE WORLD. (THE ATACAMA)
• IT´S GOT THE HIGHEST GOLF COURSE IN THE WORLD.

IT´S THE KIND OF PLACE WHERE YOU CAN VERY EASILY SAY TO YOUR DOG, ¨I DON´T THINK WE´RE IN KANSAS ANYMORE¨ IT´S, WELL, UN-BOLIVABLE! WHAT'S NOT UN-BOLIVABLE, THOUGH, IS BOLIVIAN ATTITUDE TOWARDS AMERICANS AND THEIR GOVERNMENT--ESPECIALLY THE GOVERNMENT UNDER GEORGE BUSH. HIS LEGACY HERE IS NOTHING SHORT OF HORRIBLE. FOR THAT REASON, I'VE BEEN IDENTIFYING MYSELF AS FRENCH. WHEN ASKED WHERE I'M FROM, I SIMPLY SAY, "SOY DE FRANCIA." I'M FROM FRANCE. SOME OF YOU WILL APPRECIATE THE IRONY OF THAT STATEMENT.

AFTER STARTING OUT IN SANTA CRUZ, AT 500 FEET IN ALTITUDE, I KNEW THAT I NEEDED TO MOVE UP TO THE HIGH PLATEAU, OR ALTIPLANO, SLOWLY. FROM SANTA CRUZ I CLIMBED TO COCHABAMBA, AT 8,000 FEET, ACCLIMATIZED THERE FOR TWO DAYS BEFORE CLIMBING TO ORURU AT 11,000 FEET WHERE I SPENT AN AMAZING DAY HIKING TO A ROCK CLIFF WITH ROCK PAINTING OF LLAMAS DONE 2,400 YEARS AGO. ONLY AFTER ACCLIMATIZING THERE FOR TWO MORE DAYS DID I DARE TO ARRIVE HERE, IN LA PAZ, AT 13,313 FEET!

I DON´T KNOW ANY OTHER CITY IN THE WORLD WITH A MORE DRAMATIC ENTRY THAN LA PAZ. ALL ENTRIES TO LA PAZ ARE FROM THE ALTIPLANO. AS THE CITY APPROACHES, THE DRAMATIC SNOW-CAPPED PEAKS OF 19,786 FT. HUAYNA POTOSI AND 20,927 FT. ILLIMANI COME INTO VIEW. THE BUS PASSES THROUGH THE CITY OF EL ALTO, STILL ON THE ALTIPLANO, UNTIL IT REACHES THE TOP OF A GIANT 6,000 FOOT CANYON INTO WHICH DROPS THE CITY. THE BUS THEN ZIGZAGS ITS WAY DOWN THE CANYON UNTIL IT GETS TO THE CENTER. WHAT AN ENTRANCE! AND, UNLIKE MOST PLACES IN THE WORLD, THE POOREST OF THE POOR LIVE AT THE TOP OF THE CANYON, WITH ALL THE VIEWS, AND THE WEALTHIEST LIVE AT THE BOTTOM, WHERE IT´S 20 DEGREES WARMER. THE LAST TIME I WAS IN LA PAZ, THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO, I WAS SO SICK WITH BRONCHITIS, THAT THE DOCTOR I SAW ORDERED ME TO LEAVE AND ENJOY THE CITY WITHOUT IN THE THE THE ALTIPLANO AND DROP TO A LOWER ALTITUDE. HOW NICE IT IS THIS TIME TO BE FULLY ACCLIMATIZED WITHOUT AND INHALERS AND ANTIBIOTICS. LA PAZ IS A VERY COOL PLACE, BUT NOT A PLACE IN WHICH I´D LIKE TO LIVE. IT´S GOT COLORFUL STREET MARKETS AND FABULOUS VIEWS, AND IT´S ONLY THE SECOND PLACE IN THE WORLD WHERE YOU CAN BUY SEA FOSSILS. THIS YEAR I BOUGHT TWO 600,000,000 YEAR OLD TRILOBITES THAT WERE DUG OUT OF THE ALTIPLANO. IT´S AMAZING TO THINK THAT THIS VERY HIGH PLACE WAS ONCE AT SEA LEVEL LA PAZ IS A TOUGH PLACE TO CALL HOME. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS GOING ¨CROSS TOWN.¨ EVERYTHING IS EITHER UP OR DOWN. AND AT 13,00 FEET UP IS A VERY SLOW PROCESS. LA PAZ IS REALLY JUST A STAGING AREA. SPEND A COUPLE DAYS HERE THEN MOVE ON, WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT I DID. I GOT MY LAUNDRY DONE, ATE SOME GOOD CITY FOOD, THEN LEFT FOR LAKE TITICACA AND THE BEST OF ALL BOLIVIA´S ADVENTURES.

El Español

LA PAZ, BOLIVIA
17 DE ABRIL DE 2009

THE ACQUISTITION OF A SECOND LANGUAGE IS AN INTERESTING THING. WHEN I WAS TEACHING I WOULD GET KINDERGARTNERS WHO SPOKE NO ENGLISH BEGIN TO GRASP THE LANUGAGE BY HALLOWEEN, IT WOULD TAKE MIDDLE SCHOOLERS UNTIL CHRISTMAS. HIGH SCHOOL KIDS SORT OF GOT IT BY EASTER.

WITH ME IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. OUR LANGUAGE TRACKS, WHICH REALLY BEGIN TO CLOSE AROUND THE AGE OF FIVE, ARE ALMOST TOTALLY SHUT DOWN BY ADULTHOOD. BUT STILL, I WON´T GIVE UP. I STARTED STUDYING SPANISH QUIE AQCCIDENTLLY. MY COUSIN, A SURGEON, GAVE ME A SET OF 10 CASSETTE TAPES. THAT SUMMER WE WENT TO CALIFORNIA ON THE TRAIN. I LISTENED TO HALF THE TAPES BETWEEN PLATTSBURGH AND LOS ANGELES. IN THAT SHORT PERIOD OF TIME I LEARNED ENOUGH TO ORDER DINNER IN SPANISH AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT. IT´S ALWAYS BEEN A JOKE THAT MY SPANISH SUCKS. AT THE BEGINNING I WAS AT THE ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 5,456,789.¨ THEN I GOT A TUTOR AND WENT TO SCHOOL FOR TWO WEEKS IN MEXICO AND MY SPANISH IMPROVED TO THE ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 1,658,985.¨ AFTER I RETIRED I FELL INTO THE ACCIDENTAL CAREER AS A SPANISH TEACHER. THEN I STUDIED SPANISH IN MEXICO FOR FOUR MONTHS, LIVING IN A SMALL APARTMENT IN NON-GRINGO NEIGHBORHOOD. THEN I TAUGHT AGAIN. BY THEN MY SPANISH HAD IMPROVED TO THE ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 9¨ STAGE.

IT STILL SUCKS, EVEN THOUGH I STUDY IT AND TEACH IT AND USE IT EVERY DAY. BY NOW IT´S PROBABLY AT THE ¨ÏT SUCKS LEVEL 4 STAGE.¨ MAYBE SOMEDAY I´LL GET TO LEVEL 1.

IT´S BEEN A LINGUISTIC ADVENTURE THIS WINTER. I NEVER GIVE UP, BUT IT´S NOT ALWAYS BEEN EASY.
TO MY EARS, CHILEAN SPANISH IS ALMOST INCOMPREHENSIBLE. ARGENTINIAN SPANISH ISN´T MUCH BETTER. I CAN ALMOST HOLD ON TO URUGUYAN SPANISH, BUT FIND PARAGUAYAN, BOLIVIAN AND PERUVIAN SPANISH CLEARER AND EASIER TO UNDERSTAND.

PART OF THE PROBLEM IS THAT THERE ARE MULTIPLE SPANISHES, JUST AS THERE ARE MULTIPLE ENGLISHES. AND, JUST AS WITH ENGLISH, THE BETTER A PERSON´S EDUCATION, THE BETTER THE SPANISH. THOSE WHO´VE STUDIED A SECOND LANGUAGE ON A DEEP LEVEL ARE MUCH MORE EMPATHETIC TO THE PLIGHT OF THE SPANISH-AS-A-SECOND LANGUAGE SPEAKER. IN CHILE, FOR EXAMPLE, A TEE-SHIRT IS A POLERA. IN ARGENTINA IT´S A REMERA. IN MEXICO IT´S A PLAYERA. I ORDERED SOPA DE PARAGUAY IN ASUNCION ASSUMING I WAS GOING TO GET A BOWL OF SOUP (SOPA=SOUP), BUT GOT A HUNK OF VEGETABLE FILLED CORN BREAD. I NEEDED SOCKS ONE DAY AND ASKED THE ARGENITINIAN CLERK FOR CALCETINAS. SHE JUST STARED AT ME. FINALLY I SHOWED HER AND SAID, ÄHH, YOU NEED MEDIDAS.

IN THE END, THESE ARE MY OBSERVATIONS: CHILEAN BODY LANGUAGE TOLD ME THEY WERE QUITE ANNOYED WHEN I ASKED THEM TO SLOW DOWN. THE ALL-TOO-ARROGANT ARGENTITIAN WOULD LAUGH AT MY ATTEMPTS TO SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE. (ONE ARGENTINIAN, WHEN I TOLD HIM I LEARNED MY SPANISH IN MEXICO, COMMENTED: ¨¨LOS MEXICANOS NO HABLAN CASTELLANO.¨ MEXICANS DON´T SPEAK SPANISH!). NOT A SINGLE URUGUAYAN, BOLIVIAN OR PERUVIAN SHOWED ANY ANNOYANCE AT MY ATTEMPTS TO SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE. IN FACT, THEY WERE THE ONES WHO WOULD GO OUT OF THEIR WAY TO COMPLIMENT ME ON MY SPANISH. (THIS AFTERNOON, WHILE GETTING A HAIRCUT, THE BARBER CALLED MY SPANISH ¨PERFECT.¨ THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS NOT THE CASE.

I PLOD ON. MY SPANISH TEACHER, GLORIA, WHO KNEW ALL TO WELL MY FRUSTRATIONS, WOULD OFTEN SAY TO ME, ¨POCO A POCO, DAN.¨ LITTLE BY LITTLE.

AND LITTLE BY LITTLE IT IS. EACH DAY I ACQUIRE, AND ATTEMPT TO USE, A FEW MORE WORDS. MY VOCABULARY CONTINUES TO GROW. AS THIS TRIP HAS PROGRESSED I´VE NOTICED THAT MY ABILITY TO READ AND AURALLY COMPREHEND HAS IMPROVED DRAMATICALLY. THE ABILITY TO SPEAK IT, HOWEVER, IS ANOTHER THING. OF THE FOUR AREAS OF LANGUAGE ACQUISITION, IT´S THE HARDEST FOR ME.

THERE IS PROBALY NO WAY TO REALLY STOP FULL BLOWN ALZHEIMER´S DISEASE, BUT THE STUDY OF A SECOND LANGUAGE INTO ADVANCED ADULTHOOD IS ONE OF THE BEST WAYS TO SLOW IT DOWN.

SO, I WILL CONTINUE--POCO A POCO. ONE OF THESE DAYS I´LL GET IT, OR AT LEAST I´LL DIE TRYING. I HAD A VIETNAMESE FRIEND WHO SPOKE ENGLISH--BADLY. I COULD UNDERSTAND HIM; HE COULD UNDERSTAND ME. THAT´S ALWAYS BEEN MY GOAL: TO SPÈAK SPANISH...BADLY!