Gillian's Eve

With only an hour left in my thirties, here are a few thoughts:

DYKWIL: Depositing cheques with my phone. Technology FTW!

YKGOML: I miss landlines, because sometimes someone other than the person you were trying to reach answered, and you'd have a chance to catch up with your friend's spouse/lover/parent/child/cat.

Ultra Fine Advice: Friends are more important than money, but paying attention to your finances is more important than paying attention to Facebook. Mint.com is my new spending conscience (and go-to distraction).

(Aside: Mint should let you send thank-you emails when someone buys you drinks or dinner, like, "Hey [insert name here], thanks! You helped Gillian stay in her Restaurants budget for June. Save on! Love, Mint.com")

Finally and definitely most importantly, a big UFF shout-out to my amazing 10-yr-old godson Griffin, who saw the book I sent to his mom and said, "Why be perfect when you can be awesome!"

That, friends. That.

Unpacking and Packing

"Moving is the worst. You have to touch everything you own, and make a decision about it." - my (very wise) friend Doreen

A friend of mine recently shared with me that she underwent her own crisis several years ago. She said up until then, she thought that her stuff - her baggage, her issues, whatever you want to call it - were all packed up in boxes and locked neatly in a room somewhere. Then she had this crisis, and realized that no, these boxes were actually stacked high on a palette and she was dragging that palette behind her. She went to therapy and one by one, unpacked as many of those boxes as she could.

As I write this, I'm procrastinating the final stages of packing a house's worth of stuff to move to a different country and into a fourth-floor walkup. That last part is key: The thought of carrying everything you own up four narrow flights of stairs is great incentive to own less stuff.

To that end, last Monday I had six full garbage bags and three overflowing recycling bins on the curb for pickup. This morning, a thrift store came to pick up about about six boxes of donation items, plus a bunch of furniture (assorted chairs and tables) (why did we even have "assorted chairs and tables"?). There are at least two more garbage bags going out tonight, and one of the recycling bins is already full.

At the same time I'm doing this physical packing, I'm trying to unpack a bunch of psychic boxes. Normally unpacking is way more fun than packing, but this kind of unpacking is *hard*. It turns out that I didn't make conscious decisions about what to put in these psychic boxes, and now as I unpack them, I have to decide what I really want.

The thing I'm realizing is, there will always be a box labeled Misc., and the only way to find out what's in it will be to unpack it and make decisions about what to do with the stuff. Some of it will probably end up back in the same box, or in another box named Misc. with some other stuff, and in that context maybe it will look different, and the next time I look at it maybe I'll make a different decision about what to do with it. And while it's inevitable that I'll keep adding stuff to these boxes, hopefully I'll do it more deliberately, and eventually I'll end up with fewer of the Misc. boxes.

It might help if I start to think of life as a fourth-floor walkup.

In other news, I'm reworking my last post (the one about relationships that's no longer here, but Google can probably still find it somewhere). It didn't make sense. I wrote it as a response to a conversation, not really deliberately, and if any of you actually understood any of it, you were probably like, um, yeah, no duh (because it was about projecting and is in every relationship book ever written).

The real point of that post was meant to be this. My friend D has a chalkboard in her kitchen, with a TODO list on it. I noticed the other day that under "haircut" is written "rel'ship". I asked her what that was about, and she said, "Oh, that's to remind us us to work on our relationship."

"That's amazing!" I said. "I love that you're conscious about it."

She laughed. "Well, yeah, but it's under 'haircut'."

Fair enough. Getting a haircut is easy.



(Misc. box photo compliments of Mike; box may or may not contain: a shower curtain, one shoe, a fork, half a bottle of wine, his peewee hockey championship jacket, some computer parts, a pillow, and his car keys.)

The Next Worst Thing

I hope this thing you're going through, that's so awful that you can't eat and you can't sleep and sometimes you can't even breathe - I really do hope this thing is the worst thing you'll ever go through.

You will experience trauma. You will experience loss. You will grieve. You will scream into your pillow. You will sob. You will fight it with every cell in your body, this worst thing. You will hold so tightly to your hopes and fears that you will sometimes become them and forget who you are.

People will try to distract you. You'll love them for it and you'll hate them for it. Maybe you feel like you deserve this worst thing, like you did something to earn it and this worst thing is your punishment. You will feel guilt and shame.

You'll read about forgiveness and not really understand it, maybe for a long time. You'll hold onto that guilt and shame, and it'll get so jumbled up with your hopes and fears that you won't even know which is which and who you are anymore. The guilt and shame (and even the pride) will keep you in the past, and the hopes and fears will distract you with the future, and you'll miss out on the present: The gift that is this very moment, where you are right now, in this body and this breath. Right now is who you are.

From this worst thing you'll emerge, eventually, it happens, I promise. Maybe you'll start to feel better, a little bit at a time, and then you'll remember this worst thing and feel sad and angry and hopeless again. Maybe you'll feel like you don't deserve to feel better. Maybe the times of feeling better will get a little bit longer, and the sadness a little bit less acute. Allow yourself that. Let it be a project.

And maybe, first in just one moment and then in a few of these moments strung together, you will start to wrap your head around this whole forgiveness thing. You will start to accept that we're all a bunch of human beings (yes, even you), and that we all make mistakes (yes, even you). You will start to trust. You will start to allow forgiveness.

I hope it's the worst thing you'll ever go through, this thing that you're going through right now.

The thing about this thing is, it probably isn't the worst thing. There was a worst thing before this one and there will be a worst thing that follows.

And every time you get through a worst thing, you'll be a little bit better at getting through the next worst thing. At accepting it, and forgiving it.

 It's a long, messy, wonderful life, full of next worst things. Fortunately, it's full of next best things, too.

Reset

I stopped.

After we moved back from Argentina, and settled in the ‘burbs, I stopped.

I stopped writing.

I stopped publishing.

I stopped connecting.

And sometimes, I stopped living, as fully and completely as I could have.

Even at the (previous) lowest points of my life, I was writing here. I told you, Internet, about my separation. I told you about my divorce, and my starting anew, and Beginnings and all of that.

I fell madly in love with an amazing human being. We shacked up then packed up and moved to South America and had crazy awesome adventures, some that even included naked-lady towels.

Then we settled.

My advice to you? Don’t ever settle.

It was fine, for a while. I had a job. We had a nice house with a lawn and a garage and a washer and dryer in the basement. We bought a hammock and I built some benches.

But still: We settled.

Seven years ago, almost to the day, I wrote this blog post. It’s still here, on the internets, for everyone to see. And my, how I wish I’d read it monthly – even annually – for the past seven years.

I didn’t, though, and in that seven years, I forgot some of the lessons I should have learned.

But now, in the immortal words of Britney, I’m back, bitches. I'm back with more honesty, more late night blogging and more blood, sweat, and most definitely tears. I’ve got them all in spades, and as of tomorrow morning, I might even have a new bachelorette pad here in the BK.

If that doesn’t work out, I might be looking to sleep on your couch. I’ll bring the bourbon and the Kleenex.

And you guys, please: Read on. Write on. And most importantly: Love on.

And The Livin' Is Easy

I recently went on a yoga retreat in California. Yes, that is as wonderful and outrageous as it sounds. In the morning after the fog burned off, there was a view of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean. There were dogs and kids and a hot tub on a cliff. There was fresh goat cheese, and there were spectacular sunsets. There were upwards of five hours of yoga each day, taught energetically and lovingly by one Miss Kerri Kelly. There was a class with a dance party (featuring Lady Gaga, natch), and a class in a field around a nectarine tree. There was a class with a soundtrack of classic love songs, and 25+ spry yogis decked out in their Lulus enthusiastically singing along.

Unfortunately, there was also a trampoline. Scratch that: Unfortunately I decided to jump on the trampoline, and even more unfortunately, I landed on the off-bounce and tore the ACL graft I had repaired just last year. Wah wah.

But before we start wallowing about that, let's talk about the food. The yoga retreat was about detoxing, but that didn't stop us from enjoying homemade pear ravioli. Or wine-tasting in Los Olivos. No retox is complete without a stop at In-N-Out Burger for a cheeseburger, animal-style, and a superthick chocolate shake. Similarly, no California trip is complete without fresh salads (liberally sprinkled with bacon, of course) and sushi and a cocktail made with sake and watermelon and cucumbers and sweetly named the "Hello Kitty."

As for my knee, well, it looks like it'll be another summer of rehab fun. Thank god for wine and percocet.

Benjamin Eitan Farkash

I'd like you to meet Benjamin.

Benjamin's mom, D, is one of my besties, and she and Benjamin's dad asked me to be with them while he was born. They even asked me to cut his umbilical cord, which is pretty much the highest of all honours. Benjamin arrived, amid much laughter and general merriment, on Friday night, which meant I didn't even have to miss work to meet him. How considerate!

I expect we'll be seeing a lot more of him around here (and here, too). And if I may, I highly recommend holding a newborn baby as many times in your life as you can. It's breathtaking.

The Amazing Race Part Deux: Roneni

Remember waaay back when, in April of 2007, when I abandoned all sense of reason and hopped on a plane from New York to Toronto, and then defied all speed limits on the 401 to arrive in Kitchener just in time for a certain very sweet boy's birth?

Well, it's time again for an Amazing Race to welcome a new baby - this one will just involve a bus (and probably some running) to get to Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto, where my lovely friend Sparkly D is labouring with her first child - a boy! - as I write this.

I can't wait to meet the little guy.

Like Riding A Bike

Everyone's fine. My family and friends are all, to the best of my knowledge, safe and healthy. I wake up every morning beside the most gentle and kind human being I've ever met. My mom flew all the way to Buenos Aires (Richie!) to help me wash my hair and get dressed and ultimately help me preserve a tiny bit of dignity in front of the aforementioned gentle and kind human being (to whom I would still like to appear even remotely attractive). We're staying in a beautiful apartment that belongs to another kind and generous human being, and for the most part, I'm comfortable and pain-free and grateful that this is a known, temporary setback and in six months, give or take, everything will be back to normal.

And still, over the past two weeks, I have felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

At first it was just the loss of the rest of our planned travels. We were on our way to Brazil, to sit on the beach and work on a farm and travel down the Amazon River and, of course, taste myriad new and exotic fruits. But let's face it: After the experiences we've had in the past 10 months, it's hard to feel deprived of these things for very long.

There is, however, a more personal loss. Six years ago I went into surgery with a partially-torn ACL and a bucket-handle tear in the meniscus. I came out of surgery with a reconstructed ACL and a repaired meniscus, which meant that eventually, after a lot of blood, sweat, and yes, tears, in rehab, my knee was even better than it had been before the operation. Apparently so was my ambition, as within a year of surgery I completed an Olympic-distance triathlon and have since run three marathons.

Last week I went into the OR with a ruptured ACL and a bucket-handle tear in the meniscus. I was wheeled out with a reconstructed ACL, but this time the meniscus couldn't be repaired, and part of it was removed. I'm not sure how much, exactly - a third? A half? And really, people walk around all the time with no meniscus at all, so why the fuss?

I'll never run another marathon. In fact, I probably won't do much running at all. There are all sorts of medical reasons why it isn't a great idea to run, especially on pavement, after a partial meniscectomy, and I'm kind of hoping these knees will be around for a while. So there's short-term loss, like right now I can't walk or even get out of bed by myself, which sucks. But then there's the running thing, an activity with which I fell in love just a few years ago, after hating on sports for 30 years. For me, that's the real loss. As I look at the pictures taken during the 2007 NYC Marathon, one of my most favourite days of all time, I am filled with gratitude to have had that amazing experience, and at the same time, so very sad to have lost that potential.

I start physiotherapy on Friday, the exciting and sometimes gruelling rehabilitation period during which I will relearn to walk, run (slowly, and on a treadmill), balance, and climb stairs. Before I know it I'll be riding a bike (as a friend of mine says, cycling is like running with even tighter clothes and cooler gear), and of course I'm already planning my first century ride in 2011, because you know, that's how I roll.

In the meantime I'm reminding myself, as one of my best friends reminded me just the other day, that just as she had to after her ACL reconstruction, I need to "let myself grieve for the things I lost (including the potential things I lost in the future)." And OK, I'm also daydreaming about the shapeliness of my future cycling legs.

Back to the Future

Welcome to 2010! I was initially disappointed that this year started off sans jet packs or The Chip, you know, the one implanted in our brains that will grant us instant access to the interwebs using only cerebral prowess, but then I went to see Avatar in 3D and holy-effing-crap am I ever on that bandwagon. I hope the future involves a lot more theatres full of Buddy Holly clones, because wow, 3D movie technology has come a long way since House of Wax.

And it seems that in 2010 I am fated to experience a bit of déjà vu as well. Back in 2003 I stepped on a branch - a harmless little branch! - and wretched my right knee, tearing the meniscus. Within two weeks of the injury I had surgery and started a rather gruelling regimen of physical therapy that lasted around four months. Have you figured out where this is going, yet?

On Wednesday afternoon I twisted my left knee. I'm in a brace and walking with crutches and the MRI is scheduled for Saturday. Of course this time isn't exactly the same as last time: There were no branches involved. Oh, and this time I get to do it all in Spanish.

On the bright side:

1. We're not on a mountain in Bolivia.
2. We have amazing friends here in Buenos Aires who have already been beyond helpful ("crutches" in Spanish is muletas, in case you were wondering).
3. Three words: Ice cream delivery.

I'm trying to make this not suck, but when three more months of travel, not to mention marathon #4, were on my list for 2010, let's face it: this is the pits.

Thanks.

I can't thank you guys enough for your supportive comments (on UFF and Facebook) and your beyond-generous offers to send me replacement items. Seriously, you guys helped put this loss into perspective. The world is full of bags and books and sweaters. I think Caroline put it best when she wrote, "It helps me to think of all of the unexpected things that have walked INTO my life, balancing out all the things that have walked/(been walked!) OUT of it." Word. And while I'm still angry as hell at the fucker who took my backpack, I'm also supremely grateful that neither of us were injured in the process.

Just last weekend I was chatting with Bri, and told her, "I could spend a month in [Bolivia]... it's so interesting." Be careful what you wish for, right? We're back in La Paz and after a couple of visits to the Canadian Embassy we learned that it'll take at least two weeks (and $240! aboo) to get a replacement passport. So... it looks like we'll be in Bolivia a bit longer than we expected. Fortunately we like it here, and it's the most inexpensive country we'll visit on this trip, so we'll just add a city or two to our itinerary.

Did I mention thanks? You guys rock. The most. Unlucky moments notwithstanding, I feel really lucky to have you in my life.

P.S. While I love gifts almost as much as I love getting stuff in the mail (i.e., A LOT), I don't think we'll be anywhere long enough to receive anything, and anyway, I wouldn't count the postal services around these parts for much more than post cards. Thanks for the offers though, so much.

Why I Love Ken: Reason #463

Tonight, after my backpack was stolen and I was lamenting the things I lost, including my passport with its plethora of stamps (including Machu Picchu!) from South America, Ken hugged me and said, "We have a lifetime to collect more stamps."

We had just boarded a bus to take us from Potosi to Uyuni, about a 6-hour journey. The bus was very small (our knees touched the seat in front of us), and as a result I made the unusual (for me) decision to stash my daypack in the rack above our heads. A few minutes (5? 10?) later, I stood up to help someone else squeeze in a bag, and realized my pack was missing. Gone. Here's the thing about buses in Bolivia. When they're not moving they are full of people, travelling or not. People selling empanadas. People singing songs for money. And, apparently, people who board the bus a few minutes before it leaves and then get off said bus with a bag to which they don't rightfully have ownership.

Just after I noticed it was missing, another passenger confirmed that someone had indeed sat beside him for a few minutes, then stood up, grabbed the pack (my pack! my super-comfortable Osprey Talon-22 daypack! in citron!), and left. I grabbed my remaining possession (a water bottle, PET, 2L) and headed onto the chaotic sidewalk, hoping to catch a glimpse of my bag, but of course it was long gone.

The rest of the evening was spent checking into a hostel in Potosi, filing a police report, making weepy phone calls (to credit card companies, and my mom), and downing a couple of litres of beer. Tomorrow we'll head back to La Paz to find the Canadian Embassy so that I can get a replacement passport (...I know).

Regularly scheduled programming will return after I've finished mourning the loss of my favourite Lululemon zippie and a book that I was REALLY into.

Layered Dresses and Bowler Hats

Yesterday around lunchtime we arrived in Copacabana, Bolivia (not to be confused with Copacabana, the beach in Rio, or Copacabana, the club in NY). It's a small town at a high altitude (3841m) in a peninsula on Lake Titicaca (go ahead and giggle; I still do every time I say the name). Lake Titicaca (hee) is gorgeous, and tomorrow we're going to hike 17km to a place called Yampupata, from where we'll take a boat to the Isla del Sol, and maybe stay a night there. My browser capabilities are currently limited, but you can find a map here if you're so inclined.

Our accomodations here are by far our cheapest yet--we reserved 2 nights, online, for $5 (for both of us!). We expect there'll be some haggling over the price when we check out tomorrow, which is kind of a tricky situation: Even if it cost twice as much it would still be a bargain for us, and at the same time we don't want to be taken advantage of as gringos.

The food here is delicious and cheap. For breakfast today we had coffee, bread, and freshly-fried donuts (bañuelos) with syrup for about $1.50. Lunch was grilled lake trout with french fries and rice and ran us under $3. (We later splurged on a brownie with ice cream that cost as much as the trout!) Most of the women here don't come up much past our waists. They all wear layered dresses and bowler hats, and the majority have a baby slung on their backs.

More updates when we get to La Paz; as one might expect, $1.25 per night doesn't include wi-fi.

Day 5: Machu Picchu

We set alarms for 3, 3:15, and 3:30, and by 4 a.m. we had begun our flashlight-lit walk from Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu. It was a steep climb of about 1700 very uneven stairs (Ken counted), and at 5:15 or so, as the sky lightened, we were among the first 50 people to arrive at the entrance gate. We had our tickets stamped and received our passes (only 400 are distributed daily) to climb Waynapicchu, a mountain with literally breathtaking views of the ancient Incan city. At about 6:30 we began a two-hour tour of Machu Picchu with Enrique, then Ken and I set off to climb Waynapicchu. For me it was one of the most difficult parts of our trip. The "steps" were steep and uneven, and to get to the top took almost an hour. It was worth the effort. I stopped at a plateau near the top and Ken continued another 10 minutes or so to the peak. While I sat waiting for him in the sunshine, overlooking Machu Picchu, I felt incredibly peaceful.

We arrived back in Cuzco late Wednesday night and spent most of yesterday scratching our bitten legs and resting our tired feet. Today we treated ourselves to hour-long massages at the bargain-basement price of $7 each, then had lunch at the central market, where a huge bowl of soup and a generous portion of rice, salad, lentil stew, and fried fish costs all of $1. Including a glass of juice.

On Wednesday I swore it would be weeks or even months before I did another trek, but today I'm reconsidering. After all, in life, as in Peru, anything can happen, but nothing is for sure.

In Peru, Anything Can Happen...

...but nothing is for sure.

These were the words of wisdom imparted to us by our guide, Enrique, as we embarked on our 5-day trek to Salkantay and Machu Picchu. It was amazing, and it was really, really hard.

Day 1

A bus picked us up at our hostel at 4:45 a.m. After a few more stops in Cuzco (alt. 3350m) to pick up about 14 other adventurous souls, we drove on very curvy roads to the town of Mollempata (alt. 2800m) where we disembarked, slathered ourselves in sunscreen and bug spray, and started walking. We hiked, mostly uphill, for about 5 1/2 hours. After lunch (soup, rice, and delicious lomo saltado (beef stew) the road was blessedly "boring" (read: wider and flatter). We arrived at our first campsite at the base of Salkantay (alt. 4100m) around 5 p.m., just in time to beat the torrential downpours. Luckily there was a shelter in which we could set up our tents, so we stayed dry. We drank coca tea, ate dinner and were huddled in our sleeping bags by 8 p.m.

Day 2

At 5 a.m. our guides Enrique and Saturnino "knocked" on our tents and presented us with hot cups of coca tea. We packed up our gear and after a delicious breakfast (pancakes!) we were back on the trail. Day 2 would involve about an hour of switchbacks, or zig zags, up a steep mountain, a brief plateau, then another 40 minutes or so of steep uphill climbing to reach our highest altitude (4650m). By the end of the final climb Ken and I were resting after every 50 steps. It was beautiful and brutal, and when we got to the top we celebrated with cookies and apples and much picture-taking. Walking down the other side of the pass we passed completely different terrain: Huge rocks surrounded by mist that reminded us of "Lord of the Rings." After lunch we walked about 2 hours more and arrived at our camp, nestled into the side of a lush hill and also home to various chickens, dogs, and pigs. Bedtime was again early, and we slept soundly after our long walk.

Day 3

After another 5 a.m. coca-tea wakeup call and a hot breakfast of oatmeal and omelettes, we started out through the forest. We crossed a small river and then hiked a steep, rainy, and very muddy uphill for about 50 minutes. As we started to make our way down the other side, through the Andean cloud forest, we passed a small home with a yard full of wild turkeys, giggling away in the fog. These were some of the funniest beasts I've ever heard, and each time they gobbled (in unison!) I laughed and laughed. It was one of my favourite parts of the trek.

We continued our descent until we reached a dirt road, at which point we were also low enough that the rain had stopped and the sun was strong. The dirt road stretched on for many hot kilometres and included a small river crossing at which we had to strip off our boots and socks. The icy water felt wonderful! Unfortunately there were swarms of small blackflies waiting for us on the other side, and we all ended up with countless small, red, and indescribably itchy bites on our calves and shins. We finally reached Playa (alt. 2400m) and were finished our hike for the day: After lunch, a bus took us on the most treacherous road EVER to Santa Teresa (alt. 1800m). After we set up camp (and continued to slather on insect repellent in a feeble effort to fend off the relentless biting flies), we continued our scary bus ride (seriously, I was sure we were going to be part of a "there were two Canadians and an American on the bus" article) to soak our tired bodies in the loveliest of hot springs. On our return to camp we dined, and several members of our group celebrated into the wee hours of the morning. Ken represented on our behalf; I was in bed by midnight. (Apparently Ken's representation was strong, as the next day, Saturnino frequently sought him out to provide reggaeton beats as we hiked!)

Day 4

We slept in until 8, despite Enriques's warning the previous night: "If it's sunny, I know you're going to be up at 6:30, because inside your tent it will be hell." Breakfast included a birthday cake for our amazing cook, Isidro, who turned "at least 50" and who could climb a mountain faster than any of us 20- and 30-something gringos. After breakfast, we walked at a leisurely pace through a valley in the blazing hot sun, stopping for lunch at the Machu Picchu hydroelectric plant before continuing our walk along the railroad tracks to our penultimate destination, Aguas Calientes, a small town through which almost all Machu Picchu visitors pass. Ironically, our hostel in Aguas Calientes didn't have hot water. It did, however, have beds, and toilets. With seats. Glorious, glorious seats. Dinner was a very mellow affair at which we received our tickets to Machu Picchu and were instructed to begin our climb of approx. 400m (vertically, that is) at 4 a.m. the next day.

Gone Trekkin'

After a rather uncomfortable 23-hour bus ride from Lima to Cuzco, and two days in Cuzco (alt. 3300m) spent sleeping, drinking coca tea, and catching our collective breath, we're embarking this morning on the Salkantay Trek to Machu Picchu. I confessed to Beto, the guide with whom we booked the trek, that I was a little afraid of the 5-day journey. He told me not to worry; that I could ask the spirits in the mountains for help, and that they would be there.

OK, Mountain Spirits, here we come.

Optimism

Or, How We Make Plans

Two days ago we left Rio and toted our caipirinha-induced hangovers about 90km north to a small city called Teresópolis, up in the mountains and known best for its state park and hiking. After we arrived and found our hostel (a really beautiful place nestled up on a steep hillside), we took our map of the park out for pizza to plan our next couple of days.

In addition to several shorter hikes within the Teresópolis side of the park, there is a 55km hike that starts in Teresópolis and finishes in Petrópolis, another city that we'd considered visiting.

K: Maybe we could do that hike tomorrow.
G: 55km? In a day?
K: Yeah, that's just over a marathon. How long would that take?
G: Hm, I guess we could do that in 8 hours.

Later that night Ken did some research on the World Wide Web: The 55km trail is a 3-day hike for which you need to hire a guide. We agreed to spend Tuesday at the park to do some shorter hikes and gather more info. When we arrived, a very friendly guide apologized for the weather (it was extremely foggy) and showed us how to find the trailheads for the trails accessible from Teresópolis. She also advised us to hike one in particular (Post Card Trail) that is rated moderate to difficult to gauge our readiness for the 3-day hike.

We set off up a steep road of about 2km to find the trailheads. The first trail we hiked, rated easy, was ony 400m and took us all of 10 minutes. We felt studly and set off to find the next trail, rated moderate. This one was 1.1km and took us an hour. I was starting to realize the error of our previous night's calculations. We continued up the steep road to the trailhead for Post Card Trail, and decided to save it for last (read: I wasn't sure we should start it without at least a little break first).

After a snack, a bathroom break and a nice flat 400m hike we started up Post Card's steep 1.2km trail, and reached the lookout point in just under an hour. There was a handy sign that illustrated the various mountain peaks visible from that point.

*Visibility may vary according to weather. See also: Extremely foggy.

Anyway, after 4 hours of hiking and a couple of hot showers, we realized that we're unprepared at this juncture for 3 days of hiking. Instead, we're going to spend the rest of the week doing that for which we are well-suited: sitting on the beach. Hopefully our visibility will improve.

P.S. On Monday we purchased a large bag of oranges for about 54¢. As an experiment, I'm going see if I can survive on only oranges for the next 24 hours. No matter the outcome, it will be a real boon to our budget.

Further To My Handstands Post

Thanks to Candace for bringing this lovely song to my attention.

Capoeira and Handstands and Fear

Once again, I'm standing about a meter in front of the wall, facing it. I'll want to push off with my left foot and kick up with my right foot. I step my left foot forward as I place my hands on the floor, then flex my left knee a little bit more while my right leg stays straight. I push off with my left foot and try, again, to kick my legs up to the wall.

I don't even come close, and both feet drop back to the floor with a thump.

Last week I went to my first Capoeira class. On the way there I joked to Ken that if I wasn't upside down by the end of class, I wasn't going back.

Midway through the (level zero) class, we were practicing handstands and cartwheels. I've never done either.

In yoga, I've done headstands, but never a handstand. I even took a handstand class a few years ago. Apparently I loved it, but I never managed to fully invert.

Every year, about a month before my birthday, I resolve that this year! Before this birthday! I will do a cartwheel. And a handstand! If my feet are all the way up there, why not?

With the exception of a handful of 90-minute classes three years ago, I've never actively tried to achieve this goal. I've gone to yoga classes and done the preparation (mat against the wall, Downward-Facing Dog, walk feet in) and then after a few half-hearted kicks I've rested in Child's Pose, satisified with my "effort".

But now, thanks to these intensely challenging Capoeira classes, I'm trying more sincerely than I ever have, and in trying I've realized that I am almost paralyzed with fear. When the instructor tells us that we'll be practicing an inversion my heart beats loudly in my chest. As I watch my classmates effortlessly step into handstands and turn perfect cartwheels, my breath shortens and I feel a lump in my throat and the words "I can't I can't I can't" repeat so loudly in my head that I'm sure everyone else can hear them, too.

In those moments, I don't want to be there. Sometimes I try to be optimistic, telling the teacher that I can't do that exact move quite yet, and he has given me alternatives to practice, and I do, and survive. Other times, I whisper, "I hate this."

I don't know where this fear comes from, and anyway, it probably doesn't matter. I do know that at the end of every class I've felt stronger, and grateful for the experience. I also know that I'll keep going back.

And maybe this will be the year that I can.

A Week In Brazil

We arrived in Salvador a week ago, and already I never want to leave. When we told our friends in Buenos Aires that we were planning a trip to Brazil, they universally said the same thing: "Oh, you'll love it, the people are wonderful! And be careful." There was always that warning. Our friends who had been in Rio for Carnaval said the same thing: That they'd loved the city and the people, but that it was incredibly crime-ridden and dangerous and that they had to be very careful when leaving the hostel.

Honestly, I couldn't reconcile these things. How could I love a place where I'd always be on my guard? I didn't get it. Until I spent a week here.

Salvador is a city of about 3 million people. It has an old area of town called Pelorinho, that has two levels. The Elevator Lacerda connects the two. It costs 5¢ to ride, and is the only safe way between the two levels, as the steep streets between them are considered dangerous even during the day. Cars don't have to stop at red lights at night because the risk of robbery makes it unsafe to stop. During festival nights in Pelorinho, and of course during Carnaval, you can expect to feel peoples' hands in your pockets, which is why it's better to wear shorts with no pockets and keep money pinned inside.

Why, then, is it so wonderful here?

I still don't quite understand it. I guess for one, I'm OK not bringing my camera out with me when I can tote inexpensive and very photogenic fruit back to the hostel and safely snap away there. When we go to the beach, we only bring a few reais with us for snacks, and lunch for both of us with beer never costs more than $10. Every time we go to the grocery store, super-happy Brazilian music is being played, and even the guy selling shrimp skewers on the beach is singing. Last night we went out for RS$2.50 caipirinhas, then danced Samba in our hostel, and we'll probably do the same thing tonight.

Now let's talk about papaya, shall we?

In Portuguese, it's called mamão formosa, and this fine speciman weighed in at 1.1kg and cost us all of 1.27 reais, or around 65¢. Mamão formosa isn't a small fruit (the rather handsome fruit model is included for scale), and it's filled with seeds that look like peppercorns. Papaya flesh is soft and scoopable and you can - and should - eat it with a spoon. It has a very mild flavour and isn't very sweet, and if I made it into juice I'd probably add a bit of sugar (or heck, a mango) to sweeten it up a bit.
UFF Fruit Rating:

The Recap Post

I can count on one hand the number of rainy days we've had since arriving in Buenos Aires, and today is one of them. Our cleaning service comes on Saturdays around 11, and this morning when they arrived I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed to join Ken at one of our favourite local bars for breakfast. After breakfast we parted ways, and as I walked to the grocery store I found myself wanting to just go home and drink mate.

In just over two months we've stopped dreading leaving the apartment for fear that someone will ask us a question. We've changed our default language settings on our computers to be in Spanish. Our personal training sessions are almost all in Castellano, and we've both read books and magazines in Spanish. (I even have a favourite Argentine mag, OHLALÁ!.) Using our mad Spanglish skillz, I've taken a cooking class and Ken has played Ultimate frisbee. We've even made enough new friends to have a party.

We've more-or-less stopped going out for dinner at 7 p.m. (when we need to eat that early, which we still mostly do, we cook at home). We figured out where to buy cheap eggs and chicken, and now have empanadas-on-demand at home. We've even deciphered the grocery store coupon system well enough that we save 15% on our grocery bill every couple of weeks. We've gone to a couple of wine-tastings that were conducted completely in Castellano, and weren't completely baffled. We're getting over our timidness about disputing erroneous charges at bars and restaurants, and yesterday after the tech came to fix our internet, we even argued in Spanish about whether we should have to pay.

I still struggle with what to do with all this free time. While I've been taking more pictures and cooking/baking more, I've also been watching a lot of old Veronica Mars episodes, then worrying about whether I'm spending my time productively enough. When I thought about that this week, I wondered if what I should really consider is letting myself be still, without trying to do and go all the time.

Luckily, I have time to try that to see how it fits.