Because you deserve your own day, Mommy dearest!

¡Feliz día de la madre!

Or Happy Mother's Day! Depending on who you are.

I'd like to dedicate this post to my own mommy, the real one in the United States, who put up with a lot to make me into the fantastic person I am today.

Today I present my mother with the Long-Enduring, Always-Loving, Still-Going Mother's Award. (Because we all know it never really ends...)

Here's just a few of her specific qualifications:

-I'm a twin. (Oh, have I never mentioned that? Whoops.) And my sister's only three years older. Yeah, just, imagine that for a second...

- When we turned six, my mom threw us an all-out birthday bash for which we invited our entire kindergarten class. A bunch of five-year-olds running around a house in the woods with animals and sticks and a great big rope swing and toys. Wow, I need a nap just thinking about it.

-In elementary and middle school, I was a chronic homework/gym uniform/lunch forgetter. We're talkin', every other day. My mom worked at the school, so she got the call to bring things in. And she did. Every time.

-I will forever remember the time I was having a horrific, horrific couple days in sixth grade (Nope, don't remember why it was so traumatic...) and I got a huge bunch of flowers in a vase in my locker from my mommy. She made me feel so special.

- I have now neglected to send her either a birthday or a Mother's Day card, and she still loves me. I hope...

The picture of my Mom and I at Wicked last year, which sits in my room in Peru.

For all you do and have done and will continue to do, Mother dear, I love you!

I hope your day was filled with goodness and happiness and love.

Long time no see, chickadee! I know, I haven't written in almost a week. And the truth about that is, it was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad week. (Alexander and...? Just me?) Not completely of course, but there was bad news from PA and bad news from Peru, all-nighters and stressing over exams...well anyway. Don't fall into despair! I'm back now.

I'm not the girl that I intend to be

Sometimes we struggle through the stressful periods in life just sunken in our corner of the world, and we're just glad to surface again and breath the free air once the stress dissipates. But sometimes, the universe, or the universal God, depending on how you see it, gives us a little window into life beyond ourselves.

Yesterday I was slogging through reviewing for a midterm, feeling as I always do during this time, like life might end were I to fail, when I met a Peruvian woman who lives in New York City but is currently here helping a Peruvian congresswoman named Hilaria Supa Huaman.

It's a little hard to explain in a sentence or two why Hilaria is a big deal in Peruvian politics. I don't understand it fully myself. Let's just say that her Andean background (as seen in the picture above) and native language of Quechua have subjected her to a lot of challenge, disrespect, and ridicule in a system dominated by the coastal, Western-influenced Limenos.

And as the woman I met in Starbucks, who teaches as an adjunct at NYU, spoke of the politician, her voice filled with such love and admiration, such awe and respect for the intelligence and perseverance of Hilaria and her fight for her people. "She is so strong," she said. "Stronger than me; stronger than anyone else I know."

Wow. Doing well on my exam tomorrow would be nice, I still have to admit. But if I can someday work for something with so much heart and determination, and earn the respect of intelligent, compassionate people, then that perhaps will be some measure of real success.

I'm just missing the bloody faux fur

The other day I was talking to the family at dinner, and my host father Agusto, who works in veterinary services, starts telling what he thinks is a charming story about a donkey:

Agusto: This one man had a donkey who was really, really old, so he could hardly do anything. But he was smart. They had no idea how smart this donkey was until one day he fell into a deep hole that he couldn't get out of. Well, since he was so old and was probably going to die soon, they decided to just throw dirt on him right there. But you know what? The donkey was so smart that as soon as the dirt started to come down, the donkey started to wriggle himself and stomp on the ground. And so what do you think happened? As the ground rose, the donkey rose with it, until he was high enough that he could climb out!

My host Dad looks very pleased with the antics of this donkey.
I'm thinking, Wait wait, go back...
Me: Wait, they started to throw dirt on the donkey...while he was alive?

Agusto: Yes, he was so old.

Me: So they were going to bury him alive?!?!

My host parents chuckle and exchange amused glances. Agusto says to my host mom: Look how much she loves animals that she's so concerned about that donkey!

Me: Well yeah, but I don't know if that means I love animals so much. They didn't even shoot him first?

Agusto. He would have died eventually.

Me: Well yes, but that would be a horrible death!

My host mom repeats me, still laughing: a horrible death!


C'mon, you're on my side, right? Bury a donkey alive, when you could at the very least end it's pain and not allow it to suffocate to death?

I don't think my disgust with the idea means I should go out right now and join a PETA demonstration!!

Oh she's new? Send her to the treadmill.

I joined a gym in Lima, that's what's uuuup!

Yeah, I know, maybe I shouldn't be too proud of myself. It took me longer than two months to get around to it. But I'm so glad I did. I've been known to say I like the benefits of exercise, but not the actual act of exercising. Well never again! Ok, no, that's a lie. I'll definitely say it again. But you will know the truth.

Mostly, it's like any gym I've ever been too. Machines, weights, trainers.

But there were some things that seemed peculiar to me:

a) The trainer measured my muscles when we were doing the little weigh-in thing at the beginning. Is that normal? Am I expecting to be all butch in two months?

b) There was a few pictures on the wall with huge sweaty guys bulked up on steroids and non-muscley but equally sweaty women in tiny bikinis. What exactly are they trying to instill there? Intimidation? Low self-esteem? False hope? Actually, I personally find the incredible hulk look in guys a little repulsing. Where are the women who think that's attractive?

c) The trainer (Edwin) just threw me right in there, with no tour, no speech about safety, no spotting, and no breathing instruction. What if I hadn't already known to exhale with effort and inhale with release? Disaster!

d) They kept saying they'd see me tomorrow, even though I kept trying to explain that I definitely could not come tomorrow. And where did they get the idea that I could?

My knees hurt, and I felt very light-headed at one point, but it was good. A good life decision. (Yes! I do make them on occasion.)

And the gym was almost totally empty, so I was only hit on very briefly by one guy. Which had been a major concern I had about going there. Considering who I am (American girl) and where I was (Peruvian place where people usually wear tiny clothing) I didn't think once was that bad. I'm on the treadmill: "Are you just going at 5? " Me: "Yes. The trainer put it on for me." He says something about how he runs at 7 or 8. I respond a couple times, trying to look busy. "So you've never run at 16 then? That's the fastest it goes." Oh really, you've gone that? Take me now! He precedes to go up to to the machine in front of me, run at a moderate speed for about 2 minutes, and then get off. So impressive. Oh dear, silly boys.

Dani, you're all sweaty and gross in that picture up there, no one wants to see that!

Them's the breaks if you wanna read this blog, kiddos.

And also, that's nothing. I look way redder and worse than that when I'm actually exercising.

Well, nieto, it happened at Starbucks...

Have you ever been in a restaurant, or any public place, seen a couple near you, and thought, "I think we're witnessing a first date here!"

I love it when that happens. Love it to pieces. I whisper, giggle, eavesdrop. And apparently, subtly take pictures:
She's: a little shy and unsure, laughing at all his jokes, touching herself too much, not really interested in her drink

He's: talking a little too much, trying to be funny, leaning in toward her

They: go over typical get-to-know you questions, don't yet have inside jokes, can't quite tease or criticize, but are eager to joke and laugh

Smile. I was silently sending them good luck.

Kara: What are you taking pictures of?

This was at the Starbucks the other day when we were studying...trying to study. We're there at least once a week, with our drinks and cookies. It's a good get out of the house meeting place.

And plus, we're the cool kids there. The barristas know us, smile when we come up to the counter. Yesterday the one kid even remembered we'd been there last Thursday as well. I think the security guard would protect us first....

PS. "Nieto" is grandson.

Stop traffic. We're processing here.

Busco, no sé que busco; creo que es un rostro que una vez perdí

I search, I don’t know for what I search. I think that it’s a face that I once lost.

Siento, siento una nostalgia de algo que me falta desde que nací.

I feel, I feel nostalgia for something that I’ve been missing since I was born.

I've always liked Good Friday services. I like their solemnity and reflection and confession. I like their dimmed lights and muted volumes. I like that, since everyone knows Sunday is coming, we don't have to wrap the sorrow up at the end with a neat little bow of happiness. That we can just leave the sentence unfinished and unsure for a couple days.

In the states, Good Friday and Easter are really the only two things we celebrate this week (Or at least, protestants. I don't know about Catholics. And really, I'm not even sure you could say we "celebrate" Good Friday. Yes, there's a service, but even a regular church-goer could legitimately be like "Oh, is that today? Hmmm, I guess I'll go."

But here, it's a big deal. They celebrate the whole week, la Semana Santa. And Friday is a big one. I mean, businesses shutting down, streets empty kind of big.

So I decided to go with my host Mom to her Friday mass, which I was promised would include a procession afterward. Having never before been to a Catholic mass here, I'm quite glad I did, because the whole thing was just extremely interesting.

I'm having trouble pinning down one main, connected thought, however, so here are some random ones:

From the service:

1) The three priests are all white with pronounced Spanish accents. I asked my host Mom about it, and she said they were all sent here. They used to have one Peruvian priest, but he was sent to Cusco.

2) There's an incredible amount of older women here.


From the procession:

3) I love these bags to light our way. Oh, wow, real candle in there. That seems safe.

4) How nice to pray for different people at each station! But... "For the women are hit because their husband comes home drunk, but keep moving forward for the sake of the children." Shouldn't that at least say something like "And feel like they have no escape and must stay for the children" ? You know, with the implication that that's wrong?

5) I think I'll organize a police squad to block traffic next time I cross La Mar.

6) Station 8a...Jesus falls a third time? Darn it, this is not going to end in 10 stations like I thought,

7) What a beautiful flower petal arrangement!...that will now be trampled as we pass.

So obviously the night was a mixed bag. (What service isn't, I ask?) But as I processed along slowly, repeating the refrains to the songs we sang, I felt this overwhelming sense of community.

And a wave of sadness hit me that I will soon leave, and life here will go on with lovely, tiring, living traditions that I'll know nothing about.

Llaga, soy solo una llaga que tán solo al verte cicatricará.

Wound, I’m just a wound, that just to see you will scar.

Río, soy un río turbio, y Tú un mar inmenso. Guíame hacia Ti.

River, I’m a turbid river, and you’re an immense ocean. Guide me toward you.

Yesterday I got an idea. An awful idea.

Dani got a wonderful, awful idea.

So I confronted my conscience.



And then I just did it.



Peep: "I certainly did not make that long journey across the Atlantic just to be treated like any old marshmallow!"

Thanks Mom! What would Easter be?

"And the Pacific? What route did I take anyway?"