Waking up in the city of peace

This, my first entre into the world of blogging, is driven by the realization that I´ll never remember to share with you all the stories that I intended to store away for our next encounter. It is also a fight against the reality that the forcefulness and abundance of our experiences is inevitably distilled down to a few sterilized parcels to be unwrapped upon solicitation, passed around the table, and repackaged like Christmas ornaments for the next occasion.

Thus, I can´t promise a comprehensive account of my travels, or for that matter, any great revelations (despite what the blog name might suggest-- though thank you, Marc, for the impressive sounding title to my vagrancy). Feel free to partake of my ramblings as you wish, pass it on to whomever might take interest, and share your musings as you see fit.

So, this blog starts in La Paz, Bolivia. Rather than apologize for my utter lack of organization in putting this together a month ago, prior to the Northeastern road trip, I´m going to insist that this is a literary device and promise to share some morsels in flashback.

To live in the altiplano is to engage in a continual war with the cold, even now, at the end of spring. It lurks in the cracks between bricks, nestles in the concrete floors, and penetrates as a biting wind. Those with least refuge from it (people living in rural villages or El Alto - the ever expanding "slum" perched on the edges of La Paz´s jagged scar) guard with religious ferocity against its siege. To let precious body heat escape is paramount to treachery, and I´ve been fussed at many times for opening a jacket in the midst of a brisque hike or a game of soccor. Expectant mothers in the villages where I worked refused to take advantage of free hospital delivery; one of the top reasons they inevitably shared with me was the coldness of the delivery rooms. My friends here have no idea what temperature it is outside (I have yet to meet anyone with a temperature gauge of any kind), but they know exactly how the wind is blowing and whether the night will be particularly brutal. If ever you should sleep in El Alto, you will sleep under the weight of dozens of blankets, the deepest sleep you will have felt since the womb.

Here I am woken by the curious giggles of Katy (my godchild, now 4 years old) and her more timid sidekick, Erika (age 2). Katy is intrepid and insatiable. She memorizes my crude translations of Goodnight Gorilla and the Three Bears within a day and starts "reading" the books to her sister. She commandeers the 50 piece puzzle that I brought for another young friend and has put it together at least a dozen times (more, if you consider that Erika steadily and patiently destroys her work as she goes). On the bumpy road down to Zona Sur last night, Katy insists on endless games of Thumb War and Rock, Scissors, Paper (though she doesn´t understand the strategic disadvantage of choosing scissors every time).

Today I ventured out into the city for the first time. For a while I tag along behind a friend who is intent on finding a business card holder amongst the hundreds of tiny (and understocked, at least when it comes to business card holders) shops. We criss-cross the busy market street in a game of Frogger, as I try to remember how to not get run over. (More on Rules of the Road another time). Two dozen shops, one irritable attendant, and one illegal parking job later, we return home with her prize.

This afternoon I ascended to the city center, where a rush of memories come back. I´m starting to remember the names of city districts, buildings (which everyone seems to know better than street names), street slang. The hills are steeper than I remember them, and - still short of breath - I cannot breeze through the crowds of vendors, tourists, and migrants as quickly as I once could. Yes this place - with its crooked cobbled streets, chorus of bus callers, crush of vendors, and the persistant taste of hope wafting through the air - still feels like home.