NEW BLOG!

Hello! I've taken off the training wheels and have officially ditched Blogspot. With the help of a good friend who has incredible patience with troubleshooting html formatting and even more patience with my technological inabilities, I now have my own website!

You can now find my blog and latest adventures at:

http://somecallitwanderlust.com/

Thanks for reading!!

Frankenfoot

They say running is not a spectator sport. Well, that may be the case in the U.S., but in Latin America if you go for a jog the entire town stops to watch as though it's the oddest thing that's passed by in the last 10 years. (Mind you, the onlookers are completely normal in that they're walking a herd of goats or maybe a flock of piglets down the dusty road.) If you stop to do a quick ab routine in a park (or more likely a dirt field), you soon have 20 neighborhood children flocking around you as they suppress giggles and attempt a push up. Or they just throw rocks at you. Largely (with the exception of Buenos Aires and our fellow Santiago marathoners), people in Latin America don't run or exercise. And in some places, seeing 2 tall blonde runners in shorts may in fact be the strangest spectacle of the decade.

Throughout our journeys people frequently asked us: how do you train while traveling? The simple answer to that is you lace up your sneakers and go, same as always. But the longer answer is that running while traveling was partly about maintaining our sanity through physical activity, but also that some of our best and most interesting moments have come from our travel runs. We used our runs to plan our next destination, our monthly schedule, our futures. We ran to shake out 24 hour bus rides and to discuss the existential meaning of life.

But while these runs were necessary, they were not without struggles at times - mostly in finding a decent place to go, preferably a dirt path and somewhere we wouldn't get ogled at constantly. Amanda and I have run through the crowded streets of Santiago and Buenos Aires, dodging human traffic and praying that we wouldn't get hit by the insane drivers that ignore both stoplights and lanes. We spent several weeks running around crab farms through frustrating slimy mud that stuck to our shoes giving us 3" platforms. We ran in Cuzco at 11,200ft, and we've run at sea level on the beach. And we've dodged more stray dogs than I care to count. In short, the places we logged our weekly mileage varied as much as my career ideas do (which we all know changes hourly). The only thing that was consistent throughout our Latin American running endeavors, was the fact that no matter where we were, we were - at the very least - a spectacle.

So after running almost every day through small towns, big cities, and along highways of South America, after months of being stared at like we were a traveling circus act, I must admit that I was excited to return to North America where donning spandex and a sports bra and hitting the pavement for miles is not only normal, but ignored. I made it out for 6 runs once I got home to Albuquerque. Just enough to get used to the altitude and have 6 miles feel easy again. It took 2 years, 4 South American countries, and 5 months of running side-by-side mi hermana Amanda to get over my post-college frustrations with running. I was finally enjoying it again (even in the States!); I began calling myself a "runner."

And then one day I returned home with a sharp pain in my foot. An ache that killed while running, hurt while walking, and was annoyed by my biking an hour downtown to work every day. Now the doctor's verdict is in: stress fracture.

I am back in the States, a place where I can once again wear shorts and a tank top without feeling uncomfortable, and I am sporting a boot. Really universe, how is this fair?

Apparently it not only takes leaving the country but also getting injured to realize how much you truly do like something...

Already Planning the Next

I don't know if I've stressed yet how nice it is to be back in the States. Sleeping in my own bed is marvelous. Using a plush cotton towel after a hot shower (with conditioner) is even better. Eating peanut butter and Nutella by the spoonful is a bit of the divine. And working as a barista serving real espresso (imported from our southern neighbors) is constant heaven in a mug.

But somehow, despite what I'll call in true cliche fashion - these "modern comforts," after just 2 weeks of being home, I am already antsy to get back south. What is it about a bucket bath that makes you feel more alive than ever? Why do I crave dirty feet and waking up to roosters? I don't have answers to these questions, and perhaps that is why I am somehow feeling more overwhelmed than ever - because logically, a life without plush amenities simply shouldn't be so appealing...

"Yet all these things had no effect on me, or at least not enough to resist the strong inclination I had to go abroad again, which hung about me like a chronic distemper."

~ Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

Several months ago when I was in Chile, I began to panic that my travels were coming to an end. In the back of my mind was the constant question: How do you sustain the travel high, how do you keep the buzz going? With this, I applied to work for nonprofit organization WorldTeach as a volunteer English teacher in Costa Rica. Several weeks ago I was accepted to the program, and beginning in January I will be living with a host family and teaching grades 1-6 at the town's local elementary school. (Still waiting for my location placement.)

And the true drum roll here...Amanda, mi hermana, will be in Costa Rica for the year as well, studying outside of San Jose as part of her graduate studies program. (The Universe speaks.) Thus, today marks mine and Amanda's 8 month travel anniversary for when we left the country with just one-way tickets to Panama. And to celebrate, I'm choosing to relish in the fact that in just about 6 months we will both be back to the Latin American Lifestyle that we have come to love.

Iguazu Falls in Live Video

A few weeks late and still doesn't capture the sheer power and awe of the falls but it's something...

Import Export

Why is fruit expensive in South America, home of the most fertile land in the world?

Because it all comes here, to your local supermarket, in the desert where nothing grows.

Without Latin America, we would have nothing.

And according to Eduardo Galeano, Uruguayan historian and author, without Latin America we would also be nothing.

"Underdevelopment in Latin America is a consequence of development elsewhere, that we Latin Americans are poor because the ground we tread is rich, and that places privileged by nature have been cursed by history."

~Eduardo Galeano,

excerpt from Open Veins of Latin America: 5 Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent

The Spaniards first graced Latin America's region in 1492. From that point on, Europe had gold in their eyes and soon money in their pockets. The invaders saw a land rich in minerals: gold, silver, iron, copper, aluminum, bauxite, nickel, and manganese, (and later on, petroleum). But they also saw a land dripping with money from the abundance of produce that simply drips off the trees and oozes out of the lush landscape. And from that point on, Galeano claims, Latin America was not a land to be lived in or to be settled, but rather one to be dominated.

Galeano asks: why is North America so rich and South America so poor when they were both founded by the same culture? And he answers: because North America's soil is infertile, dry, nutrient poor. Europeans sailed to North America to make a carbon copy image of Europe. They came to live. South America's soil is rich, lush, and perfect. They came to Latin America to pillage, to take without giving back. For if you're not going to live somewhere, why is it necessary to take care of it?

I suppose this proves that selfishness over sustainability has been around for longer than we realize.

And now? "Most Latin American countries are identified in the world market with a single raw material or foodstuff." Guatemala: coffee. Argentina: meat. Ecuador: bananas.

But what's the harm of exporting if the countries have so much?

When in Guatemala, I never once drank a cup of coffee other than Nescafe Instant (imported from the States). And where are the rich, dark, delicious beans grown in the country's valleys surrounded by volcanos (the perfect climate for growing coffee trees)? In the coffee pots of North America. In Starbucks. Or in other words, exported. In Costa Rica, a country practically littered with bananas, one piece of the yellow fruit costs US$1. How does this make sense?

Potosi, Bolivia used to be the wealthiest city in South America. Now, it is a slum and little more. Haiti, once a rich and beautiful country is now the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Galeano describes Haiti in the 70's: "it has more foot-washers than shoeshiners: little boys who, for a penny, will wash the feet of customers lacking shoes to shine." Now decades later not much as changed; people build their homes of cardboard on the growing landfill.

Examples of cities that have fallen from riches to rags could fill a whole book. In fact Galeano did just that if you're interested in some (not so light) reading that will leave you scratching your head and hating the world. But to save you some time, in an attempt to summarize just one section of his dense pages to a few thoughts: although Europe has stopped it's colonizing voyages to Latin America to pillage the land and massacre the natives, has the violence and exploitation of Latin America actually stopped? He says no. While his pages drip with anger and pride for his continent, when you look closer, his arguments may not be that extreme. For today, instead of Spanish conquistadors, we're talking about U.S. government involvement. "U.S. capital is more tightly concentrated in Latin America than in the U.S. itself." While the U.S. has shifted some of its interest towards the Middle East these days, without Central and South America, the U.S. would crumble. And not just because we wouldn't have year round fruit. But because we are more dependent on all the countries south of the Mexican border than we will ever realize; a dependence that is largely hidden under layers of politics and tucked away out of sight. The U.S. relies on Latin America for reasons that take a great deal of searching to uncover; reasons I'm not claiming to fully understand.

Home in the Woods, Stateside

After a 12 hour plane flight, a 12 hour layover in Los Angeles, a 2 hour flight to hop over to New Mexico - not to mention after 7 and 1/2 months out of the country - I was hungry, exhausted, greasy and more than ready to fall face-first into my bed. But that wasn't to happen for at least a couple more days. Within 3 hours of dropping my backpack at home, I was packed up and loaded into the car to head north to go camping for the weekend. As I sat in the backseat practically unconscious, I thought only of how much I wanted to be clean and to be at my house.

But when you live a nomadic life and so do some of those closest to you, time is of the essence. My schedule in New Mexico overlapped only for 4 days with that of my beautiful cousin Emily, who is moving to Arizona for the summer and will return only once I have already packed up for the Deep South. Thus, we decided to spend those 4 days together in our favorite spot in the Southwest - El Vado Lake.

If you drive 3 hours due north from Albuquerque along dusty highway I-25 spotted with blooming cactus and steep walls of rock kissing the cloudless blue sky, you will reach Tierra Amarilla. Neighboring the tiny, rural village is man-made El Vado Lake. While the lake was originally created by building a dam to help retain water flowing from the Colorado River to later use for irrigation, man's touch cannot be seen anywhere else surrounding the glass-like water. You camp where you want. You sleep where it's flat enough. And you can water-ski until you sink under from pure exhaustion.

As soon as I stepped out of the car and took a deep breath of pine sap and mountain breeze, I felt like I was home. All the thoughts I had on the plane worrying about the future and about how to make fast money, all the tears I had fought back about leaving Latin America and saying goodbye to the places and people I had fallen in love with, all concerns and past memories seemed to slip away with the lake's tide. And I was left just in this one moment, in the here and now.

They say home is where the heart is. I agree, you can make a home anywhere as long as you find happiness there. But at the same time, I'm convinced that there are some places that are inexplicably home. Some places that no matter where you are in your life's journey, you are filled with pure bliss and serenity.

While I was less than eager to spend my immediate arrival back to the States camping, being dirty, and sleeping not in a bed but the ground, I can now not think of a better way to have returned to the U.S. of A. Away from cell phones, computers, news and media, advertising and consumerism. But instead with my family, our puppy, and natural New Mexico.

As much of my heart as I left in Latin America, some of it still remains this side of the Mexican border.

Argentina vs. Los Estados Unidos: An Airport Story

This is the comparison of two airports. But really, it is a comparison of two cultures.

Exhibit A: Argentina

After allowing my bag to explode while couch-surfing in his three-room apartment, after cooking me delicious meals complete with bottles of wine, and personally doing my laundry, my new Buenos Aires friend drove me to the airport at 3:30 a.m. Wednesday morning – not only an ungodly hour, but also a ridiculously far drive outside the city limits. It was still dark outside when we arrived and fog coated the ground as though we were driving on clouds. He parked the car, despite my pleas that he shouldn't go out of his way anymore for me, should just drop me off on the curb and go back to bed. Ignoring me completely, he escorted me to the terminal where we were greeted warmly by an agent steering traffic and sincerely greeting both passengers and the new day.

When we arrived to the check-in desk, the agent politely explained that the flight was delayed indefinitely from the fog and that we should return in 20 minutes to check on the flights' status. “Thanks for parking,” I told my friend. “I know my country,” he replied. We left my bag and headed to grab a coffee. When we returned to the desk, all the passengers were hovering around the tiny female agent standing on top of a chair to talk above the crowd. She explained that the flight was canceled and that they were working on dispersing all the passengers to other flights. One rotund, balding man was arguing loudly and getting the crowd to clap with him to rally, as though they were picketers fighting for voting rights or a higher minimum wage. But somehow even as the noise increased, the anger never did, and for some reason I felt as though the entire performance was put on in an relatively amiable and jovial nature. Likewise the agents never raised their voices or rolled their eyes, but instead continued using their overly polite manners* and offered everyone a free espresso and croissant at the cafe upstairs on the company's dollar.

*(All Argentinians begin a conversation with: “muy buenas tardes, como estas?” and end with: “muchisimas gracias, muy amable, ciao ciao, beso grande.” It doesn't matter if it's two male friends or a business acquaintance, everyone gets a beso grande (big kiss) to end a phone conversation).

I was directed to the next company over and told that I would be put on a direct flight to Los Angeles – making my new itinerary much better than my previous one. As I stood at the sidelines, three different agents approached me to verify where I was going and to ensure I knew they hadn't forgotten me.

Exhibit B: United States of America

After spending 12 hours in LAX's international terminal writing, reading, attempting to sleep, and prolonging my inevitable entrance to the States by remaining surrounded by as many languages as possible for as long as possible, I eventually walk to the domestic side of the airport. As I walk through the automatic sliding doors, I am greeted by confusing signage (despite it being in my own language) and a long row of self check-in kiosks. There is no one to call the passengers to the front, and there is confused discussion among the row of sleepy travelers as to when they can step forward and assist themselves.

When I eventually check myself in, the machine does not realize that I am flying internationally and I can not proceed without paying my bag fee. I greet one of the five attendants standing bored behind the counter. I wave, signaling I have a question. All of the attendants refuse not only to answer any questions, but even to look passengers in the face. One young woman barely looks in my direction before shaking her head and remains standing with her arms crossed. She does not greet me or listen long enough to even know what my question may be, but instead says “I'm only paid to put the stickers on the bags.” Good job America, you have successfully hired human beings to do nothing that requires a lick of brain power, while putting any thinking that needs to happen into the hands of chunks of metal. Ford would be one proud papa.

The machine continued to flash at me: Do you need more time? Like it's citizens, even America's machines are impatient and obnoxious. I quit my session at the kiosk and abandones my long-earned spot in line to hunt down the only person who may know anything...a.k.a. the only human given enough power to own a walkie-talkie. After I wait on her to finish her gossip with four other workers hiding behind a computer so they can all look busy, she tells me: “I'm sorry honey, I forgot about you, you have to go stand in line 6 to speak to an agent.”

Another line for another row of kiosks. This time the kiosks are backed by humans that have graduated Lisa Frank sticker class, but have still not learned how to smile. I watch as a group of six Chinese get desperately confused with where they are supposed to go and when it is their turn to step forward to greet a computer. Their confusion causes a tangled traffic jam which the agents attempt to fix by simply shouting “step back to the yellow line” over and over again. Who's struggling with language more – the Chinese who are struggling to understand a second language or the Americans who can't switch out of robot-mode long enough to think of anything else to say in their first?

Once I arrive at the counter, I explain that I am traveling internationally and that my bag fee needs to be waived. “What's your confirmation code?” I explain I don't have the number because I was in South America and didn't have a way to print my itinerary out. “Do you have an itinerary with you?” she asks. “No.” “Do you have a laptop,” she asks. “Yes, is there free wifi?” “No.” So since she can't do anything without me having my number and because I refuse to pay as much to access the internet as it would cost for my bag, we're just in quite a pickle aren't we? You're going to have to pay now and contact corporate so they can reimburse you. There, America, is your problem. “Contact Corporate.” Your problem is somewhere between the kiosks and contacting corporate. Just when I am about to either cry from complete exhaustion or get pissed (hadn't figured out which yet, but one was inevitable), she says: “Oh here's the code.” She found the code on the ticket she had printed out before she began preaching about corporate. Thank you very much, I say. Silence.

Welcome home.