Ania's Cumpleanos

Tonight Ania, Rachel, Evan, and I went out to San Isidro to celebrate Ania's birthday. We went to this French restaurant (my favorite in the city so far... sorry traditional Peruano restaurantes...but they have tarte flambee!). We had the whole darling place to ourselves because we ate at 8pm, which is way early for dinner by Lima standards. We filled the place with laughter as we enjoyed wine, crepes, pizza, and more. Ania even taught us how to sing happy birthday in Polish! It was quite a cultural event! After dinner we went to this hotel that has dolphins in it! It was awesome...but mid-drink, I fell asleep in the bar, haha! It appears that dolphins have a very sedating effect on me (or maybe it was the wine!)...I am learning I am not the night owl most Peruvians are...I cant keep up with these nocturnal creatures! Anyhow, the night was fabulous. Here are some photos...

Ocean Parks of Miraflores

So I finally took my camera out in my neighborhood, to capture some beautiful shots of the beaches, parks, and cliffs near my house. These photos reveal some of my favorite views in Miraflores! I was lucky to catch these on a sunny day, el nino is bringing us warmer weather than is typical for this time of year. You won't hear me complaining...

Pyros and Parade

Last Sunday marked my first taste of the festive Peruvian spirit. All morning, people were busy closing streets, putting up decorations, setting up lights, and getting ready for the annual Wong Parade for Fiestas Patrias. Let me break down that last part. Wong is, well quite simply, one of the coolest stores ever (if you’re into cool stores, of course). It has long been a source of pride for the Peruvians because it was Peruvian-run… until recently (when the Chileans bought it—a sore subject here), yet the national pride it provokes seems not to have faded. Wong is great for many reasons, but if you just need a few they include, live music, free samples, guys in Sombreros (maybe they go by another name here???), dancers, smiling people, tents, parade hosting. Think Target crossed with a traveling carnival (You may have to see it to know its glories).

Back to the Parade. The parade is hosted by Wong in celebration of Fiestas Patrias, which is Independence Day here. Peru won its independence from Spain in 1826, shortly after several other South American nations, led by Jose de San Martin and Simon Bolivar, achieved their liberation. The official day of celebration is the 28th of July (for which my street is named). However, this parade took place on July 12th. I like places that celebrate one day for a whole month. It reminds me of my childhood attempts to celebrate my birthday for an entire month. I appreciate the spirit!

Anyhow, Rachel and I ventured out to meet our friend Ania at the parade just as it was beginning. It was so crowded and crazy on the streets it was nearly unbearable. There were literally points where you couldn’t move even if you picked both feet up off the ground. So, we decided to head for higher ground and settled in on the fifteenth floor rooftop of Ania and Rachel’s apartment building. It was a most excellent vantage point. From there, we could see three different points on the parade route, the big empty school yard from which they would later launch fireworks, and the masses of people crowded everywhere. Its was a well attended event to say the least.

As darkness fell over the festivities, the street lights all went off and this spooky loud organ music filled the streets. It was a haunted house prelude. But soon, the fireworks began. Unlike the US, a country that is so cautious with its placement of fireworks in proximity to gigantic crowds, the Peruvians light those puppies off right over the masses. I’ve never been so close to a fireworks display (well except for the Louies boys’ pyrotechnic display in the courtyard by my house growing up). It was awesome, and at times dangerous. At one point, it literally looked like a rain of fire and flames was showering down on the people in the streets. I was happy to be on the roof.

Papas in Pachacamac

Last Saturday, I ventured to Pachacamac with two coworkers, my Spanish teacher, Felix, and his girlfriend. Pachacamac lies approximately 30 km southeast of Lima in a coastal desert area. Approximately 1000 years before the Incas came ‘aconquerin, this archeological site was a place of worship and pilgrimage for those who paid homage to the ancient god of creation, Pacha Kamaq. When the Incas arrived, they made used the site for administrative functions, though they allowed the local priests to continue practicing independent of the Incan religion. While the site is no longer in use, one can still find remnants of palaces and pyramids build and renovated by the Waris and the Incans.

The first building we came to was a large U-shaped complex where the women of the ancient culture, the mamacunas, used to live and work. According to the wonderful translated sign, “mamacuna” means “one who makes the function of mother.” In addition to the teaching and religious functions carried out here, the site was used by the Incans for a purpose very different in nature. If you look at the building, you can see a series of openings on the second floor. This is where the Incans would display the young female virgins, which were to be chosen from by some powerful Incans men. Felix told us that if a non-Incan man wished to marry a woman, an Incan man first had to take her virginity. True conquistadores.

The second complex we came to was the Templo Del Sol, or Temple of the Sun, situated at the corner of the complex on a high bluff overlooking the Pacific. Being a sun worshipper myself, this was my favorite area of Pachacamac. The views from the top were splendid. Between the site and the sea were patches of dense green flora, nice long stretches of sandy beach, and even a bull fighting ring. The ancient peoples chose well when then picked this vantage for their sun worshipping.

Oh, and a word about the dogs of Pachacamac, I have never seen such creatures! They are grey and hairless little buddies, with skin much like elephants (I call them perros elefantes). They are small and sweet. Though they lack hair (pelo, in Spanish), they are heat generators: the local people cuddle up next to them at night, especially those with conditions like arthritis. I like these dogs. (I like most dogs). As evidenced here, the Peruvians love to put jackets on their dogs, which I find quite amusing since it’s more of a fashion statement than a necessity.

After the ruins, we drove another 15 minutes into the town of Pachacamac, to attend the first annual EcoGourmet Festival. While everything about this little festival was awesome (as organic food festivals with music and free samples is right up my alley =), the best were the huge displays of Peruvian potatoes. Did you know that 2008 is the year of the potato? Año de Papas indeed. Peru grows over 2,800 types of potatoes, more than any other country in the world. And they are quite proud of this. They even have an International Potato Center, the first of its kind. Impressive. All silliness aside, this organization is actually pretty neat. This is the first part of their mission statement:

“The International Potato Center (CIP) seeks to reduce poverty and achieve food security on a sustained basis in developing countries through scientific research and related activities on potato, sweet potato, and other root and tuber crops and on the improved management of natural resources in the Andes and other mountain areas.”

In addition to potatoes, the festival boasted fine local cheeses, jams made from fruits I’ve never met before, delicious chocolate and nut candies (um, this little piggy ate six!), yogurts, fresh breads, veggies, herbs, pisco (the national liquor), and more. Needless to say, I enjoyed my time wandering around this little festival. I also got to practice buying things using my incipient Spanish skills. I think I did alright, but boy do I have so much more to learn! All in all, a fine morning soaking in the Peruvian culture!

Nuevos años

Being that it is the middle of the year (and feels like a summer day here in the middle of a Peruvian winter) I find it completely unfitting that I write this entry about New Years. Nonetheless, I shall proceed. This weekend, as I awaited a speactular Independence Day fireworks show on the roof of my friend's apartment building, I was talking with my friend Ania about holidays here. We were talking about how incredibly festive Peruvian people are. For example, the parade and fireworks display I just recently witnessed was attended by at least 10 babillion Peruvians, who came together to celebrate a holiday that still won't come for another two weeks (this is much like us celebrating the fourth of July on June 21st). Awesome.

Ania told me all about the customs that take place here for New Years, which I found fascinating enough to warrant a blog entry. Though I plan to be in the States for Nuevos Años this year, I plan on carrying out each of these traditions with whoever wishes to join me.

Here is Ania's written explanation of a Peruvian New Year (without modification)...

1.) The yellow underwear. Actually, anything yellow will do--they think it's a good-luck color, but wearing yellow underwear is a particular favorite. If you roam the streets in the days leading up to New Years, you will find an endless array of yellow garments. They are often a popular Christmas present (poor little children!!).
2.) The 12 grapes. At midnight, you have to eat 12 grapes and make 1 wish per grape. I assume the grapes represent the 12 months, but no Peruvian has been able to confirm or deny this theory.
2.) The lentils. Depending on the family, at midnight you either stuff your pockets with lentils or grab handfuls of them and pour them over everyone else's heads so that they will have prosperity in the new year (the pouring over the head method is much more fun!). **note: make sure the lentils are dry, obviously :)
3.) The crazy run through the streets with baggage. People take to the streets with their suitcases and run around the block (I think you're supposed to run around the block 3 times, but again this varies) so that they will travel in the upcoming year. Some people also do this with cash.
4.) The burning man. You make this scary looking straw man a couple days before New Years and let him sit in front of your house in a chair, often accompanied by a lantern. The Peruvians often stuff him with fireworks, but I would not recommend that myself! Then on New Years, you light him on fire. That way you're killing the old year and all of its bad spirits and making room for the new one.
5.) General mayhem. Everyone lights fireworks and bonfires in the street and just goes loco!

Um...have I mentioned how much I love this country??? I can't wait to discover more of these little cultural jewels...anyone want to come here for New Years instead???

Random Knowledge Part 2: Sex Hotels

Most young people in Lima live with their families until they get married. As a result, one finds lip-locked lovers scattered about the public parks and beaches, as home is not the best haven for such endeavors. I learned this weekend (not through first-hand experience, I assure you), that numerous hotels in the city cater specifically to these lovers, renting cheap rooms by the hour or night. Some of these rooms are fully outfitted with the young lusty couple in mind (think stripper poles, mirrors, and the whole nine). So I hear. Interesting, this city. Very interesting.

Random Knowledge Part 1: KFC

All over Lima are signs of the US’s absurd global reach. For example, McDonalds is situated on one of the biggest corners in Miraflores and fills the space of nearly an entire city block (with two floors consistently packed with people). In the past week, I’ve walked by or careened past (see: “Killer buses”) Radio Shack, Tony Roma, Pizza Hut, Burger King, and admittedly indulged in the guilty pleasure of Starbucks more than once last week (I know, I know).

There also seem to be KFCs everywhere. Apparently when KFC first opened in Lima, many people viewed it as an upscale American restaurant. People actually would dress up to go to KFC, making an event out of it. I find this amusing.

Cielo azul!

The sun came out this weekend! It made this sometimes drab city vivaciously vibrant. I shall attempt to record some other stories from this weekend (including drinking beers with a sweet Peruvian family, my first clubbing experience, stumbling upon an ancient Pyramid, and my adventure to Barranco for the strongest Pisco Sour ever made). For now here are a few photos.

"Professora de Peruanos"

I seem to have stumbled onto a new side job: introducing kettlebell training into Peru. While many of you are familiar with the kettlebell, allow me to explain just a bit about this strange method of exercise to those wondering what I am talking about. A kettlebell is essentially a solid iron cannonball with a handle on top. Use of kettlebells originated in Russia, where the military would use them for strength training and conditioning. Over the past few years, a Russian man named Pavel has been spreading his k-bell enthusiasm abroad, certifying kettlebell instructors in the States and I would imagine elsewhere. One such certified instructor is my dear friend Lauren, who introduced me to what I initially dubbed “the Russian torture workout.” I eventually got hooked.

As I was preparing for my trip, I talked to Lauren about the potential presence of kettlebells in Peru. I argued that it was unlikely that Peruvians participated in such preposterousness but she was sure that I would find them here. We were both right. A week before my departure, Lauren forwarded me a message from a Peruvian guy (coincidences abound…he is also named Jaime) who runs CrossFit Peru. He wanted to translate one of her articles into Spanish and post it on his website. We both took this as I sign and I sent him a message saying that we should maybe meet up after I arrive. Over email correspondence, I learned that while Jaime and some of his friends were interested in bells, Peruvians were unfamiliar with them and preferred to workout in mega-gyms like Golds. He said that it was not possible to get bells in Peru, but that he had made some (which I found interesting since I don’t know how I’d go about procuring the materials to manifest a cannonball). He also said that no one in Peru really knows how to use bells and asked if I would train him and his friends. So we set a time to meet.

He picked me and a few other friends up Saturday afternoon and we headed to his house (some of which was converted into a gym facility). I didn’t really know what was going on (as I often don’t when I am with people who speak a language I’m only beginning to grasp), but, as it turned out, I ended up conducting a kettlebell training seminar to a group of people, including the Lightweight South American Champion of Muay Thai (i.e. Thailand kickboxing), an instructor of Krav Maga (an Israeli martial art), a sweet Russian girl, and three other smiling sweating Peruvians.

I almost had to laugh at the situation I found myself in…but I was loving it, as I do most times I find myself in totally random and unexpected situations. My new students (weird) loved the session and asked me if I would come back next week to train them. They offered to trade their martial arts and self-defense training for my k-bell training. Additionally, as I was getting out of the car, Jaime gave me one of his specially made kettlebells to keep.


A Peruvian kettlebell! (…which is big and hollow unlike the US version). This whole situation is fabulously fascinating to me. I dig the series of seeming coincidences that landed me in this situation.

Killer Buses

There exists in this fine city what may prove to be the bane of my existence: death buses. This is literally what the locals call them- combis de la muerte- or killer buses. And with good reason. These mobile machines of mayhem careen down the street in every direction, black billowing smog clouds trailing treacherously behind. Men hang halfway out the open door shouting their destinations at you, as a cacophony of crying car horns pierces the ears. The majority of these mini-buses, meant to hold maybe a dozen or so people, are packed like clown cars with at least five times as many poor souls, hunkered over in hopes of making it home alive. No joke.

Now imagine trying to catch one of these killer buses to where you actually want to go in a city where you recognize nothing. Very fortunately for me, my poor co-worker blazed the trail over the past nine months of transport torture, and knows the colors and sizes of the buses that might just take us to work at 7 in the morning. The perilous properties of these death machines are compounded by the traffic, through which it can take up to an hour to travel about five miles.

And then there is the ride home. Imagine, if you will, the Tijuana border at six on a Friday afternoon. People stumble onto the bus intermittently, selling everything from homemade slices of pie, to candies, to cigarettes, to children’s toys. They jump in as the bus slows down on a corner and hop off at the next. All in between the screams of the bus man hollering destinations and frenzied people trying to hop on the right bus. It’s truly a sight to behold. It also makes me realize that my day really wasn’t that bad and that some people truly have to hustle to even make a sole (Peruvian currency).

Nonetheless, I am extremely thankful that my company’s office is moving five blocks from my apartment this week. I am one lucky gal. Now if I could only rescue my lungs from this toxic tumult. On the bright side, I manage to miss the worst of the muffler muck by taking side streets around town, where death buses are scarcer.

This morning I saw a man actually taking a broom to the walls, attempting to scrape off the grime and dirt spit at it from the many cars clamoring about this city. Good luck there buddy.

Forgive me if I appear to be complaining. As you will find, I am most happy with my new home in most regards. However, the minibuses are my nemeses. And so it goes.

All in all, the chaos and confusion of Lima’s streets make me smile. It’s nuts but there is a certain charm to it all. We’ll see if that perception persists. ☺

Lay of the Land

~~~Sights from my balcony...though the fog makes it tough to see, this is a view of the ocean~~~

I write my first official entry in Peru from a small coffee shop just down the street from my new home. I am sitting next to a young family (a beautiful mama and two little boys) and the eldest boy was very excited to see me pull out my computer. He explained in a few English words that he is going to get a computer soon (he actually told me he was going to get two, which his mom quickly corrected). I showed him my screen saver, which is a photo I took of Cardiff beach just before I left, and he and his mom instantly said “California!” I guess that view is the quintessential stereotypical image of Cali. As they got up to leave, the mama, her name is Lourdes, gave me her number and explained that she spent two years in the US (her sons were born there) and that people were so nice to her that she wants to return the favor to me. Her exact words were “I am for you.” So sweet. New friends. You know I am smiling…

But I digress. Allow me to attempt description of my first few days in Miraflores, a district of Lima, Peru. Perhaps even before getting to my experiences, I should briefly provide some back-story about my new homeland (or at least a few basics that I know so far). As my taxi driver from the airport explained to me in Spanish, Lima is the capital city and home to approximately one-third of Peru’s population (or about 8-10 million people). Lima is a big city with 43 districts, one of which is Miraflores, where I currently dwell. Miraflores abuts the Pacific Ocean and is considered one of the most popular districts for visitors and Limenos alike. This is perhaps because it is one of the more well-to-do areas of the city, with beautiful parks, a bustling nightlife, gorgeous ocean views, and more.

As yet another preamble to my experiences, let me also explain a bit about my place and my new roomie. I live on a street called Malecon 28 de Julio, which roughly translates to Independence Day Street (as July 28th is their Independence Day). I am lucky to live about one block from the beach, with ocean views from my front balcony. The apartment complex, called Marbella (Italian for beautiful beach???), is gated and guarded (by a couple of nice gentlemen I look forward to bantering with once I know some more Spanish). I live on the second of sixteen floors. My apartment is a two-bedroom, three-bath, with ample living, dining, and kitchen areas, and a nice little balcony. My bedroom—which is on the street side (I wear earplugs at night…think living on the first floor of a NYC apartment with windows that don’t close all the way)—is a great size, with its own entrance to the balcony, my own bathroom, and enough room to do yoga ☺. My roomie is a bit jealous that I seemed to have lucked out with the nicer of the two bedrooms (though he lives in the back of the apartment and, thus, doesn’t require earplug assistance to slumber). All in all, I am very happy with my new home!

My roommate, Evan, is from Washington State. We get along well so far, and he has been great company for dinners, wanders, and talks over Argentinean wine. While I enjoy his company, I have spent most of my days solo, wandering my new backyard on my own. As most of my close friends know, walking and exploring are some of my very favorite things to do…thus I am a pig in sh*t right now (to be unnecessarily vulgar). I think I clocked in about 8 hours of walking yesterday (and one hour of running—as if I didn’t get enough exercise). I am beginning to grasp the lay of the land, as I have a pretty good sense of direction and location. I spent most of my day yesterday exploring what is my very favorite part about this city so far…the beaches! In my neck of the woods, there are approximately five miles of wanderable cliffs looming over the Pacific Ocean, which are bejeweled with gorgeously green parks. Each with a unique character, these well manicured parks are filled with playgrounds, dog parks, statues and fountains, tributes to famous war heroes and lovers alike (about 500 meters from my place lives a hugantic statue of two lovers embracing—it’s awesome), park benches (often occupied by lovers in the flesh and blood), skate parks (for all you skater buddies of mine, this park trumps most I’ve seen at home), long winding stairs down to the rocky beach, and more. [I plan to take pictures to share but am a bit nervous about getting my camera snatched. I will wait till I am in the company of friend-sentinels methinks.]

While not as crowded as many of the breaks at home, the waves here attract many surfers throughout the day. As I sat and watched them for a while after my run yesterday, it reminded me of home and all my friends who should come visit and surf these Peruvian waves ;).

One of these cliff-top parks is the take-off site for paragliding above the city, a popular pastime, though probably more of a tourist thing. Touristical or not, I am thinking of going paragliding this afternoon or sometime soon, as birdlike views are a favorite of mine. Don’t worry mom and dad, it looks safe.

Love, love, love.

Over and out.

En El Avion

(Originally written on an airplane ticket during an early morning scribble--June 26th)

I awoke this morning to airplane window views of the verdant volcanoes and valleys of El Salvatore. Every shade of green seems represented on the mountainsides and valley floor. It looks luscious and more beautiful than this nation appears to get credit for. Though I resist making erroneous comparisons, these sites sparked stored memories of Kauai and Costa Rica’s gorgeousness. After landing at the small San Salvatore airport early this morning, I waited just a short time before boarding the craft on which I write this now. My trip so far has proceeded without major incident. The only excitement was the shuffle of my belongings from bag to bag at SFO to achieve the proper weight balance and reduce the extra baggage fees I inevitably had to pay despite my game of musical belongings. Details.

While most of my journey so far has been spent sleeping, my quasi-wakeful mind has been settling on memories of recent times—friendships forged and fortified, goodbyes to some of the best friends I’ve ever known, well wishes from family, and all the love I have been showered with in the past weeks and days. I can’t say I have ever felt more loved than I do at this moment. And of the countless reasons I have to be deeply grateful, this one outshines them all. This love, so generously given by my dearest friends and family (i.e. YOU!), fills me with strength, purpose, and courage. Though today marks the beginning of a journey without all of you, I do not travel alone, nor do I feel loneliness, for you are all present in my heart. All I can say, with gratitude, is mucho gracias para todo.

I am ready.

Prelude to Peru: Hiking Desolation Wilderness

Grad and Going Away Fiesta

Here are a few pictures from my May graduation-going away party at Fidel's in Solana Beach, California. It was a great celebration with my dear friends, lots of laughter... and tequila. :)

Why I Travel.

As I finish my last semester as a student and professor at San Diego State University, one of my last tasks is to grade a set of essays my freshmen have written. Their assignment was to read a chapter from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried titled “How to Tell a True War Story.” In this chapter, O’Brien delves into the deeper meaning of war, expanding into the truth about life, love, and death. He plays with the notions of telling and of memory, complicating the inclination to think of truth simplistically. After reading this story, my students were to craft their own “true” story on a topic of their choosing and use O’Brien’s strategies to unravel and reveal the deeper truth in their stories. I have encouraged them to write about a story that means something to them, a story they retell to themselves and perhaps others, trying to get it “right”-- to pin down its meaning and its truth. They have come up with some wonderful things to share.

So why, as the first entry to my Peruvian travel blog, have I chosen to begin by explaining a college assignment? Well, I believe any good story should always reach for the why, for the truth of things. And, I think this is an appropriate assignment to give to myself. Thus, here is my “true pack-up-and-go story” about why I am going to Peru. Perhaps only my students or those who’ve read O’Brien will pick up on my specific choice of strategies here, but my hope is that it will entertain and inform all of you.

This is true.

Wanderlust has been in my bones since my early 20s, or perhaps my teens, as I think back to trips I took—come rain or snow—during high school. In college, I remember listening to my male friends tell of exotic places and invigorating experiences upon returning from afar. Had I been a chameleon, I would have certainly turned envy green. How I wished to explore the world. I could literally feel it in my body, like hunger or passion. While some girls were secretly planning their far-off wedding day, I was secretly devising my far-off travel departure day.

But why? What is it about travel that intrigues me so? Some people say only those who are dissatisfied with their lives are compelled to travel. While this notion sometimes perplexes me, forcing me to ponder its truth, I firmly disagree. It isn’t about dissatisfaction. In truth, it is about rediscovering your joy and your passion in a new context. In truth, it is about experiencing things that will enable a deeper satisfaction with life. However, this satisfaction doesn’t come simply. It must be earned through travel. Those unhappy and challenging times—the ones that drop you off the edge of comfort and roadrunner chuckle as you coyote down the cliff—must be absorbed and inspected for their meaning. Sometimes you can only laugh and appreciate what they taught you long after they have happened.

I remember traveling in Europe about five years ago. I had decided at the last minute to jump on an overnight train from the South of France to Rome. I didn’t have a reservation, but assumed all would be fine if I just tucked away with my friends in first class. My first blurried sight (caused by a good bottle of Italian wine) of the grumpiest Italian train attendant ever caused me to quickly re-think my assumption. After spending a few hours getting kicked out of train car after train car, I ended up in a car that looked like the streets of downtown New York City. The dirty and downtrodden playing cards and craps or crouched down to sneak brief rest with one eye open. I was the only young girl amidst several leering men in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go. There was nothing to do but trust that the rest of the night would pass without incident. Fear was in me. But it wasn’t in control. I found a place to close my eyes, waking once, alone except for an older man sitting upright, just staring at me. But then the train crept into Termini station and someone whispered “C’est Roma” (Perhaps in the early morning I look French?) And it was all good.

It’s funny how the scariest most uncomfortable travel stories often become the most memorable and meaningful to you. I love this one. I think of it now fondly, though I was certainly not fond of my circumstances at the time. A true travel story takes on new meaning when you have lived to tell it. The best travel stories are never about snapping that perfect shot of some building or some scene you see in magazines (just so you can say “I’ve been there”). The best travel stories happen in the dead of the night as you step over sleeping bums in search of a place to rest safely for a few hours. The best travel stories shake you out of your comfortable routine, push you into the moment, and make you feel alive (even if you also happen to be scared shitless).

This is why I travel. This is why I am going to Peru. I want to feel the embrace of each new moment. I want to feel that unfamiliar Andean air on my skin. I crave navigation of the complete unknown. This is why I am traveling out of my comfort zone. It is that experience on the Italian train that I want to live in a new context. Because it makes me feel alive. Because it tests me and makes me stronger.

But this is not the answer I commonly give to people who ask me why I am going to Peru. I say: I just finished my masters and landed a good writing job. It is going to be good for my career. It’s actually a better prospect than my job options in the States right now. It is going to be an asset for me to learn Spanish. It will be a nice change of events. It’s a good opportunity. I am young and have no obligations, so it’s a sensible time for such an endeavor. I love to travel, and this will allow me to do so while making money.

This is true. But, if you think that is all there is to it, then you don’t care much for the real truth. Any pack-up-and-go story always has deeper underlying motivations. My true motivations for going have little to do with these surface statements. (Though, yes, I am excited about my upcoming job and the opportunity to learn a language, thanks Koech!) My pack-up-and-go story is, in some ways, a reaction against these reasons.

Americans are particularly good at defining people by what they do and how they make their money. (My mom says the icebreaking question “What do you do?” is the human equivalent of the canine butt-sniffing welcome. I love it.) It seems we often value the dollar chase more than we do our families, our pets, our friends, and even our own happiness. I’ve seen the darker proliferations of this ideology play out in my family and in the lives of people around me. I want none of it for myself. Even if that means struggling against what society tells me I should want: A job I slave for, a “perfect” family I never see, a nice house where I barely sleep, you know the American Reality. While these things gain you acceptance by the many, I would rather live understood only by the few that share this rejection of a peculiarly American type of suffering.

This is not to say that I don’t love my country and my life here. I absolutely cherish them both. I find new reasons to be grateful abounding with each breath I take. I find new reasons to love our freedom-seeking American spirit when I see it in my friends, my family, in strangers, and in the man I hope will become our next president. (Don’t worry, I will side-step a political digression). I am thankful for the privileged life my family has given me. For the generous and infinitely loving energy my parents selflessly share with my two brothers and me. For the love, kindness, and laughter of my friends. These are the reasons it is hard for me to leave and the reasons I will return with excitement after my time in Peru is up. I am also thankful for the smiles I get from strangers and for the kindness I learn each day to become better at showing myself.

This is why I am traveling. Not because I want to get away from something, but because I want to develop an even broader view of the beauty and life this world has to offer. Because I want to expand my own compassion to include others. To gain a glimmer of understanding about people that are nothing like me. To recognize that, in fact, they are just like me. Because I want to connect deeper with life. This is why I travel.

There is another set of reasons I am traveling. These are hard for me to tell. These are the ones about the sadness that spawned my search for new experiences. This part is much harder to tell the truth about. In the last year, I experienced three significant losses that shook me to my core. I saw my typically bright and optimistic nature bleed out and the blackness of anxiety and self-doubt seep into the marrow of my being. The intensity of my suffering spun me towards a breaking point. But this breaking made openings for new life and new meanings, turning suffering into strength. Its beautiful how life works this way.

Because I love travel so much, I decided I should take this as an opportunity to make that passion come alive again. It would be a choosing of life for me (in response to the deaths I’d experienced in recent months). A choosing of myself above other concerns, worries, and expectations. I wanted to replace my self-pity for being one amidst twos (and threes) with gratitude for my path and an acceptance of what life has generously offered me. I wanted to look inside, ask myself what I really want out of life, and then go out and do it. This is why I am going to Peru.

In the end, a true travel story is never about travel. It is never about coming and it is never about going. It is about enjoying the journey. It is about this very moment. It is about life at its most real.