Barcelona Besties and The Time We Found "the Lost City" of Machu Picchu: A Tale of Ancient Ruins, Badassery, Gringo Killers and Questionable Massages

Liz, my Barcelona Bestie, and I serendipitously met on our layover to Amsterdam, en route to our final destination, Barcelona, almost 13 years ago. I feel I am aging my 33-year-old self right now. When did I get to the point where I could age myself? Oyy. Anyway, Liz is likely the reason I did not beg the pilot, as we flew over the Atlantic, to turn the plane around and promptly drop me back on American soil. Riddled with anxiety over being away for four whole months, there was some semblance of stillness, or at least a temporary calming of nerves, when we started talking and decided immediately that we would be friends.

As it turned out, we became the inseparable kind. We ran all over Barcelona, much of Spain, and we attempted to take Dublin by storm, but we missed our RyanAir flight, actually had to stay at a four-star hotel in Girona as there were no more trains back to Barcelona, nor were any hostels open that night, and then had to dine at a fine restaurant, again, because that was our only option.

Liz and I have a knack for making the most of anything. Our latest adventure was in Peru and it began in a much more auspicious manner than the day we boarded the train for Dublin, and proved to be one of the trips of our lifetimes.

It has been just over a week since returning from Peru. I have stared at the photos an inordinate amount of times now. It is true that all we have is the present, but I have been allowing myself to relive those delicious moments of awe and grit and laughter and camaraderie. Where history mingled with the now, where the voices of the past seemed almost audible, and where Inkan spirits were nearly visible.

I think each moment does form some kind of intangible atom that adds itself to our being, changing us, while sometimes nearly invisibly, still, significantly. Machu Picchu was just one of those experiences that added many atoms I seem to feel vibrating within my body. It was a four day trek that I believe I will distinctly remember.

If I cannot, through the current of my touch, transfer the emotion and significance of what this trek was, how will I put it into words, so that I can share with you some semblance of the experience? So that you too can know something of the magic and the beauty of the scenery, and the endurance demanded of the trail. I think the photos will speak to you, and with some interludes, I will seek to add a bit of the humor, hardness and awe that we experienced on the 42 kilometers of Inka trail, from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu.

Our Peru Treks group of 16 trekkers, hailing from Britain, Canada, Ireland and the States. #bananasinpyjamas

In the weeks leading up to the trail, as I was reading Kim MacQuarrie's The Last Days of the Incas, gleaning all kinds of fascinating--and very violent--history, I wondered what the trek would be for me. Spiritual? ... Sacred? ... Profound? It was all of those things, in a sense, but the word that really surfaced as we connected, step by step, with the ancient Inkan-laid stones was mystical. It was four days of mystery, awe, fascination ... where the divine felt ever-present ...

Our wake-up call was usually 5 am, and this was the view by 7 am. 

Love from Pachamama, Quechua for Mother Earth, along the trail.

It is views like this that raise the hair on my arms as I am aware that all of the particles of my being are dancing.

As we used to say in the mountains, "Breath. Breath again. With every breath, you are alive." After all these years, this is still the best advice I can give you: Savior your existence. Live every moment. Do not waste a breath.
~Nando Parrado, Miracle in the Andes

In the evenings, when we would crawl into our tents around 8 pm, I cracked open the book I had bought at the airport on our short layover in Lima. Mark Adams' Turn Right At Machu Picchu: Rediscovering the Lost City One Step at a Time was worth the $25 my Maracuyá Sour saturated brain decided to pay for it. While MacQuarrie has me wrapped up in names and events of the past, Adams had me chucking aloud as he recounts following the path of Hiram Bingham, the man who rediscovered Machu Pichhu (for the larger world) in 1911. I was a very eager school girl by day, nodding my head enthusiastically as the guides would stop us along the trail to give a lesson about the ruins or the Inkas that I had just read about. This was the most authentic historical learning I have engaged in and damn did it make the trek so cool. 

While Machu Picchu is the "lost city" (that actually isn't the lost city because the lost city, Vilcabamba, harboring the Inkan gold that was hidden from the Spaniards, is actually still lost) that was our Mecca, so to speak, on this particular trek, there are breathtaking ruins along the way, which is reason #37 why any able-bodied person should most definitely make the trek rather than take a bus to Machu Picchu City. You simply do not want to miss this ....

Huilla Raccay Ruins on Day 1

The world is your oyster and the ruins can be your playground.

Photo opp!

Each new ruins we came upon were new and exciting ... but from here on will remain nameless
because names are just not my superpower.

A window into the past.

Floating stairs, not featured at Machu Picchu. Make the trek.

The Vilcanota (sacred river) "is a reflection of the Milky Way galaxy, and temples were placed there in coordination with stars that exist along either side of our galactic plain." Author Graham Hancock coined the Vilcanota "Heaven's Mirror".

It was quite fortunate that we had new ruins to renew us each day; the trek was a good deal more difficult than I had thought. Thiiiis was in part due to being a terrible packer. Had you opened up my pack, you would have found high-healed sandals, a change of clothes for each day trekking, a pair of shorts, and then some other articles of clothing and chocolate that actually made sense to have along for the trail. I had packed everything for the entire Peru trip, including three nights combined in Cusco and Aguas Calientes, in my pack, and felt accomplished for it, until I took my 17th step on Day 1, with no fewer than 17 million to go, and felt the weight of that pack on my shoulders -- I had failed to actually try on the pack and it was now clear that it did not fit me right. But, suck it butter cup, and that I did.

Smiles before the reality of 35 pounds set in (and a mere 30 pounds after consuming some of those chocolate bars).

I had a few moments of dread that first day when I felt the bruises already forming on my collar bone, but in the end, the extra weight contributed to feeling even more like a bad-ass lady when we played a game called "Guess the weight of Jamie's pack" and everyone gave it a lift ... with both hands.

There was reason enough, aside from a big bag, to feel like we had engaged in some real badassery on the trail. For one, on Day 2 you haul your booty up to 4,200 meters, or 13,799 feet, gaining 1,200 meters, or nearly 4,000 feet, in five hours. The following is what we saw for those long hours ... 

And so we felt a bit like ...

And then we would be nearing a bend, all hopeful hearts, until ...

More. Stairs.

But finally ...

Batwomen...

become bigger badasses.

And you better get your game face on for Day 3. Because Day 3 is all down hill. And this sounds like a dream, exactly like the one you had on Night 2, but, in fact, it's not. No, Day 3 is a Gringo Killer. Better yet, say the 6,000 year old stairs, 3,000 Gringo Killers. 

Yes, yes this is my I'm stepping varsity today game face. How do you like me now, stairs?

The answer to that audacious question? Something like ...

Another gringa bites the dust.

Until the cry came from my BB: Never. Give. Up! No, never give up. Because the finish for Day 3 is sexy.

This sexy. JT would be impressed.

So, the upside is that our third day had this really lovely, magical finish with that rainbow over the valley, and the downside is that because of Day 3 my knee replacement surgery just got 10 years closer, which means I'll be going under the knife like next week, but there are always trade-offs, aren't there?

I think we slept for about two hours this third night. It was the combined effects of a hard ground and anticipation of arrival to the sacred site, so when the cheery porters shook our tent at 3 am, their sweet buenos días was met with a couple of groans. The grumpiness did not last long, though, as Machu Picchu was now a mere five kilometers away. Within two hours, something began to materialize ...

Squint a bit and you will see ...

this pilgrimage had a priceless payoff.

And when we had officially arrived, my jaw did drop ...

In the variety of its charms and the power of its spell,
I know of no other place in the world which can compare with it.
~ rediscoverer Hiram Bingham

We had several hours to traipse our tired but enthralled selves through the ruins of Machu Picchu City. Here is just a sampling of what we stumbled into ...

Lounging llamas. The desire to spoon with them was ultimately overpowered by the charm of...

the city itself.

This is a very large sundial.

This is the Tomb of the Condor and a rock that seems to defy gravity.

And this is Wuaynu Picchu, which you can scale for another aerial vista of Machu Picchu City, but we opted to admire the mountain from this vantage point and call it a day. A super duper grand day.

As Liz and I planned our South American adventure, we decided to stay a night in Aguas Calientes, the town that "lies in a deep gorge below the ruins." It sounds refreshing, especially after four days of sweaty hiking without a shower, but I would not recommend it to a fellow traveler. Aguas Calientes is home to hot springs ... that house the grime of thousands of other dirty trekkers. The pueblo also boasts dozens and dozens of sketchy places to get a massage. We did enter one of those suspicious looking abodes to try to soothe our aching muscles, and indeed questionable massages are part of the title to this post, but it is nearing that bewitching hour, where if I do not fall asleep soon, there will be no sleep to be had, and you have been reading along for a good while now. So all that I will mention is that you shall enter the massage parlors with caution. You will likely end up in a couple's massage with your bestie, lying on a makeshift massage table, in a room with ratty curtains that do not cover the open-air window, where construction workers are within an arm's reach, and, rather than listen to the zen music, you will hear the beating pop/hip hop mash-up blending with the voices blaring into a megaphone. It will not be relaxing, but ... but your calves will be back in working condition upon your exit. And they will agree to walk you to Indio Feliz where you will dine on the best fare of the trip.

As I close tonight, I did think that after a week of reflection and looking over photos I would be able to articulate the impact that the trek had on me -- how it is exactly that everything in me feels so awake. My heart, my brain, my soul ... it is like a fire has been stoked inside. But something is still percolating. I cannot quite name why the Inka Trail was what it was. But whether I can define it or not, the awakening exists. Sometimes we just have that sense that we were precisely where we were supposed to be. The connecting to nature and disconnecting from other distractions, experiencing the hardness and the humor with one of my soulies, the sense of ancient souls around me, it must have been just what I needed in that time and space. 

Mark Adams has written it quite articulately: For the first time since dropping out of graduate school, I remembered an unpleasant weekend spent struggling to comprehend the philosopher Immanuel Kant's explanation of the difference between calling something beautiful and calling it sublime. Nowadays, we throw around the word 'sublime' to describe gooey desserts or overpriced handbags. In Kant's epistemology it meant something limitless, an aesthetically pleasing entity so huge that it made the perceiver's head hurt. Machu Picchu isn't just beautiful, it's sublime.

When shit hits the fan, there's still chocolate

I am sitting here this Friday night, not so much wallowing, but perhaps sulking a bit in the silence that has been left behind after Mom and Gram have left for the airport. As long as I am doing this international gig, I conclude that see you this summer and see you at Christmas will put a wrench in my heart and a rock in my stomach. It doesn't get easier.

And so, since that is what it is, I think it best to entertain myself by reminiscing about the last two weeks, which have been filled with memorable moments that I might neatly put in the following categories: Ready-Set-Carnival, Toots That Make You Laugh, Only in Ecuador, Damn the Altitude, and Shit ... Shit is Running Down My Leg Again.

We begin with Ready-Set-Carnival:

Dad, Mom and Gram hadn't even been in Ecuador 24 hours yet and I had them on a chiva, which this article coins "A Fiesta on Wheels." This is a good description. Often a night on a chiva leads to a morning trying to hook yourself up to an IV that drips Gatorade or Pedialyte. This is because on a chiva you may consume large amounts of canelazo, and perhaps aguardiente too. My friend Maria set up this particular open-air party trolley to celebrate her mom's visit to Ecuador, so it was more of a family affair and we all woke up without feeling too chuchaqui, or hungover, which is more than can be said for my students during the week we celebrated Carnival at school, but more on that momentarily.

During Carnival it is customary to either throw water on people or cover them in sticky foam. You can imagine that the children have a hay day with this, and indeed they do. At some point during the chiva ride, we all looked like this:

Photo credit: chuckdphotography

Honestly, I had little idea of what Carnival was really celebrating until I just took a peak at wikipedia. Historically, Carnival was a pagan holiday that merged with Catholicism. While some historians "tell of a Bishop in 1867 who threatened excommunication for the sin of playing Carnival games," rambunctious games have continued throughout the centuries. At Americano, Carnival is a long-held tradition and right of passage that the high school students look forward to all year. During the week of Carnival at school, which is the week after our Carnival break, the students in 10th, 11th and 12th grade campaign to get their elected queen to be crowned. There is a lot (quite understated) of drum beating and chanting and screaming throughout the week. 
The students look like this at times ...

Photo credit: Maria Gribensk

Photo obtained through Pris Gc

And then like this ...

Photo credit

For students, Carnival is the most anticipated week of the year, for teachers ... less so. As it turned out, Mom and Gram's stay was extended and I ended up with a one-day respite from the hullabaloo. More on that extension momentarily.

Moving on to Toots That Make You Laugh:

After the chiva ride (and a brunch with my friends and watching the SuperBowl at a new friend's house, complete with kick-ass halftime nacho bowls), we wound our way up the mountain roads to an ecolodge named The Black Sheep Inn. Before moving to Ecuador, I was unaware of ecolodges, and more about these earth friendly abodes in a forthcoming post, but, in sum, ecolodges often serve vegetarian meals, compost both your food and your poop and repurpose "trash". While Gram was experiencing a blast to her past when using the non-flushing toilets, the bathrooms were pretty cool as the showers were largely built from wine and liquor bottles, allowing the natural light to shine in through blue and green glass. 

While at the Black Sheep, we entertained ourselves by reading and playing a lot of Oh, Hell, a card game we introduced Alli and Charles to. Dad, Alli, Charles and I also utilized the outdoor workout space to get some TRX reps in. 

Photo credit: chuckdphotography
Yes, Charles can pump out the reps at the same time as taking photos, with the help of his lovely assistant Anne Bacigalupo.

Photo credit: chuckdphotography
Take a look in the mirror ... behind Alli you get a glimpse of the view we had while getting our sweat on ...

Photo credit: chuckdphotography
Now this is fresh inspiration.

So, the food was tasty, the views boasted more of Ecuador's beauty and the games were competitive, but still light-hearted, though the most notable, perhaps more memorable, moments at the Black Sheep Inn were those spent walking up the 2,189 stairs from the dining area to our room (that had a triple-decker bunk bed!). In reality, there were 99 stairs--Gram counted twice--but keep in mind that we were over 10,000 feet above seawater. That is no joke or exaggeration. So it was something about the altitude and the stairs that induced some gastrointestinal gassiness. I won't name names, but as we were making our way up those stairs, lungs and legs burning, someone was throwing farts. They weren't shaking the Earth, per se, but they did register on the fart-o-meter, and they had the Baci-Marquart quartet doubled-over, gasping for breath as we tried to stop laughing. This is how you make memories, folks. Once we caught our breath, and had stopped clenching our stomachs (this is really how we got our abs in), the toots propelled us up the remaining 37 steps to snuggle into our beds, warmed by the cozy wood stove fire.

Our time at The Black Sheep Inn is not yet done, but we do now mosey on to Only in Ecuador:

While staying at The Black Sheep, Dad and I set out on our first hike together in the Andes. Moving at a good clip, we made our way around Quilotoa. It seems to me that only in Ecuador is one able to trek the circumference of a "a water filled caldera" which is a "special sort of volcanic crater". At its highest point, Quilotoa rises to 12,841 feet. It is about 10 kilometers around, and I was happy to be hiking that day, rather than participating in the race around the perimeter, which the winner completed in under an hour. Perhaps the most notable, certainly the most beautiful, thing about the caldera is the color of her water. There is no filter on this photo:

photo credit: chuckdphotography

Additional unique Ecuadorian experiences:

Visiting the home of an indigenous family outside of Chugchilán, the city that Quilotoa is nestled within.
photo credit: chuckdphotography

The family raises cuy, or guinea pigs, to sell for the dinner table.
Cuy tastes a bit like chicken, but you've really got to work for your meat.
photo credit: chuckdphotography

Three little pigs that, rather than hiding from the big bad wolf, came running to see how reliable our guard dog really was. They raced back down the hill as soon as they realized Scout meant business and would certainly protect us from their sniffly snouts.

Llamas. Llamas outside your bathroom window, mooning you, and then munching on the hierbas and then making for the window to give you a smooch.

And so speaking of llamas, after The Black Sheep Inn, we wound our way back down the mountain roads--with a few deep breaths and prayers, at least on my part--through Quito and into Otavalo where we unpacked our bags at Hacienda Cusin. This was Gram's favorite spot, and this was where we met Larry, or just Lar as I like to call him; as you can see, we got friendly:

As it hasn't been a country of eligible bachelors banging down my door, I bide my time with besitos from furry friends. Hakuna Matata.

Cusin did share more than its animals with us. Originally purchased by Spanish king Phillip III in 1602, it has changed hands a number of times throughout the centuries, and it has been the site of some important happenings, such as the signing of Ecuador's constitution in 2001 and the marriage ceremony of Alli and Charles Denson in 2015. We can say that it shared a great deal of history with us ... and very beautiful grounds ...

photo credit: Hacienda Cusin

While staying at Cusin, we ventured to Otavalo--more about that momentarily--as well as Mascarilla, the town from which Ana hails. This photo series gives you a glimpse into another lovely afternoon with her family ...

That is Ana up there, picking mangoes. Ecuador's Got Talent.

We just made guacamole ... on the ground. Where are those tortilla chips now?

Ana's nephew carrying our loot: mangoes, lemons and avocados.

I love that the children are free to run and play throughout the town in Mascarilla.

Ana handing out the candy.

mis sweet padres 

We were hanging with the cool kids ...

and the littles too. <3

We've covered a lot of ground so far, and I've got a few more tales to tell, so grab your Friday night cocktail and get comfy again. Next up, stories from our chapter entitled Damn the Altitude:

After meeting up with Alli and making our way up the Teléferico (where I had to close my eyes and request that Alli time the ride so that I would know how many minutes of lamaze breathing to practice when we were heading back down), we began our hike.

Mom and Dad have been to Ecuador twice, once to Quito and then to the Galapagos, but as previously mentioned, Dad and I had yet to scale any mountains here together. Quilotoa was really the warm-up for Rucu Pichincha, one of four cumbres on the active volcano that I gaze at during my yoga practice each day. At 15,413 feet, Rucu would be the highest that Dad had ever climbed before.

Alli, Dad and I on our ascent.

We were fortunate to have buen tiempo for the climb.

Our favorite volcano, Cayambe, popped out. I was especially delighted to be able to show Dad what Alli and I had summited. I feel that he was extra impressed after she presented herself like this.

At some point on our way up Rucu I became aware that Dad was feeling the exertion of climbing at such an altitude quite a bit. We'd left without breakfast, though I had a number of snacks on hand. I reminded him that I had packed him some homemade chocolate cookies, which he generally devours by the dozen. As he took one out of his pack, he more or less nibbled on it, which seemed odd. We plodded on, though, running into some study abroad students, one of whom was keen on Dad's alma mater, Montana State Bozeman, and this reenergized him for a bit.

Nearly three hours into our ascent we reached the rock scramble, the part of the mountain where you can see the other climbers giving each other high fives at the summit. Dad had started stopping each step to catch his breath. Now, I knew it had been a number of years, but last we had been climbing together, in Estes Park, Colorado, he had kicked my butt. I had huffed and puffed my way behind him and joined him on the top of the mountain not feeling too cheery. As my padre turned towards me, I could see that his lips were turning blue. Stones began falling in my stomach. He looked towards the summit, then back at Alli and I and uttered I don't think I am going on. This from a triathlete who does CrossFit routines with his gym buddies. It's true I say Damn the Altitude here, but this was also a result of Ecuadorian Surprise. During the night, Dad had made his South American experience real. He'd abstained from eating or drinking much during the climb to avoid saying Shit ... shit's running down my leg again ... because that had already happened amongst the Baci-Marquart clan a bit earlier in the trip. Before we go there, finish your dinner ... and enjoy a few more fresh photos ...

Dad and I descending.

Oh, hey there selfie cam.

Dad was utterly surprised to find so little for wildlife on our treks, but then we did have a staring contest with a Curiquingue.

Alright, this final chapter should provide you with your evening entertainment. Shit ... shit is running down my leg again:

To read the conclusion of this longest post ever, we will first have to back it up a bit. While at Hacienda Cusin, Gram had been the first hit with Ecuadorian Surprise, and if you haven't yet drawn an appropriate inference here, this is an euphemism for super shitty South American diarrhea. We've all been victims. It hits you when you least expect it. And it hits you hard.

If you know my grandmother (and my mother and my sisters), you are well aware of what a super shopper she is. The second day at Cusin we had planned to go to the market in Otavalo. E.S. was wreaking havoc on her intestines, perhaps in an attempt to protect her pocketbook, but Gram was not surrendering. The flag she was waving was not white, it was green, for GO. So, Mom, Dad, Ana, Gram and I piled into a taxi to see what artisanal goods we could find.

Perrrhaps twenty minutes into our exploring of the market area, a panicked expression crossed Gram's face as she sternly said Ana, I need a bathroom. I was downwind. I knew it wasn't good ... but, I didn't know quite how bad just yet. Gram and Ana walked across the street to go into a nearby restaurant. When Ana inquired if Gram could use the restroom, the proprietor turned them down. Mi abuelita left him a shitty gift for his unkindness. The thing is, leaving out further raw or runny details, we'd had a Bridesmaid's moment on our hands.

Eventually, Ana found a kind woman who allowed us to get our shit together again. It was fortunate that there were many vendors selling pants at the market. As I am recounting this, I am still reflecting in awe at the aplomb with which Gram handled the whole situation. My favorite line from her: Well, I don't know anyone else at this market, and you all already love me. True story, and good lesson for the attitude to hone when shit hits the fan ... or the floor.

To further marvel at this woman, after getting cleaned up, she still wanted to go to Cotacachi, the nearby town where leather goods are sold. At this point I think we all figured that her bowels had been emptied, so we shopped on, Gram all decked out in her new navy capris. We did make it through Cotacachi and back to Quito without further incident.

But then shit kept happening. And I grew pretty concerned. Finally, on Friday night, three days after E.S. first struck, Mom and I took Gram into the hospital. While I had assumed they would admit Gram, and we would spend one night there so she could get some fluids going, and perhaps get on some medication, Friday night was the first of four nights that my dear abuelita would shack up at Chateau Metropolitano. It would be here, at the five star hospital, that she would meet a handsome Doctor Jimenez, do the tango with Alfred, the IV machine, play many card games with Ana and laugh aloud to some great Bill Bryson tales.

While I am certain there were some questionable moments for Gram, she kept a brave face on, complete with a pretty great smile. I've known her spirit to be full of verve and sass and spice, and she whipped these all up together to kick some bacteria and parasite ass.

On the fourth day, when we knew she'd be breaking free, we were sad to say our goodbye to the sweet smelling doctor, but we were quite happy when he said that chocolate could be part of her diet that had so many other limitations. There was a prompt run to Supermaxi to purchase Pacari's dark chocolate and Himalayan sea salt bar.

Usually men are apt to take their parts with them, but not Alfred. He was just too attached to mi abuelita.

This is mere hours after we broke out of the hospital. 

At lunch after the hospital break there was also decadent chocolate shot-sized desserts consumed. And, in truth, they made the formerly shitty situation sweeter. But sweeter still was the time I got to spend with Mom and Gram for the last two days that Gram was ordered by Dr. Jimenez to stay in Quito recovering before boarding an overnight plane to fly back home. 

Mom and Gram in front of one of many churches in Old Town.

Eating dinner at Pim's near the Panecillo...

which offered this spectacular view.

So here we are back to pondering the unexpected nature of life; there always are delights and disappointments, great happiness and deep sadness in this vein. We did not think that Gram would make it to Ecuador, but the unexpected timing of Grandpa's passing opened up a space, both physically and emotionally, for her to join Mom and Dad and see a new world abroad. I did not expect for my two worlds to combine as wholly as they did in their time here, but we ended up spending a good deal of time with my friends, which led to so much laughter and bridging of spaces. And we certainly did not expect the trip for Mom and Gram to be extended because of a hospital stay, but then even that led to more abrazos fuertes and dinners and time just being in the presence of each other. Who can predict what will happen in the last months here? Clearly not I, and I would not choose it another way.

Sending love to you all from south of the equator.

Always, 

Jame

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Would you like to know your future?

If your answer is yes, think again. Not knowing is the greatest life motivator.

So enjoy, endure, survive each moment as it comes to you in its proper sequence -- a surprise.” 
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

时刻在心中水性杨花, or Moments in a Skittish Mind

I am not a fan of flying. (Did we discuss that in mere months I am moving to China?)

In a two hour and twenty minute flight between Boston and Atlanta, it's a wonder all of the places my mind can go. 

Take-off is the worst. Really, those first thirty minutes are all

Well goodbye little mouse heart and hello big-elephant-who-just-saw-the-mouse heart. I feel you thundering all erratically in there, making your presence really known. Have I told you that I like you best when you make like Gus-Gus when he's lying by the fire? 

Breathe in for 1, 2, 3 ... hold 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 ... and out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 ... and repeat ...

Now why didn't I give the other passengers my survey before boarding the plane? Question 1: Are you a doctor? Question 2: Do you know CPR? Question 3: On a scale of 1 to 5, how comfortable are you holding a stranger's hand? Question 4: Do you have the capability to act as a flotation device in the event of a water landing?

Where, oh where is the handsome Canadian who will become my good friend to distract me with new tunes and book chats? 

I feel like a bobble body. Is it normal for the plane to move in such a way that my being jiggles from side to side in this fashion? 

Jamie, get your shit together. Look around and find your Zen-Air Model. Right ... right, that woman across the aisle looks very ... well she at least looks to be breathing. So, if I take out my book, and turn my pages at just that rate, and shift just every 4 minutes, I will appear a bit more ... normal ...

And then there are seven, short, glorious chapters of Michael Levy's Kosher Chinese: Living, Teaching and Eating With China's Other Billion. I'm smiling and chuckling and getting even more excited for the adventure to come. For the 7, 459 mile trek to that part of the Eastern world ...

Wait, 7, 459 miles, that's like, what, twice the air time as Quito?! ... No, don't go there. Don't. Go. There. The man beside you did not take your survey, did not tell you that he was looking forward to holding a frantic woman's hand ... and anyway, that man is hoveling like a champ right now, that is he is hovering over his tray and shoveling notable quantities of nuts and cheese and crackers into his mouth. 

Now take a look out the window and note the gorgeous cotton candy cumulus clouds. You love clouds. You've been obsessed all January with clouds ... Do you think clouds can clog an airplane engine? No ... no, obviously not. But I've heard about birds ... Ma'am? Umm, excuse me, Ms. Tranquility sitting across the aisle from me, I'm going to need you to open your window shade and check for birds ... 

You've got to distract yourself again, Jamie. Food. It works. Jamie Oliver. He's brilliant and Delta's got his specials available on the screen in front of you. Tune in and take out your spicy pumpkin seeds and new Trader Joe's chile spiced mangoes ... Oh, that's nice. Yes, I always like a good tingle on my tongue. Well done, me, pairing the chewy mango with the crunchy nuts. Jamie, paging Jamie Oliver. I think your next assistant is Atlanta bound on flight 2301. You'll want to meet her at the gate ... and speaking of the gate, consider the Earl Grey Tea Latte with just a hint of vanilla that will be in your hands in 43 minutes and 37 seconds. I do feel it will be precisely 37 seconds. 

For these last forty-some minutes, I think I'll just lay my head down on my tray and rest ... Oh, whoa, just a little dip there, huh, Pilot? Oh, heeyyy, did you really want to be a roller coaster driver? ... Ufff, if we crash land, I am going crown first into the back of the person in front of me. Sit up. Yes, I think it's best if I just sit up. 

Good afternoon, Delta passengers. We have now begun our initial descent into the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Please make sure your tray tables and seats are in their original upright positions. Flight attendants, prepare for landing.

Sigh. Breathe. and pray. Breathe and pray ... bobble body, bobble body, bobble body ...

and ask Gram about how to get hooked up with the good stuff in July ... 

From Mexico City to ... a city far, far away: The short story of a plot twist

So, here I am, sitting in the Marriott in Boston-Cambridge with Cass flipping through HGTV and Food Network by my side, snacking on a chilled Justin's Peanut Butter Cup. We've just returned from dinner with my new future administration. Yes, today I signed a contract with a school I had not heard of, located in a town I did not know existed, in a country I was not considering two weeks ago. The past days have brought about one of those unforeseen turns. A true plot twist. 

Since September there has been a file folder on my desktop computer labeled "Mexico City Docs." There is a school in Mexico City where three of my friends teach. My eyes had been set on it quite intensely since the summer. It seemed perfect. Closer to home, more space to practice and improve my Spanish, a great art and food scene. So, in my head, it was a done deal. I just needed an English position to open up. All of September I faithfully checked the school's website each day to see if they had listed that position that was essentially already mine. Finally, in October, it popped up on my screen. I skipped into our department head's office, announcing that it was game on. 

To cut to the chase, the only game I was playing was with myself. After weeks of waiting, and after David speaking to the director of the school on my behalf, there was only silence. As I moped around about this for a bit, I decided I would expand my search. So I turned to the world and said, "Okay, I'll also consider Chile and Argentina." And the world turned to me and replied, "You're cute. Think broader."

Right before heading home for Christmas, Carmela, a seasoned international teacher, suggested that I cast my net much further. I smiled and nodded on the outside, and proceeded to frown and sigh on the inside. And then I really sat with what she said. I started to check out and email schools in Denmark, Belgium, Austria, Thailand, Malaysia, and Morocco. 

In the midst of all of this, one day I was gchatting with my friend Lindsay, and, after detailing my latest leads in Costa Rica, Kuala Lumpur and the Dominican Republic, she responded with, "I think you're going to go to the job fair and come back with something totally unexpected. And you're going to love it." And this is as much foreshadowing as this story seems to offer.

Less than two weeks ago I opened my email to find a message that just caught me. After perusing the links attached, I was further intrigued by the school and the city it resides within, so I emailed back and scheduled a Skype interview for the next day. 

Michelle and I have had an ongoing analogy, relating job searching to dating. The interviews I'd had leading up to the interview had been akin to the dates where you either wonder how you can politely be back in your car as soon as possible, or you later tell your friends, "He was really nice, but there just wasn't any chemistry." 

And then I spoke with Mike. I couldn't keep myself from smiling, at times perhaps a little foolishly, throughout the entire interview. I was flushed with the prospect of being part of this new team. I was sweating with excitement. Literally. It seemed that I had finally met my professional match. That night I went to bed, but slept little.

I woke the next morning with a rapidly beating heart, the one my old friend Jake had coined my little mouse heart, and came face to face with rising doubts. Was it really that great? How crazy is this to consider a place so far away? And the language...Spanish won't serve me well at all. 

So I spent several days sorting through the pros and cons, reflecting, talking with wise friends, doing pretty extensive research, interviewing with the director, and chatting with a current teacher...and the feeling that stuck, the intuitive sentiment that kept rising, was that this was it for me. 

On Sunday, less than a week after my first interview with Mike, I awoke to the offer from Shekou International School in Shenzhen, China, in my email. I squealed and jumped out of bed, reminding myself that doing cartwheels indoors would be detrimental to my health. 

And then I thought of one of my favorite Rumi quotes: What you seek is seeking you. For months I had been pushing for Latin America, trying to work every angle, feeling so frustrated by the crickets on the other side of so many emails. And then I finally let go of the original plan. And a new plan sought me, and, as it turns out, what the new plan brought was what I had been seeking all along. 

One of the tabs open on my computer right now is to an article from The Atlantic entitled, "Why are Hundreds of Harvard Students Studying Ancient Chinese Philosophy?" It strikes me as particularly cool right now as I am a short distance from Harvard University, having just signed on with my next school in China. I read the article earlier this week and really dug it. Perhaps the part I connected to best is what follows: Puett (a Harvard professor of Chinese history) tells his students that being calculating and rationally deciding on plans is precisely the wrong way to make any sort of important life decision. The Chinese philosophers [the students] are reading would say that this strategy makes it harder to remain open to other possibilities that don't fit into that plan.

And this idea of a plan is a notion I keep returning to. During one of my interviews with a school in Costa Rica, the interviewer asked me where I saw myself in 5 years. My reply: I will be wherever I need to be in order to be growing. Right now that place is Quito, and starting at the end of July that place will be Shenzhen. 

With that news, my dear family and friends, it is time to cuddle up with Cass and a good cooking show.

All my love,

Jame

"[Into] the thinning fog the [sun beamed], almost without sound, like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness.” 
― Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep