calledmadeleine

The Mountain of Guacamole.

2008-07-12T17:36:00.001-05:00

I didn`t eat it all, swear.

Just Some Rocks That I Like

2008-07-12T17:35:00.000-05:00

Requisite Shot of Machu Picchu and Jon Admiring It. Also? LOOK AT HOW BIG HIS HAIR IS.

2008-07-12T17:30:00.002-05:00

Juggling Practice, San Blas, Cusco

2008-07-12T17:28:00.000-05:00

The Morning Train to Machu Picchu

2008-07-12T17:22:00.001-05:00

Cusco Cathedral, While High On Antibiotics

2008-07-12T17:18:00.002-05:00

On Violation

2008-07-07T16:04:00.003-05:00

1.

As many of you might know, I haven't been feeling particularly great. My body has resisted much of what South America has been throwing at me, over the past four-point-five months, but as soon as we hit the arid mountains of Peru, it sort of just gave up, fell over, and waved a white flag.

When we finally reached the Inkan heartland of Cusco, my most successful days included lots of sitting around on benches, between stops at the toilet. So this is, on Friday, what Jon and I did, during a glorious sunny spell. We wandered amongst Cusco's many town squares, sitting and enjoying cool drinks and popsicles (until I had to run to the loo), doing some light-reading or people-watching.

Anyway, in this one Plaza, we noticed a bunch of college students milling around, so we thought we would sit down and observe. We found a nice, sunny bench, and I whipped out my sunglasses and everything was grand. Once in awhile, people selling textiles or socks or encyclopedias would stop and ask if we wanted any, and we would smile and decline.

So it wasn't unusual to notice a smiling old man amble towards us. I was preparing to ward him off with a "No, Senor. Gracias," when he stopped and started talking to us. Now, we've been in South America for a long time - long enough to pick up at least a couple clue words from peoples' sentences - but this dude had us stumped. We weren't sure if he was asking us something, or begging for money, so we used our appropriated line, and shook our heads. And then the man touched my knee, touched Jon's knee, and then POKED Jon in the crotch. Then he giggled, and walked away.

I was stunned, and my mouth fell open.

"Did that really just happen?" I asked Jon, expecting him to bound off after the guy, or at least be crying, "Are you okay? Do you feel violated?!"

He shrugged. "Nah, he just sort of got me in the zipper. He didn't touch any, uh, machinery."

We ended up laughing about it, later, with our Irish friends, who suggested the man wasn't a total pervert, and in fact, he might have been a Shaman who was just giving Jon a fertility blessing.

2.

Here in Cusco, we are staying at the world's favourite hippy hangout. In the front foyer, there is a huge sign advertising San Pedro Cactus tours, where the hostel takes people into the wilderness for a three day hallucinogenic bender. The best part, though, is when the advertisement claims that San Pedro, amongst other revelations, will "Tell you who you really are." We didn't know this before we booked a room there, but apparently everyone who wants to do San Pedro shows up on our hostel's doorstep, so you can imagine the kinds of people we are sharing quarters with.

ANYWAYS, overall, the place is alright. The rooms are dingy but clean, painted nice bright colours, and plastered in bad paintings of people meditating. For our first couple nights, we were stuck in a room with two twin beds, and so we each joyfully got to sleep by ourselves (this was especially good for Jon, who was sick of waking every time I had to get up and go to the bathroom, each night). As our room only had one tiny window facing the courtyard, it got dark fairly quickly and we easily fell into a deep, wonderful sleep.

That is, until very early Saturday morning, when I awoke to Jon screaming, "Fuuuuuuuck! Fuuuuuuucking fuuuuuuck!" and jumping in the air, out of bed, and scrambling towards the door. He flipped on the lights, and I shot up, expecting a grapefruit-sized tarantula, a murderer with a knife, or a scorpion. But there, nestled in his bed, was a white cat.

Jon was shuddering, "It was purring! It was in my dreams!"

The cat had somehow, through the tiny window, climbed through a crack and into bed with the most vehement cat-hater in the world.

I climbed out of bed and tried to shoo the cat out of the room, and as it wouldn't move I picked it up, clawing and hissing, and shoved it out the door. I sighed. It probably had fleas, so I went and woke the night guard and asked for new sheets, and as I came back with them, Jon had climbed into my bed, still shivering, staring at me wide-eyed.

"It was purring," he said, "And the sound was in my dream."

I ripped the sheets off the bed and slid on new ones, and as I sat down on his bed, ready to try to get some more sleep, Jon stared at me wide-eyed.

"Its kinda funny," I said.

"Megan," he said, "I feel violated."

Into The Canyon: Colca, Peru

2008-06-30T12:09:00.004-05:00

From the Desert: San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

2008-06-30T11:38:00.011-05:00

The latter taken by budding photographer, Jon.

Three.

2008-06-12T11:19:00.001-05:00

Corner Three

2008-06-12T11:16:00.002-05:00

Refugio San Roque

2008-05-22T15:54:00.005-05:00

One morning I visited the Refugio San Roque shelter with the family we're staying with. It was a heart-wrenching but great experience, as despite the various injuries and oddities, the 500+ dogs (and some cats!) were well loved and cared for. I wanted to take all of them home and feed them bacon under the table.

Renata vs. A Block of Cheese

2008-05-12T18:24:00.003-05:00

It has been immensely refreshing to be living with a family for the past two weeks. Jon and I have befriended the insatiably energetic two-year-old Renata, who delightfully keeps asking for us by screeching out DONDE ESTAN LOS CHICOS whenever we leave the room. She runs to us for hugs when we arrive back for the day, and then she provides the evening entertainment by discussing the contents of her bedroom, colouring on her many books, dancing along with television sing-a-longs, and swinging around many inanimate objects rather dangerously. I don't know where her parents get the energy, but I love it.

In Death, Greatness

2008-05-12T18:10:00.005-05:00

Cementario de la Recoleto is a fantastic site. The sheer amount of mausoleums a square block of prime real estate is astounding - not to mention the breadth of the characters inside. The bodies of Armanian priests lay next to English dignatarians and, of course, the great founders of Argentinian politics and society, whose names line the city's great streets. We wish we knew more about the lives of Balcarce, Morena, Yrigoyen, and others.

Okay, Really Doing It In Buenos Aires

2008-05-12T18:07:00.003-05:00

My mom will be so proud. She just loves their chicken wings.

Doing It In Buenos Aires

2008-05-12T18:02:00.001-05:00

We Call Her 'Meangan'.

2008-05-07T19:22:00.003-05:00

We call her 'Meangan'.

She visits once or twice a month, on the winds of change or frustration or sadness. She levels tall feelings with a single blow; she lays on a thick, sticky layer of cynicism and guilt; she excels at destroying and breaking and burning her many bridges.

We are not sure from where or why she comes, and what she necessarily wants, but we do know we can't mess around with her. She doesn't take any shit from anyone, and this is often demonstrated by her severe brow, crossed arms, and tightly pursed lips. She takes no prisoners, and no situations are spared. She even recently had an episode in front of a nice middle-aged waiter, because she didn't like the way her husband was making decisions. It was pretty ugly.

Anyway, Jon and I aren't quite sure how to handle her. In London, we used to figure that a long run or a hot bath with a good book would make her melt into the background. Sometimes a good few Nelly songs on the dance floor worked, too - what will all the "must be the money!".

But here, in the distant air of foreign grounds, with the language confusing and the different smells and the gap between us and the real world growing larger every day, Meangan seems to show her ugly furrowed face a lot more, these days.

I don't blame her, partly. It's hard to be on the road, and it doesn't help with the language barrier and being constantly with the same person. Still, let's be honest, here: Meangan is a total bitch. She wasn't invited to this party and she doesn't belong here, with those pokey elbows and those button lips.

The other day, we found a nice afternoon nap - cuddle included - temporarily asuaded her. But the next morning, after her freshly laundered jeans were splashed by dirty water in the quaintly cobbled Buenos Aires streets, she was back and bold as ever, rolling her squinty eyes at her husband in Spanish class and marching out into the mid-morning air in a surge of stubborness. Not food or drink or hugs or cute new clothes could stop her this time. Dude: it was ram. PAGE.

So we ask ourselves, what is it? What is it that turns a normal person into Meangan? Is it simply PMS? Is it low blood sugar? Side effects of a birth control implant? Not enough hot baths or long runs? Is it a backlash of hormonal broodiness? A chemical imbalance in the brain? Is it hereditary or age or is it because of being constantly on the move? My god, WHAT IS IT?

I think the most frustrating part of this is that, while Jon and I have finally decided (with much talking and many tears) perhaps its something we need to take further - with a doctor or counsellor or head-shrinker of sorts - is that any right-minded specialist would hear of this 'Meangan', and our current lifestyle, and simply say what I've guessed all along: that I need to stabilize my life and then re-evaluate it. But what I know that perhaps they don't, is that Meangan just won't, for all our hard work and prayers and for all of the patience of my poor husband, go away.

And for all the hot baths and the marathons in the world, I just wish she would.

Night Falls No. 1

2008-04-29T14:55:00.001-05:00

Jon and I decided at the very last minute to take a very overpriced tour of Iguacu Falls at night, via the haunting blue rays of a newly-waning moon. Despite the jaguar/tarantula warnings, it was arguably my favourite experience on this adventure, so far. The falls were even more spectacular in complete darkness, when the forest teemed with creatures and the mist rose up and made night rainbows in the moonlight.

Why these are by no means spectacularly shot (the railing was quivering, and there was tons of water flying in all sorts of bodily crevices), they do provide the requisite amount of ethereal splendour for such an occasion.

Night Falls No. 2

2008-04-29T14:48:00.001-05:00

Night Falls No. 3

2008-04-29T14:27:00.006-05:00

This reminds me of a daguerreotype, because the rear-synced strobe caught the mist (for those of you who were, you know, wondering).

The Reason I Stopped Being Vegan

2008-04-29T14:15:00.002-05:00

It's part cream cheese, part creme fraiche, part fromage frais, and mostly heaven. Jon and I have been eating it on everything, for every meal. It might have something to do with why we have gained 48 pounds each and resorted to the spandex section of our respective wardrobes.

Belated Anniversary Portraits of My Husband, No. 3

2008-04-21T07:30:00.001-05:00

Belated Anniversary Portraits of My Husband, No. 2

2008-04-21T07:28:00.001-05:00

Belated Anniversary Portraits of My Husband, No. 1

2008-04-21T07:22:00.001-05:00

How I Long For Nap Time

2008-04-19T09:31:00.005-05:00

We´ve been in Curitiba for the past few days, due to the Brazilian winter overtaking our delicious island holiday on Ilha Grande. It´s a lovely city - full of thick, tree-set parks and quality public transport. In a few days you´ll see here my green opinion on the city, but for now I am going to dwell in a large puddle of self-pity, as the dark cloud of winter has also decended on my soul.

God, I know what you are saying: "She´s all, 'Poor me! I´ve got to travel and not have a real job!´ She is lame AND short-sighted, and also she is slowly losing her chin."

But, seriously. This trip is doing manic things to my sanity. Up and down, on and off the bus, new cities and new problems - it´s all the time and never ending fight-or-flight adrenalin. Where to sleep, eat, who to talk to, what to say, where to go and not go, always watching the bags and worrying about the contents - and just when I am starting to relax into a place or situation, we´re off again.

It is also totally making my hair prematurely gray.

I knew when I started this trip that I would have problems with the lack of routine. I can´t help it; I am retardedly habitual. I like my mornings at work to start a half-hour early, with coffee and the NYT, followed by toast with email, and finally digging into the to-do list with my weekly This American Life podcast or other NPR. It´s not how it pans out every morning, but it´s how I like it. And, pathetically, it makes me happy.

I guess I thought we´d be able to cobble together some sort of routine - a run every morning, a daily nap, time away to write or shoot - something, anything that might remind me I am human and not a walking suitcase which pours out money at various tourist outlets. But with our schedule and simple geographic changes, it hasn´t been at all the case. We´re too tired from night buses to get up and run; we´re awake when its night and tired in the day; our neighbours at the paper-thin-walled hostel have really loud old-people sex TWICE in the night (yeah, good for them, right?); our choices for dinner on the bus are Ruffles or Doritos; there´s no time to charge the ol´ iPod; I can´t shoot because I´ve got explosive diahrrea - god, it´s everything. It´s just fucking impossible to carve out a normal life for myself at the moment, and it might very well be driving me insane.

We were dropping off our bags at the bus station lockers this morning, so we could roam around town, and as I waited in line to ask about prices, I saw this funky-looking woman rounding the corner. She was lovely and all of 20, with her auburn hair standing up in a dozen wee ponytails around her head, and a thick gold velveteen coat wrapped around her tiny frame, carrying a leather briefcase. Oh, I thought, she looks fun and arty. I wonder what her story is.

It was only when I rounded the corner that I noticed her carrying on a full conversation with herself, the grey opaque tights torn at the heels where she wasn´t wearing shoes.

Fuck, I thought. She was so young and beautiful, so intelligent-looking and full of life, and here she was shoeless in a bus station, carrying a briefcase that contained lord knows what. Was it drugs? Was it hereditary mental illness? OR DID SHE JUST TRAVEL CONTINUALLY FOR A LONG PERIOD OF TIME AND GO INSANE?

A lot of people (like Jon) are made for the excitement and variety of this kind of travel, but as we round-off our generally great time in Brasil and head for Uruguay, I am simply becoming more familiar with my inability to cope. Instead of being fabulously thrilled that we´re going to another new country, I am craving Minnesota and my parent´s backyard and possibly even The Olive Garden, which I think is the saddest thing I have ever said.

Even last-night, as we ate at this huge family restaurant, which was voted the Guiness Book´s Largest Restaurant in 1995 (can seat 3000 people!), Jon and I joked that it felt like we were on a cruise, with the overly-dressed waiters being overly polite, and the rodizio filling our tables with plates-full of untouched food. And I said - and I am deeply shamed to admit this (as my parents always taught me that cruises were like huge sardine cans that made you fatter) - you know, right now I feel I would really enjoy a cruise. You don´t have to lug your bags around, and you get to sleep regularly and just get off the boat at the next port and back on, and there is lots of food (of which some is actually nutritious!) and on-deck pools, and you won´t have to get sandy, either.

Clearly, I am well on my way to wearing that gold velveteen coat.