The Road to Machu Picchu

It's still dark when we board the bus. My stomach growls with hunger and anticipation. I unwrap my cheese sandwich and eat it. I'm still hungry and so I eat my second cheese sandwich and my cookies, but save my banana for later. The trip begins. The sparkling Cusco lights slowly fade as dawn creeps in. The sun, rising in the east, softens the city view, varnishing and sculpting doorways, alley ways and snow-covered mountaintops. Except for the bus driver and me, everyone else sleeps. I sit in the front where I have a clear view of the slowly awaking world. I shuffle through my iPod in search of the perfect soundtrack; not just anything will do. It needs to be mellow, but inspiring. It needs to be thought-provoking, but open to interpretation. I look out the window as we make our way through the hills, each rolling of the wheels taking us higher and further away from Cosco, the center, and bringing us closer to the reason we are all on that bus -- Machu Picchu.

I close my eyes and allow the sounds of gipsy guitars to transport my thoughts. I try to keep my mind blank; it's hard. Images of ruins, mountains, temples, jaguars, lighting and thunder, beautiful and ancient brown people worshiping pagan Gods and sacrificing virgins run through my head. It doesn't matter if I keep my eyes open or closed, the visions never fade.

I'm aware of our surroundings once more. We have left Picasso's Starry Night. The golden orbs disappear, melting into a watercolor world of marigold yellows, flushed flamingo pinks, lapis lazuli blue. The bus stops and we exit. It's breakfast time. The town is picturesque and quaint; it doesn't seem real. Buildings appear to be molded from the rocks they rest on. People bustle around, making their way to work and school. With their brightly colored garbs, they resemble exotic birds of paradise. The women's long and ebony braids swish down their backs; I want to pull one. It's been way too long since I have felt the weight of a braid against my back and with my short, black hair barely ponytail length, it'll be a few more years before I do.

We walk toward the restaurant and makes me think of the house in "Blue Lagoon". Let the bonding begin! After all, we are going to be together for the next 4 days -- hiking, complaining, laughing, sweating, eating, sleeping and not showering together. Oh boy...

Another bus ride. But then, we are there! We unload and start getting ready for the next 4 days. I'm excited and a bit unsure about what to expect. The hike is only 27 miles, all of which are covered over FOUR days. Twenty-seven miles. That's a marathon. People run marathons in a handful of hours. Maybe it won't be so bad...

Everyone puts their backpacks on. Mine feels heavy. I contemplate eating my banana, but it's mushy and let's face it, it won't make my backpack any lighter. It doesn't matter though, I'm too excited to worry about lugging the extra weight on my back. I pick up my walking sticks and trip over them. But I just smile, regain my composure and run after the group. We stop and take our group picture. We are all clean, fresh and smiling. It's obvious it is day 1.

The next 4 days aren't easy, but they are an experience and a test for perseverance. The trek is exhausting. The mountains are stairways to heaven. We climb and climb, one leg after another. It just seems to never end. Each mountain is steeper than the next. My heart pounds hard in my chest. My breathing is heavy. Sweat drips down my face and into my eyes. My shoulders ache from the weight in my backpack. Walking downhill is no better. The ground is slippery and the steepness we climbed, is the same steepness we need to descend. The thought of slipping and breaking my neck crosses my mind several times. I try to not think about it and just focus on climbing and using my walking sticks properly. Being clumsy by nature, and a distracted dreamer, isn't doing me any favors. I've slipped twice. The first time was at the bridge before the hike had even begun -- I almost went over. The second time, I slipped right after replying, "I'm okay," to one of my new friends. Famous last words. Luckily, I am blessed with ninja reflexes and caught my fall with a sexy, white motorcycled-gloved hand. I knew those gloves would one day come in handy.

The weather is fickle and unforgiving. It pours one minute, the next is all sunshine, my skin scalding under the hot, hot sun. The wind combats our bodies, an invisible, violent, and swirly force that hurts. The temperature drops, only to rise again. We peel off layers of clothes, then pile them back on when our flesh goosebumps. We pull our rainwear on, the plastic swishing with every step we take. Swish! Swish!

My legs are covered in welts. I have 42 mosquito bites split, unevenly, between my calves. It seems like my left calf is more appetizing. The itching is overwhelming. I have bug repellant and even with that, the Mosquitos don't stay away. I scratch until I'm close to bleeding. I think of the possibilities of scars and stop. I like wearing short dresses.

There are no bathrooms. We have to squat every time nature calls. At night the temperature drops to zero. All we have is a plastic tent and a sleeping bag to keep is warm. I sleep with my hoodie on. The same hoodie I've been sweating in all day. The floor is hard and makes my back hurt. I don't have a pillow. My tent mate snores. Loudly. I try to sleep with my headphones on, but we don't have electricity and I need to preserve my iPod and iPhone for train and bus ride back. Sacrifices must be made. I lay awake in the dark. I hear the wind blow. I picture the sky. It was majestic before I went to bed, the onyx background lit up by an infinite quantity of sparkling stars. I had tried to take a picture, to capture the mystery of the orbits on film, but I couldn't do it. Instead, I have to rely on memory to keep it alive.

As hard as the hike sometimes feel, I am appreciative of every second. I haven't felt so alive in a year. I can feel every muscle working, every fiber breathing. Nature engulfs me and it's beautiful. I try to take in every tree, every plant, every insect and animal -- snakes, tarantulas, hummingbirds. I'm captivated by the vibrancy and vividness of it all. The colors inspire life. I fall in love with an orchid that's so electrically bright it seems unreal. I want to touch it, but it doesn't seem right to tarnish its essence with my grimy hands. Everywhere I look, there's something that makes me feel so blessed to be alive. The air is thin, but it's crisp and clean and I greedily breathe it in. We are high up and it's misty. The hills, rocks and trees are gently cloaked in magic and mystery. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming. I feel as though I've been trekking forever, and not just a few days.

At night, we have "happy hour". The porters set up a tent and kerosene heater and we all sit around the table, eating popcorn, crackers with jam and butter, coca tea and our favorite, Milo. Yummy Milo. It's powdered hot chocolate that we mix with powered milk and deliciously hot water. After happy hour, we feast. The porters, led by the Chef Sebastian, prepare delicious meals three times a day. Dinner always starts with a soup, followed for a 4 course meal and dessert. Yes, dessert. My diet is much better here than it is at home. Can I bring Sebastian back? Too bad I'm feeling sick. By day two, the thought, smell and sight of food makes me sick. I can't eat in fear of vomiting. I don't drink in fear of awakening my hunger. Good thing the hike is only four days long.

The second days if definitely the hardest. The road is treacherous and the steepness of the incline is undeniable. I wonder how I will make it to the top and how I will make it back down. I question my vacation choice. Memo to self: Next time, take the train. But like everything else in life, nothing last forever. We make it to camp, eat and sleep. "Tomorrow," Roger promises, "will be much easier."

He doesn't lie. Day 3 is difficult, but not as brutally intense as the previous day. We end early and explore. He takes us to an Inca site that is not known like Machu Picchu. We walk, hike, play and take pictures. Then we return to camp. Machu Picchu awaits us.

That night, the heavens cry. There are fireworks in the sky. The rain falls hard, beating against our tents. The lighting turns night into day and thunder serenades us, keeping us awake. I want to leave my tent and dance in the rain. But for once, I resist impulse and instead, I lie there, listening. Finally, the storm seduces me into a deep slumber. At 3:30 am, we all rise to begin the end of the trip.

It's dark when we head off. I'm excited, sad, anxious. We hike and hike. The ground is muddy and as I hop and skip in excitement, mud splatters all over, staining my dandelion t-shirt. Kassandra and I race to the fifty hand-and-foot climbing stairs. We can't wait to reach the Sun Gate and gaze upon Machu Picchu at sun rise. It's hard to keep up with her, she's 6"2, almost a foot taller than me. I try though. Our efforts are in vain. Machu Picchu is thickly veiled in clouds and mist. Once the group is all together, we hike some more and finally, there it is, Machu Picchu.

After four long days, we made it. It's breath-taking. Magic and mystery. Solace and support. Reality and other-worldliness. I try to picture people living there; working, learning, fighting, loving, raising a family. It's hard to do. Wide-eyed and impressionable, I silently absorb my surroundings, carbon-copying them into the most graphic memory chip my brain contains.

El Last Shaman de Cosco

Tomorrow is the first day of the Inca Trail. I'm so close to seeing Machu Picchu, something I have wanted to experience since I saw the first photograph. While walking around Cusco, I came across a shaman shop. I went in to buy a good luck charm for a friend back home. Like me, she could really use it. There, I discovered they did coca leaves reading. Now, I'm not what anyone would refer to as a mystic -- I'm a skeptic through and through. However, during difficult times, when I feel lost and in need of answers, I seek in places that I hope will give instant gratification or at least some sort of comfort to my otherwise restless existence.

So, I decided to do a reading today. It was pretty interesting. The shaman was beautiful to me. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had a beauty that came from within. His face was heavily lined and his features, strong Inca ones, possessed a strength and joy that I only dream of having. He seemed at peace with himself.

He placed a basket of leaves on the table and asked me to take 7 and lay them in front of me. He said we would start with a general reading. He took each leaf, held it up and studied it in silence. Then he spoke. The first leaf was for my health. The second for my fortitude. The third for my relationship with human beings. Number six was for knowledge, something I possess he said and I'm always in search for. The seventh was for my harmony -- I'm not very harmonious. He said I won't be until I'm content with myself, my job, those around me and am one with nature; when I wake up in the morning grateful to be alive. I don't remember the ones in between. Much of what he said made sense. I'm not in good place right now. I have great qualities, he said. I'm extremely intelligent, I'm kind, hard working but I'm not happy.

He then asked me if I had any specific questions. I did. They were the same ones I always have. I asked about him. He said to close my eyes and pick a leaf. The leaf was split, like a snake's slithering tongue. He looked at it and said he wasn't convenient for me. I spoke, making him laugh with my outrageous comments. He said I needed someone who was my equal. I needed a man that I admired, one who understood my intelligence and my heart. He said this one didn't. I need someone I could talk and debate with. With him, I may never find happiness.

It's not what I wanted to hear. It made me sad because, even though I know he isn't for me and he doesn't care, he's all I want. I don't know how I will gain the harmony I need, when I still feel empty and broken-hearted. I know my feelings don't matter, that they won't or can change anything when he doesn't see me, or even want me. It's my fault; I search for him in my dreams. And, even in my dreams, our paths don't cross. Even in my dreams, he doesn't want me. I want to stop caring and hurting inside; I just don't know how. I know he doesn't deserve me. But even knowing that doesn't make it go away, nor does it diminish what's in my heart.

Lucky 13

The long anticipated girl's night out. Lucky 13. Or is it Lucky 7? It doesn't matter, it's the 13th therefore, for our purposes, it's Lucky 13. Tonight is going to be magical; you can feel it in your bones. It is your lucky night. The thing about luck though, at least what you learned from watching leprechauns on Charmed, is that it can go either way. Let's hope your luck tonight is good, regardless of tonight also being Friday the 13th and a full moon -- the freaks come out at night.

There's 4 of you tonight; all different and all attractive. Each of you is dressed to impress; each showcasing her own personal style -- brightly colored jeans, silky tops, feathered earrings, short skirts, tall boots, mini dresses, a white bandage. It's no accident you came to The Knockout tonight. All of you plan on being the knockouts for the night. No pun intended.

You walk up to the door and look at your friends, their ids are out. You search in your bag for yours, but your broken finger slows you down. During the search for your card, you drop your mini Swiss army knife. The bouncer picks it up and looks at it, looks at you. He raises an eyebrow. You, in all seriousness, say the first thing that comes to mind, "The first rule of Fight Club: you do not talk about Fight Club." He laughs. Loudly. Your friends don't know what to think. One is used to you and just laughs with an eye-roll. Another looks a little nervous. The third just calls you "estupit" as she stifles a giggle.

You tell him you broke your finger a number of weeks ago and need the knife to cut the tape every time you re-bandage. He looks at you with an interested gleam in his eyes, looks at your friends. He's charmed by their looks, amused by your words. He let's you in, waiving the cover charge.

It's gonna be a good night. An unpredictable night. Your favorite kind.

The excitement is contagious and shared by all 4. there is no other motive other than let loose and have fun.

For one of you tonight is a stress reliever -- working 7 days a week takes a toll and a girl's night out is the perfect outlet. Hubby can stay home.

For another, the entertaining and possibly wild outing is needed to block the pain of a recent break up. Boys watch out!!

You and your other friend, the crazy one, just need to go out. You're both thinking of tonight as your "debut". You both plan on dancing and mingling and possibly flirting. Definitely flirting. This night, you plan on showcasing and embracing and possibly flaunting. Definitely flaunting. Tonight, there's no holding back.

You walk in. You're met by an instant heat wave - the place is packed. You push and are pushed as you all make your way to the bar.The music is loud. Its old school. You're back at your middle school's playground. Except that now you drink. The bartender, middle-aged and tough-looking, approaches you: one redstripe for crazy, one margarita for wife, one cranberry vodka for newly single and for you, vodka soda (less calories and you are wearing a very fitted dress). No cosmos here. The Sex and the City gals are much more sophisticated than this foursome. Cheers!

Drinks in tow, you hit the dance floor. THe music vibrates inside you. Your bodies move to the rhythm, you effortlessly sway to the beat. Your drinks swish with every movement, they bounce with every step. Someone bumps into you and there goes your drink. Oh well... It was too strong anyways. You're wearing heels tonight and drinking always gives you a strong case of spaghetti legs. You put the glass down and dance.

You look around and notice one of your friends is missing. In the corner, you spot her. She's getting her long awaited kiss. He's cute. Totally her type. Tall, dark and handsome. Non-squishy. Her golden eyes flash mischievously and her skin, already damp, glistens under the dim lights. She's having a great night. Go crazy!

The foursome is down to three. At least for the next couple of hours.

You spoke too quickly. The trio is down to two. Newly single is newly entertained. You'll be surprised if she decides to take a breathing break in the near future. Wife and you exchange a look, it's just the two of you for now. At least you still have someone to dance with. It's better that way; you don't like the sometimes sticky fingers these boys have and neither does her husband.

The music is getting louder. The beat is stronger. The bass pounds alongside your heartbeat. You and wife look at each other and laugh -- you're both having the time of your week for sure. This is what being young is all about it. All the worries and stress of the week forgotten for several hours.

In the dark you spot him. From across the room, your eyes meet. Your smile is tentative. It's him. The one who broke your heart. You realize you've stopped dancing. Your legs feel heavy, your heart races. Wife looks at you, a puzzled look on her face. You don't speak. You don't know what to say, what to feel. Part of you wants to run the other way, pretend he isn't there. Another part of you wants to run to him. But instead, you look at wife, smile and keep dancing.

The lights come on. The 4 of you reunite. Newly single and crazy are back, satisfied smiles adorn their faces. The night is over. As you walk out, you take one look back, see him and without regrets, leave for good.

Rolling Dice

Tell me a story.
Give me your dreams.
I want to know how you got here.
I need to know how you became what you are.
What's inside you? I want to see.

Weave your hopes and your pains.
Make a quilt.
It's patched with insecurities and fear;
tightly threaded with obscurity and selfishness.
Let's use it as shelter.
You protect yourself with it.
I want to borrow it.
Like you, I want to use it to distance everyone away.
I don't want anyone to know me either.

I'm not a gambler -- the risk is too great.
The die roll but never stop.
What are the chances of being a high-roller?
Per my history they're slim to none; I will lose it all.
I already have.
Decades ago it happened.
Since then, I've never been able to win again.

The die always roll a blank.
Broken dice. Broken spirit. Broken dreams.
Gambling is a risk. Everything is lost.
Don't gamble unless you can afford to lose.
It's a recession. I can't afford to play.

I don't possess anything of value.
What can I offer?
I have no barter, no high stakes.
I only have what you see.
I can only offer what I am.

The die roll.
I wonder when and where they will stop.
 

MUNI

"blah blah blah blah..." I'm standing at the bus stop with my headphones on. Mellow tunes blast into my ears to match my mood and the sunny yet over cast day. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask the MUNI employee. He says, "You look so lovely standing there, even drinking coffee." I thank him but have to correct him -- it's hot chocolate, I don't do coffee. "Even better," he says.

I'm waiting for the 48 at West Portal; the bus is here but the driver is on her break. Trying to be nice, he asks if I want him to let me on the bus while I wait for the driver to return or if I want to continue waiting outside. I opt for the outdoor option; it's too nice a day to be locked in when I don't have to - I'll save that for when I return to the office Monday. After tasting freedom for one delicious week of lounging, swimming, eating, surfing and hiking, it's hard to return to captivity.

He introduces himself - James. He asks about me - what do I do? Am I in school? Did I go to Carnaval this past weekend? I answer his questions - I'm in insurance; I'm done with school but still sometimes flirt with the idea of grad school; no, I didn't go to Carnaval, I was out of town and just got back for my high school friend's wedding where I was a bridesmaid. He was under the impression I was a lot younger than I am and tells me so. Again, I thank him. He goes on to say that I seem so put together for being so young and how at my age, he wasn't nearly as mature or as established as me (he's 46).

Offhandedly, he observed the disparity in maturity between men and women. "Women," he said, "mature so much faster than men. Why do you think that is? Is it genetics or the other chromosome?" I'm no scientist but still managed to have answer: "Double standards. Women have it so much harder. Men are automatically born with the privilege of being male. Women need to put more effort to get the same recognition as men professionally, scholastically and personally." Good boy, he agreed. He even took it a step further: "Many men are mama's boys too." And, good girl because I didn't argue.

Mama's boys. It's funny the way women rear sons to remain boys for longer than they should, while teaching daughters to be women. At that moment, the driver returned and turned the bus on. I said good-bye to James and hopped on the 48.

FIFA 2010

The World Cup begins tomorrow. I'm so excited because today on Facebook, I liked Budweiser so I would be able to do the many faces of the World Cup. I started by choosing my favorite team - Brasil. Using my profile picture, I showed my team spirit by painting my face green and yellow. Then I moved on to country after country. I stopped after 12. I figure putting different pictures of me for different countries was the fairest way for me to chose my team. Or teams. My top three (solely based on my pictures) are:
Italy
Germany
Chile
Japan isn't bad either, it gives me a Geisha look that's pretty fun.
I even did Mexico, but only at my cousin Jorge's request. I hope they lose though; they're too conceited. I'm rooting for my top 4 (Brasil and my favorite 3 pictures). But who knows who will win?

I used to watch that stuff growing up. I remember watching the 1994 Worl Cup in which Brasil took the title (they're the best team in the world - it's a fact) with my mom, sisters, uncles and grandpa. It was exciting and after the win, my sisters, mama and I went for a ride with el abuelito down Market Street - everyone was cheering and honking their horns! That's right Italy, in yo face! They got schooled! Ha ha!

I should go clean. I'm supposed to be productive. My sister is spending the night tomorrow and I don't want her to think I'm a slob or a slacker. Though, we grew up together, and we lived together, so she may already be aware of both. I'm not a slob though; nor a slacker. Just a little bit disorganized. Okay, go clean.

Aloha: Hello & Good-Bye

Sometimes you just gotta say good-bye. I guess it's time I said it. It's been 68 days (yeah, I've counted -- what happened to me?! I'm such a girl, yuck...). I'm tired of mopping. Life is hard enough without added heart-break. Wish I knew how to start. I saw the new profile picture and as terrible as it is, I think it's so cute. That's scary. My sister says I have the "battered woman syndrome" because I defend and love someone who hurt me so much. But, I can't blame him. He didn't do it on purpose. I can't deny his selfishness though, nor his lack of respect for me. She says I'm a weird girl, thinking and saying how adorable that picture is. A normal girl would hate on it, call it what it is -- ugly. She says she's going save it to her computer and send it to me as a postcard or as a card on holidays when I'm feeling blue because of him. I already missed Christmas. And Easter. I'm not planning on missing anymore holidays.

For Easter I wasn't just heart-broken though, I was also sick. I think he makes me sick. Literally. The first time my poor little heart broke I ended up having pneumonia - that was October, a few days before Halloween. The second time, when it just broke beyond repair, was April 3, the night before Easter. Granted I was already feeling a little under the weather, but I was happy, excited and hopeful to see him. So much for that. I canceled my Easter plans. Instead, I stayed home coughing, weeping, feverish and sleeping. It was raining outside. It rained all day. I remember wondering if the Heavens were competing with my eyes for the downpour. I went to work the next day, refusing to stay home for something so trivial. But, I must have been a sight because I was charmingly told "you look sick" and "you should go home". I felt so ashamed, hoping my tears had gone unnoticed (except for the people I cried in front of, oh gosh...).

Now I'm just frustrated for caring, for mopping, for hoping and for blaming myself for being naive. My sister says I shouldn't feel bad, or ashamed or blame myself. She says I trusted him and gave my heart in good faith, and I can't regret it. She makes sense. I know she's right, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. It also doesn't make it any easier to accept the strong feelings I have for someone to whom I'm insignificant to. I guess that's life though. Right now all I want is a magic antidote that erases memories and heals hearts. Or Paul Walker. I do wonder if I'll ever share myself with anyone again. I don't want to. I can't eve imagine loving anyone else. Sometimes, when I think about that, that song comes into my head - "if I can't have you, I don't want nobody baby...can't let go and it doesn't matter how I try. I gave it all so easily to you my love to dreams that never will come true..." and I laugh. A lot. I must be crazy. Skydiving, surfing without knowing how to swim and trying to ride a motorcycle even when I shut my eyes at sharp turns, I can deal with. Those are risks that are exciting and fun. Physical pain goes away. Emotions though, yikes. I would have thought a month was more than enough time. Time is way up. Maybe I need an exorcism. Minus the green vomit. I want to be like I was before - happy. I want to feel the excitement I used to feel over, well, everything - cheese, a trip, a song. "I love lamp." I need a sabbatical. Machu Pichu, don't go anywhere - I'm coming to hike you and sleep in your pyramids. I plan to watch the sun set from your altitude and see it rise in full glory, the miracle of a new day marking a new beginning in my heart. I want to say good-bye. I really do. Well, my head does. My heart doesn't (it's not that bright). Sigh. Dusho, Dusho...tsk, tsk...