Are You Out of Your Mind?!

I’ll be honest, maybe there was a part of me that was just a bit out of my mind when I made the decision to travel solo to South America. 

It’s been over two months since coming home from my Peru and Ecuador adventures, but the memories are still very fresh and remarkable! To friends, family and acquaintances alike that shook their head at my recklessness, and others who scratched their head out of curiosity in my somewhat impulsive decision to become a vagabond for the summer: I attempt to shed light on my reasons why. 


To begin, I should preface the fact that I love to travel, and it’s something I did a fair amount of in my 20's. The travel bug first bit me in my early college years after studying aboard in Rome, Italy back in 2006. That turning point inspired me to make the decision to transfer colleges after my completion at Fullerton Community College, up to San Francisco State University. I moved from the Orange County that I knew from birth, to a very different urban setting filled with cable cars and hipsters. Then, after graduating with my bachelor’s degree from San Francisco State University I made the decision to pack up and move again; only this time I moved clear across the country to the east coast! I found myself teaching in the “Fresh Prince” territory of West Philadelphia! Through the Sisters of Saint Joseph I served as a year-long volunteer teacher through their mission corps program, where I taught various classes of lively junior high school students at a Catholic school. And after my year term was up, I signed a contract with the same school for another year before moving back to Southern California. Needless to say I have an itch to travel and explore!

Now, I can say firsthand the positive impact traveling and exploring has had on me – but that is for another post.  Yet, it was shortly after the New Year (this year), as I stood in the shadow of a recent tragedy. A college friend had passed away very suddenly, and his death marked the 5^th death of someone close to me in a five year time span.  Let me reiterate that: in the span of five years (while in the latter half of my 20's) five people close to me passed away.  Definitely not something anyone anticipates in their 20's - maybe in their 60's or 70's - but defiantly not their 20's! 

Knowing the patterns of grief all too well, and feeling its grip slowing clenching on me again, I kept thinking I needed to do something drastic, yet something that was somewhat familiar. Travel was familiar, yet as a lone ranger to foreign country; now that was drastic! In other words I had to “get the hell outta dodge!”

After contacting my academic advisor through LMU about travel opportunities for graduate students, I without question or hesitancy applied to their 10 day accelerated summer session course in Ecuador. It was a quick and confident decision to book a flight to Peru, and scheduling my arrival to Peru three weeks before I would land in Ecuador for my studies. As excited as I was, I definitely was not excited to break the news to my mother. Needless to say the conversation didn’t go well! I’ll let your imaginations paint that picture of a conversation yourself! 

My mother and plenty of others alike had their slew of questions and discouraging statements for me.  
“It’s dangerous down there!” 
“You don’t know enough Spanish!” 
“You’re a women, traveling alone!” 
“Do you have a plan?” 
"Do you know anyone down there?” 
“What if you get murdered or raped?” 
“Why don’t you travel with someone?”  
“What are you looking for or hoping to find?”
These and plenty of other questions and discouraging statements came my way. And my answer to what I was hoping to find? Nothing! Nothing was my answer; and not that I literally was expecting nothing. Rather I didn’t place any sort of expectations or preconceived notions of what my travels would be like. For lack of better terms, I was truly flying by the seat of my pants. Because traveling alone wasn’t crazy enough – right? But to have no plan or itinerary of my day to day travels – just a general idea – seemed even more impossible to explain to people. Believe me when I say, I had a bucket list of sights to hit up, and a general order of how I would make my way to each spot, but a detailed itinerary wasn’t something I planned for or made! After being questioned by a friend about specific plans and sharing with her I had my flights, lodging in Lima and Machu Picchu hike booked (and nothing else) her head cocked back and her eyes grew to the size of golf balls as her reaction told me just how crazy I knew she thought I was. Trust me, when I say, I was almost as surprised in myself as she was in me.

To all of this: I knew it was coming. Yet there was a drive to go that weighed heavier than the reasons why I shouldn’t. The cliché phrase that is often hashtaged “you only live once,” rained hard and true!

...Because, when you’re 29 and have to bury your college friend, who suddenly dropped dead while exercising; you might understand my need to hop on a plane to the southern hemisphere to search for meaning behind a death that makes no sense. 
...When you’re 27 and lose a parent; you might grasp my desire to search and wonder the streets of foreign cities and meet locals and fellow travelers for new wisdom!   
...When you witness the effects of cancer and chemotherapy, and watch it destroy your father over a year’s time, before the disease finally claimed him; you might begin to comprehend my necessity to explore churches, catacombs and holy grounds for spiritual enlightenment.  
...When you’re 28, and your aunt dies from the same disease that stole your father; you maybe can grasp my itch to explore and slide down the sand dunes of Huacachina, as a means to rejuvenate my heavy soul!  
...When you’re 25 and get a call at 5 in the morning in Philadelphia that your uncle dropped dead from a massive heart attack while on the phone with his daughter (my cousin), and you drive 13 hours from Philly to his funeral in Bowling Green, Indiana; you might appreciate my yearning to venture to the floating islands of Lake Titicaca and mingle with locals who speak the indigenous language of Quechua in search for the serenity they gracefully exude!  
...When you’re 24 and your grandmother passes away just two months after you move to the east coast; and you take that flight to Kansas for the funeral; and you watch your father get emotional over his mother for the first time (a father that was emotionally stoic); you possibly could recognize my impulse to wonder the streets of the capitol of the ancient Inca empire in search for a sign that might grant me continued reason and comfort for his emotional detachment growing up and how his mother had much to do with it.  
...When all this happens in the latter half of your 20's, when really, your biggest stress should be heartache from breakups or career goal struggles; yet instead you find yourself writing the words of your father's eulogy, as you struggle to sleep at night, as the image of your father’s dead body haunts your mind and dreams for months; you probably can fathom my need to explore the ancient ruins of the Incas all the way to the ancient city of Machu Picchu  as a dose of cough syrup to my father’s death. 

Because how does it make sense that I would lose a loved one (on average) once a year?! Because nobody should get a phone call clear across the country as your father utters the words “I have 12 months to live,” before your legs give out and you collapse in sobbing tears before packing up your life in Philly!! Because how is it fair that I watch my father struggle with chemotherapy – powerless to stop it - only to have him taken from me at 27 years old?! And why should my cousin have to remember the sound of her father collapsing over the phone as a massive heart attack instantly claimed him?!  And why is it right that I would have to take a phone call at work from a friend telling me our mutual friend died on a run; and have to walk the halls of my work just as I did in the wake of my father’s death just two years before?! I can't tell you how many flashbacks I had from the wake of my father's death, as I walked those school halls after receiving the news of my friend's death; and how much it took me to not collapse in tears! It was an ominous parallel of events!  In those years I can’t express how much I struggled with my faith, and my faith in God!  

The anger I felt towards God was violent and toxic! Anytime talk of God’s love for us came up in Mass, my blood would boil! And as I sat in the church pew, there were a handful of times it took so much of my willpower to NOT get up, walk out, and leave. Yet luckily for us, God’s grace is patient, gentle and everlasting. It took plenty of sessions in therapy, and many more tears in spiritual direction before the serenity began to heal my soul and renew my sense of hope, as Grace began to piece my shattered heart back together. 

All my ranting boils down to this: I had to make my life make sense and repaint the colors of my world; a world that was quickly turning grey after my fifth causality – not including my grandfather who died a month before I went to Peru! Could anyone really understand my need to be a vagabond and go so far out of my comfort zone; to be stripped of anything familiar; probably not! Yet, again after wrestling with the death of my father, the depression that came with it, then taking hit after hit as another loved one bit the dust, I found myself beside myself! What the hell God?! Cut me some slack and give me a break! I was feeling hopeful again, and You knock me back down?    

If I’m being completely honest, as I prepared for this month long trip, I wasn’t even sure what exactly I was searching for, or hoping to find on the road, or in the streets of Peru. Nevertheless, as clueless as I was in the vague search for meaning in the midst of my life, as I struggled to make sense of death and loss, I did find some meaning and a bit more moments of grace! 

The grace came when the woman I sat next to from LAX to Lima crossed paths with me days later in a church in Lima. The grace came when I realized I made it to the top of Machu Picchu on my grandfather’s birthday (who had passed just  month prior to my departure).  The grace came when on the day I hiked to Rainbow Mountain, I met someone that looked like my deceased friend’s twin, and after talking to him, it was as if I was literally talking to my friend Justin. The grace came when I dodged danger and a frightful night with the help of my grandfather’s rosary ring and some strength from above.  

And meaning came in moments of pure joy! The joy came after one too many drinks and a fun night out in Cusco with other travelers! The joy came when my Lima host went above and beyond to make my stay comfortable, safe and eventful! The joy came on a night out in Lima as my host, his old school mate and I sang way too loud – windows down and all – at 2 in the morning as we cruised down their version of PCH. The joy came when I shoved myself in a cab with another Orange County family as we exchanged stories and commonalities on our way to a tourist spot! The joy came as I met other travelers from around the world. The joy came as I fed and met live llamas and alpacas. And the joy came when I would just sit in a town square, taking in the sights, taking in the people as I wrote it all down in my journal to crystallize the memories of their faces, voices and my healing heart!

Maybe I was crazy for traveling to Peru on my own, but considering the steady loss that kept coming my way, and the weight of despair that might have prevailed, I can honestly say I would have been crazier NOT to go!    

A Kind of Love That Transcends

“Children hold our hands a while and our hearts forever”

~unknown

Captain’s Log: July 12^th 2016

It was the last day at the educational foundation where other LMU graduate students and I had worked for 3 days.  In the middle of a basketball court, about mid-afternoon I struggled to understand the meaning of a message a 9 year old girl, by the name of Lady, was trying to tell me.  As I lean into her, with my hand on her shoulder, I say one of the few phases I did know in Spanish: “Uno momento.”  This angelic 9 year old had a serious look on her face as she spoke to me in Spanish.  Knowing enough tonality and body language, I knew it was of some seriousness, so I quickly got the attention of a peer friend of mine to translate.  

Before I continue, let me give you some background information on this young girl!  This child was one of the first children I met about a week prior, while sanding everything inside and outside of the school building.  We played peek-a-boo through the school building windows with 3 other friends of hers; I later played on a makeshift jungle gym (wooden pillars and just old flat tires) with her and those same friends; I taught them some patty-cake hand slapping games I played when I was a young school girl – that yes I could remember as a 30 year old women.   In another instance, other peers and I played classic tag games paired nicely with red light/green light (or rather luz rojo/luz verde) on a strip of concrete adjacent to the basketball court.  And in the midst of this entire interval running, there were more moments I’d like to admit that I had to catch my adult breath in the high altitude. Meanwhile, these girls never seemed to run outta breath!  Here I am (avid runner) bent over with my hands on my knees taking in deep breaths saying “uno momento,” in the middle of heavy heaving; as I had to catch my breath in between each game that required any level of running.  I am an active person – I promise!   

As that first afternoon progressed and the other days spent at the foundation proceeded, it became clear to me that this girl was showing a sweet kind of disposition to me!  I don’t know if it was all the snapchat selfie filters I introduced her to and the obsession she had with the dog filter; I don’t know if it was how she would stroke my redhead hair and say under her breath “que bonita” or show fascination with my blue/green eyes or maybe just the fact that I would happily play with her; whatever the reason, she became attached to me quickly! Anytime we played as a large group with the other LMU students, foundation staff and students of the foundation there, Lady was right beside me holding my arm.  This angelic and sweet girl even asked for me by name on other occasions: “donde esta Barbara.”  Sweet and endearing indeed!  Maybe it is my disposition and skill to interact with kids and youth, or maybe it was something else; either way this girl’s disposition to me began to melt my heart. 

Honestly speaking as much as this child showed attachment to me, I was just as curious about her.  For all intents purposes, we could not communicate.  My Spanish is limited and her English is none.  The best we could do was gesture, and type simple sentences in my Google translator app – got to love technology these days!  Jokes aside though, something transcended verbal communication and magnetized us together. 

Furthermore, as a white woman who comes from a certain level of white privilege, from a developed country, I was intrigued and inspired by this child’s level of joy; it radiated! By any other standards, she has nothing (or very little) but showed a kind of genuine happiness that seemed boundless.  Then, noticing burn marks on her hands and face, I had suspected this 9 year old had experienced some accident, or worse - abuse.  I hoped it was the prior.  It wasn’t until exchanging emails back and forth between the directors that I learned Lady was rescued from a fire at the age of 4 years old.  With all the economic and physical adversities she’s experienced in her 9 years, I was moved by the joy that trumped her adversities and radiated from her!

Now a mere moments before this child tried to convey something serious to me (on the last day spent at the foundation) I sat with many others in a circle on their soccer field, legs crosses – crisscross applesauce style – and listened to the director of the foundation talk about her gratitude to us as students and to LMU as the university and the contribution we made by the work we did.  She proceeded to bring up 5 young children (4 or 5 years old) and mention how these boys and girls were in need of sponsorship for the year to fund their education there at the foundation.  The annual cost to educate a child at this foundation is $350. Relatively speaking, it's about the monthly payment of a car.  After a group pow-wow the other grad students and I agreed to pitch in money as a class of 20 to sponsor the 5 children.  

Now as I lean in to this girl (hand on her shoulder) saying “uno momento,” I simultaneously turn my head up and around to find a classmate of mine.  “Hey, Anabel; can you translate for me?”  “Yea, sure.” Now as the three of us stood close together, I waited and listened to the fluid Spanish, and time began to slow down.  I watched the expression of kindness paint itself across both my peer and this child as they conversed with ease; the late afternoon glow from the sun peeked through the nearby tree branches and the afternoon breeze kissed our faces.  I stood listening and waiting for Anabel to convey to me what this child was trying to express to me.  With a surprised looked on her face my classmate utters: “Oh, okay,” and turns to me and says: “She’s asking you to sponsor her.”

It took me about half a second to think about my answer before I responded with a heartfelt: “YES!” There’s only been a handful of times in my life that I had said yes so quickly; this instance being one of them.  With a touched heart, I bend down and hugged Lady.  For the amount of work I did and what I know about the foundation (first hand) and spending time with this child, and for about the cost of a monthly car payment, I simply could not say no!  The amount of money, honestly, seemed so trivial in comparison to what I know it is going towards! 

After the initial yes, and hug I walked with Lady to the director to speak of my desire to sponsor Lady, give her my contact information, and hear some instructions with how to send the sponsorship amount.  As I stood in between the director and this child, I gaze down at this 9 year old with sweet admiration; I felt such an overwhelming feeling of love and humility from her.  The kind of courage to ask a stranger (and a foreign one for that matter) for sponsorship was beyond me!  When I was her age, I didn’t dare ask my parents for anything in that price range – much less a new face like myself!  

In the mild weather of this same afternoon a woman approaches me with tears in her eyes as she reaches out in gratitude to hug me.  It was Lady’s mother.  Through joyful tears I make out the words: “Muchas gracias senorita!” And I reply with a phrase I knew in return: “Claro que si!” We exchange more half English and half Spanish words in the brief moment I had with the woman and Lady’s aunt.  In a comical exchange, Lady’s mother then asks: “Tienes Facebook?”  I chuckle, and say: “Si, yo tango Facebook.”  After exchanging Facebook contacts the mother quickly weaves a bracelet in front of me and hands it to Lady to tie on my wrist. 

In that moment I felt like I received more than I was pledging to give.  I cannot explain it.  Maybe it was the labor of love in the work I put in with the other LMU graduate students as we worked in solidarity with the fellow staff and students; or perhaps learning about the deep and profound happiness and gratitude these people with so little have that I struggle to keep; or quite possibly the universal human connection I had with this child, her mother and aunt in the short and few moments, had something to do with how my heart was profoundly moved.  In the words of a famous quote: "life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”  And I would venture to say, the moments, we cannot quite explain with reason or portray with justice. I cannot explain this experience with justice! 

And in the short time I had left with Lady, we could not stop hugging each other!  While I know her and her family is grateful for my pledge, I truly felt like they gave me more as my heart was so full and even overflowing with love for this child in my arms; and a child not my own!  Despite the language barrier; despite the cultural differences; and despite the generational divide, walls were broken and a profound human connection was shared between this 9 year old girl from Ecuador, and this 30 year old woman from the United States!  In that moment, I didn’t want the moment to end; I wanted to freeze that moment in time.  So when our bus came to pick our group up and drive us back to the Hacienda on the other end of Otavalo, I never wanted to leave less than I did in that moment.  Believe me, I wasn’t the only one either.  My peers and me groaned and sighed in unison when we saw the bus, because we all knew our last time with these kids – kids who totally and completely captured our hearts with their joy, gratitude and innocence – was coming to an end.  With full but heavy hearts we dragged our feet towards the bus.  Every single one of us from LMU delayed boarding that bus!  Goodbyes, on top of one more picture, with just one more hug; and I was no different!  As I made my final steps to the bus door, Lady walked with me (hand and hand) and we hugged each other with the kind of love just shy of mother and daughter. 

As I sat in the small and stuffy, old and rickety bus jammed in with the other grown adults from Los Angeles, California I couldn’t take my eyes off this child who had positioned herself on my window side.  With the start of the engine, we began playing - air version - the same patty-cake game I had taught her and her friends just days before.  Proceeding down the dirt road, as the dirt picked up and clouded my vision through the bus window I watch Lady run alongside, and we did not break eye contact till she disappeared into the dust and distance, and we physically couldn’t see each other anymore.  I left part of my heart in Otavalo that day with a 9 year old girl by the name of Lady! 

"When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew." 

~ William Shakespeare 

No Means No

Captain’s Log: June 23^th 2016

Let me be completely honest right now; I went back and forth on publicly sharing what I'm about to share! Ultimately, I decided to do so for a number of reasons. For one: I strive to be an authentic person. Two: so many other women don’t share about these experiences out of shame and public guilt. And three: the people who read my blog I don't think are the ones who will judge me and place the blame on me for what happened to me.  

My first night in Cusco, I was almost raped!  

“Hail Mary, full of grace the Lord is with you! You are blessed among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen!” As I clutched the rosary ring from my late grandfather, reciting loud and proud the words to this prayer, I hung on to every single word as I stared down the man sitting across from me in the small room I found myself in. 

Let me back track a bit. This man I found myself with is a Couchsurfing host in Cusco, Peru. And by every standard – every single one – he checked out well, as a safe, reliable and courteous host. However, my experience with him was a far cry from that! And after such a great experience with my host in Lima, this was such a stark contrast, and came at such a terrifying surprise. 

It started after my Peru Hop bus dropped me off outside Cusco’s center. The few minutes I had to connect to wifi, I was able to message this host. After he told me to meet him on the church steps of San Blass square at 7pm, I flagged down a cab and was sitting on those church steps by 6:30pm. I waited for 45 minutes on those church steps, and I began to get worried. And without wifi to connect to, there was no way for my host to contact me or vice versa. By 7:20pm I managed to find a business nearby that allowed me to connect and message this host. By 7:30pm we met for the first time and I thought we would proceed to his place. After being on the road all day from Puno, Peru, I was exhausted! Surly anyone can understand my need to just eat, unwind and relax; right?  Well, that isn't what happened. As we walked the narrow cobble stoned streets he tells me in his broken English that he has a gig to play music at, and that I will go with him, and “have a great time.” He failed to mention this to me prior to this moment! Thanks for the heads up dude - not! And I did not have a great time. I couldn't socialize with anyone; everyone was either drinking or on something; I was wiped; hungry and felt stuck! But that was the least of my worries that night.  

“How long will we be?” I ask.  

In his broken English: “Oh maybe one hour or two hour and a half.”

It is 11pm before we leave. I hadn't had a decent meal all day; I felt the fatigue from the day of being on the road; I felt grungy and just craved a hot shower; I was cold and extremely irritated with someone I could barely communicate with. After taking a cab to his apartment my irritation morphs to hesitation, and hesitation quickly turns into fear – the kind of fear as a women, I have never felt until that night. As we walk into his apartment complex my nose was greeted by a powerful stench of cat urine! Whoever lives in that first apartment room with a feline friend paid that pet no mind – and the uninviting aroma was proof of the negligence. As we continue down the hallway towards his apartment, I realize I was stepping on broken glass and think: oh God! After turning the corner and standing behind him as he unlocked the door to his apartment, I stared horrified to what I saw behind the door.  Literally a room – a single room – that was utterly filthy! No kitchen, no bathroom; it was one, single, room - a box really. A room about 10 by 10 feet covered with dirty laundry, books, magazines and garbage. There was no empty floor space to speak of; no furniture to be had, much less a bed to speak of. It was literally a dump! As I look around, I notice the one window in his one room apartment was broken and all the cold air was coming in. Fantastic - I thought with a deep sigh and an eye roll! 

"Where's your bathroom," I ask. Discovering the bathroom was some kind of shared dorm space restroom, that everyone on the floor shared, my horrified feelings was paired with disgust! As I surveyed the restroom, I saw a broken toilet seat, a broken shower door and yet another broken window, wet substances on the floor, and surfaces that looked like they haven’t been cleaned in over a year. I touched no part of my skin to any surface in that bathroom. Ladies, know the squat well, and this situation called for it.

After returning to the room, I asked where I would be sleeping.  Remember, there was no furniture in his 10 foot by 10 foot room. I kid you not; he literally pulls a raggedy mattress from the ally of the hallway, moves some trash and dirty laundry from the floor and plops down the disease ridden rag of a sleeping device on the newly cleared floor space. After the initial "eww" thought, I think: how did he have such great reviews?! This doesn't match anything on his profile. Wide eyed, I am well beyond the point of: what have I gotten myself into; I’m already at the point of: how the hell do I get myself out of this situation – now?! A quick thought process concludes that I am in a catch 22 situation. If I stay, I stay at my own risk. Or I venture into the night; after midnight; in a foreign city, where I have never been before; I don’t know my way around, and my wifi wouldn’t even work to tell me where to go; I don’t know anyone else to come save me. My options are none and I feel unsafe either way - I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't.  Truly I was stuck.

 

So I proceed to sit on a pile of blankets that cover this repulsive mattress and open a school book, and pretend to read.
“You should relax.” He says to me, as he has a certain seductive look in his eyes.
“No, I want to read right now.” I say very sternly with a kind of bitch look on my face. 

Everything I knew about rape, and rape victims, and rape culprits comes to my mind...
Don’t feel like you have to be polite; 
Look them in the eye; 
Be stern; 
Don’t appear as vulnerable or easily tricked; 
Have something at hands reach in the event I have to attack; 
And all the self-defense moves I learned when I was 10 years old I was digging out of my memory bank. 

Some minuets later he tries again.  “You seem tense; you should let me give you a massage.” As he stands and walks towards me, with that same seductive look on his face, I immediately stand too, put my hand out and say: “No, stop! I don’t want you to touch me!” I look him straight in the eye and hold back the fearful tears I am sensing just behind my eyes.  All the while I'm thinking, do not show weakness!  “Com’on senorita,” as he reaches for my hand, I whip back the hand he tried to grab, and with my other hand I whip out a weapon I had in my pocket, and hold it to the side, and say again: “No, stop! I said no; no means no!”

He looks at my weapon hand and backs up. His expression of desire is replaced with hesitation.  Proceeding to sit down in his corner I keep my weapon hand out and with the other hand take my rosary ring off and begin to pray – out loud. After making the sign of the cross I began with the Our Father, saying every word of the prayer staring at him from across the room, thinking, “God, protect me, keep me strong tonight.” After one decade of the rosary (one Our Father, 10 Hail Mary’s, and a Glory Be), he begins to look at me like I’m crazy. By all means, I’d rather that look, than him looking at me as his sexual object or target. After other failed attempts to get me to let my guard down, he realizes he's not getting anywhere with me; literally calls me a “loca gringa,” and with a grumble falls asleep.  Goes without saying, I decided NOT to sleep that night. 

With his sleeping body blocking the only way in or out, I couldn't go anywhere. I had to wait till the mornings light to make my move and break out of there. It was one of the longest nights of my life, and I couldn’t help but think my grandfather and father must’ve been just a couple of my guardian angels in that moment when I really don’t know where the strength came from. Because the truth is all I wanted to do that night was cry; something would not let me.

 

The next morning after gathering my bags at 7am, and waking this guy up, I told him that I was leaving. Not knowing the area, I sternly told him to walk me to the nearest square so I could find some hostels as options for lodging. After walking the early morning cobble stoned streets and reaching sight of the square, I turned to him and said, “okay, I can take it from here.  Bye!”  He looks at me as if I owed him something, and I kept walking, and walked towards to the nearest hostel before sitting, and watching from the window for about 30 minuets before choosing a different hostel. While Couchsuring offers travelers to stay with hosts for free, I knew at that point my sense of safety and security were more valuable than any amount of money I would be saving. So I checked myself into a private room and bathroom in a decent hostel for the rest of my stay in Cusco. 

After sharing this experience with one of my housemates she later finds a news article where a solo woman traveler found a couchsurfing host (who by every standard checked out as safe, reliable and courteous) and was raped and murdered by that same host. My housemate's caption to the article she sent me was, “I ban you from doing this ever again.” The article gave me chills - it could have been me in that news report! Knowing I had to make a honest review on this guy, on the Couchsurfing website, I decided to wait until after I left Cusco for Ecuador and I'd be with other graduate students from LMU. At that point my solo time would be over; I'd be in a controlled setting; and he’d have no way of tracking me down and doing God knows what to me. The moment I landed in Ecuador, I went on to Couchsurfing to make that review on him, and his profile somehow didn’t exist anymore – interesting.  So now, I must navigate Couchsurfing, so that this guy doesn’t target any other unsuspecting women.  

When I was deciding whether or not I would share this, I thought about the rape culture we live in, and how it is still very taboo to talk about it. Also, I thought about how rape victims (still) are shamed and blamed for what happens to them. Even though I wasn’t raped, the experience could have lead itself to that point, and I am sure some people who will read this will still find a way to place the blame on me.
Why would you Couchsurf Barbara?  
They are strangers you stayed with?  
How safe is couchsurfing, really?  
Why didn’t you leave that night?  
You really put yourself in that situation Barbara. 
You kinda brought it on yourself.”  
And while I can call all the lines people may have for placing blame on me, I have to ask: did you ask these critical hypothetical questions to me before or after you placed that same blame and shame on this man for the advances he came at me with? And while, other rape situations are all very different, the bottom line comes down to consent. If a women is held responsible for “asking for it,” by wearing skimpy clothing (which I was not guilty of), why is the man not held responsible for practicing self control? If a woman is held responsible because she is "not drinking responsibly" (I am also not guilty of this argument) why is the man not held to a high standard, and getting her a cab home, or at the very least finding people who she came out with that can take care of her?  Whatever the situation entitles; why are men’s actions in the case of rape dismissed as: well you can’t blame him if the woman – fill in the blank with any rape victim blame line.  This train of thought implies that men can’t practice self-control; this is to say they have too many animalistic instincts to control themselves. This without a doubt is an insult to men; and I know too many great men (young and old) to say this societal assumption holds ANY credence!  

Now, I know – without a doubt in my mind – I was very lucky to end that night and leave the situation the next morning with nothing more than a racing fearful heart and a memory that will be branded in my mind. Goes without saying (and despite my feelings of hunger, cold and uneasiness) I am grateful and truly feel blessed that I had a few things on my side: my wits, my weapon, my rosary ring and not least of all my late father and grandfather by my side, as I’m sure they were providing me strength that night. 

I Speak Sarcasm Fluently

Reporting live from my computer and journal, I bring you another episode of tales from South America!  These two tales both take place in Peru and I explain some ridiculous situations through my sarcastic sense of humor.  Because sarcasm is the best kind of humor (when done correctly) and I use it often to cope with reality.  You should try it too.  In the meantime enjoy my stories! 

A Postal Language Barrier

Captain's Log: June 17^th 2016

“You want to send postcards; you have to wait in this line.”  Some local Peruvian in the post office had some pity on me as I looked around like a lost puppy for about 5 minutes, as I could not – for the life of me – decipher the downtown Lima post office to send some postcards to friends and family.  It was my last day in Lima before embarking on a week long journey to Cusco, and I wasn’t sure when I would have another opportunity to send some souvenirs back to the states.  After positioning myself in line and saw that there were just 2 people in front of me I thought: Oh great I should be outta here in no time! 

...45 minutes later…My Lima host’s words were ringing in my ear: “don’t go to the post office, it is terrible!  Nobody sends mail here in Peru!”   

Let me remind you, there were only two people in front of me; 2 - not 22 people – 2 people!  If there is any blame to place, I have to place it in the hands of the person right in front me.  She had to send 10 packages – 10 damn packages!  They weren’t just simple cards in envelopes, they were packages.  Do you know how long it takes to process just one package?!  And whatever Peru’s postal system entails; it is shit – so inefficient!  The worker weighed each package at least twice, sometimes three times.  Really?!  Because weighing it just once isn’t enough?!  Don’t even get me started on each form that had to be filled out for each godforsaken package – then the information had to go into their computer system!  Really?!  Really?!  You can't just fill out one form?  And do you really have to put ALL that information (from each form) in your dinosaur old computer that likely takes twice as lone to load?!  Ten times over, for each damn package.  Meanwhile I'm resorting to crossing my arms, tapping my foot and glancing at the time every couple of minuets as my patience is running thin!  

Can you feel the frustration I felt – because that is only a fraction of it after waiting in line for 45 minutes!  Remember, I just wanted to send a handful of postcards!  This had to be some cruel and sick joke.  It’s like when you stand in line at the grocery store and you just want to pay for some eggs and milk and somebody in front of you has $200 worth of groceries – and the express line isn’t open!  Cruel, really just cruel!  After telling this story to a friend recently, and asking why I didn’t just throw the postcard idea out the window and forget about sending the postcards, I explained:  “after a certain time I was already too invested.  I couldn’t turn back at that point – I was committed!”  Call me insane I suppose. 

Then, I get to the counter!  Finally, it’s my turn!  The time I spent standing in this postal line going partially insane, I can probably assume in good faith I shed off some time in purgatory for any un- repented sins I’ll have at the end of my life.  But I digress, the wait was finally over and I was ready to hand the woman my postcards, get them stamped, pay for the suckers and get out of that hell hole! 

Oh no, my torture session wasn’t over yet!  Let more premature purgatory time continue!  “Quiero enviar estos seis tarjetas postales a los estados unidos; cuandos soles?”   In my frustrated state, I literally read these Spanish words translated from my phone asking to send postcards to the US and wondering how many soles (Peruvian currency) it would cost me.  The woman on the other end of the window (who HAD to have noticed I wasn't a confident Spanish speaker) responded with the longest, fastest running Spanish I have ever heard in my life!  This is what is sounded like: “Bbbbbberrrrrrrthhhhhhh.”  Literally and seriously she talked right over my head; we’re talking dear and headlights over my head!  This is exactly how I felt.  This is what it must feel like for a dear before they get mauled.  I gestured to her if she could type what she said in my translator app.  Her response was quick: “No!”  Well I didn’t need a translator for that! (insert an eye roll paired with a deep frustrated sigh here) 

I type something else in my app and say my pathetic, broken Spanish to her as she looks at me (eyebrow raised with her glasses on the brim of her nose) like the pathetic idiot I was at this present moment.  And…another  fast and out comes another long Spanish reply!  I’m thinking: why yes lady, by some miraculous miracle all my high school Spanish classes suddenly came rushing back to the forefront of my mind and I can now understand every word that is coming out of your mouth, AND, I can give you a perfect response!  My high school Spanish teacher Mr. Hatori would be so proud of me.  I am able to gather “seis” (six) soles, then proceed to hear “treinta y seis” (thirty-six) soles.  “What?  How do you tell me 6, then tell me 36 in the same sentence?!” 

Before any of you are quick to predict what she was saying, and judge my lack of judgement at this moment of weakness hear me out.  At this point I had spent close to an hour in line at a foreign post office; with only two people in front of me; with the postal worker literally talking right over me as if I could magically understand Spanish out of thin air.  I would have been quite content at that point if somebody had just decided to throw lighter fluid on me and flicked a lit match to simply put me outta my misery.  Sarcasm! 

Jokes aide: let’s all agree that ALL my better judgement was out the window along with my sanity!  My redhead side was out and claws out!  In the moment of complete and utter frustration I cracked – and by cracked I mean to say I started “raising my voice” rambling and crying!  Yes, this thirty year old, grown ass woman, started crying – it was out of frustration and loss of some sanity.  No judgement allowed here.  Again, jokes aside, the lady on the other end of the counter FINALLY had some pity on me as I gave up trying to use my Spanish translator app.  She grabbed another worker who was fluent in English (because you couldn't have grabbed an interpreter sooner?), and who could communicate to me that the cost was 6 soles for EACH postcard which would come out to 36 soles.  You can’t imagine how idiotic I felt at this point – in that moment I was that dumb American.  Just remember: all my patience was gone!  At the very least, I hope my narration of this story made you laugh or at least brought a smile to your face as you pictured my sorry and pathetic self!

Side note: I did have other friends and family I thought I would send postcards to THROUGHOUT my travels; but after that...  Nope!  Nobody else got a cute handwritten note from me, from the Southern Hemisphere!  Hell nah!    

The Worst/Best Surprise  

Captain's Log: June 29^th 2016

“Surprise!!!” “What?!”  As I gaze painfully at a pile of stone stairs that didn't seem to have an end.  “You have GOT to be kidding me!!  This is the surprise, Wily?!  Really?!  This is the great surprise you were talking about?! This is that great FUCKING surprise you were raving to us about?!"

The start of the hike through the Inka Trail! 

I’m fairly confident it’s a known fact I did a ton of walking and hiking while in Peru and Ecuador.  Obviously one of the longer hikes, and one that sticks out was the hike I did through part of the Inka Trail to Machu Picchu!  It goes without saying this hike and my two day trip was one of my fondest trips while on my month trip in South America!  The company I went through (Wayki Trek) was phenomenal and the eight others in my trek group and I could not have gotten along better – really!  We had a great time together.  

I must say though…after a bus pick up at 5am; taking a 2 hour bus ride from Cusco to the train station in Ollantaytambo, Peru; then to take a 2 hour train ride from Ollantaytambo to get off the train (literally) in the middle of the woods (literally, not even a train station platform) to the starting point of our 6 hour hike through the Inka trail, I'm sure anyone can understand how tired we were by a certain point.  

My Inka Trail group! 

Now as I stood 6 hours later hiking this world famous path; uphill; with a pack on my back; with steps two feet steep; all my energy (or so I thought) was expelled and just the sheer sight of these “monkey steps” looked like I might just pass out and die.  At least I would have an epic death and be thought as forever young!  As I mustered the residue of effort left inside of me, I crawled – literally crawled – up those godforsaken 3 feet steep or higher stone bricks with my sore feet and hands.  I felt like a toddler who just wanted the ball at the top of a staircase.  Only in this case my ball was whatever lay at the top of these monkey stairs that were going to kill me before I got my precious ball.  

What made this even more hysterical was how the nine of us in our group struggled and strained up to the top, while our guides almost skipped, pranced, jumped and strutted up with ease – no hands either.  Did I mention we had to craw with our hands?  We looked pitiful in comparison to our guides.  What a comical contrast!  They've been doing this a while, and I'm sure they secretly chuckle every time they watch a group struggle and strain up those ancient bricks!  

The priceless moment! 

To top off this situation, one of our comrades decided to grab a picture of this Kodak moment… from the bottom of the stairs…as we had just started up the stairs…with our butts as the focal point to this Instagram worthy moment!  Think of the hashtags: (#ButtsInTheAir #LikeYouJustDontCare).  Then, in our exhaustion and slight delusion, from the day long hike, and our shock and protest of these horrid steps, and the impeccable timing of this picture worthy moment, two of us (myself being one) cracked, and we started laughing uncontrollably!  I mean, the situation was completely absurd – it was too much to handle and contain. We just turned to two uncontrollable laughing hyenas from The Lion King, crawling (inching really) up these steps to our epic death.  Just imagine two grown women in their thirties, exhausted, with packs on their backs, laughing uncontrollably and with the energy they DIDN'T have left crawling inch by inch up these 500 year old stone stairs, as some sentimental man in our group snaps a picture of this priceless moment to sell to MasterCard for their next commercial add.  I can hear it now: Inca Trek $400; backpackers backpack: $200; food and gear for the day: $20; snap shot picture of the monkey stairs paired with exhausted grown women and their asses as the focal point of the moment: priceless!  As we gathered ourselves and our breath, and we stood up at the top of these stairs, we passed through the Sungate and laid our unbelieving eyes on Machu Picchu for the first time – a city in the clouds frozen in time.  It was indeed an incredible surprise!  Now that was priceless! 

Top of the Monkey Stairs, after passing through the Sungate; as I look at Machu Picchu for the first time. 

Hosts vs. Fellow Travelers

Allow me to level out for a moment: I really struggled to figure out how I would write about my South American travels.  I mean, I was gone for a bit more than a month.  Surely, you can imagine I have plenty – really plenty – of stories.  Yet, being a considerate writer, as I think of my readers' attention span (you’re welcome) and keeping readership, I decided I would break up my stories into several entries.  Let’s hope I stay committed to those few, and they don’t get compromised once work and grad school start up again.  My fingers are crossed and I’ll say my dutiful nightly prayers at night that I stay faithful to the pursuit of these vagabond chronicles.  This first entry I decided to tell share two stories: one from Lima, and one late (very late) night in Cusco!  Proceeding these two logs further stories will come in no particular order; like flashbacks and flash forwards if you will.  Enjoy!

"Landed and not in Kansas (well Cali) anymore"

Captain's Log:  July 12th 2016

“Barrbarra???”  In a foreign airport as I scan my surroundings, and my travelers backpack is strapped on, just after passing through customs and saying goodbye to my Peruvian airplane neighbor, in that exact moment my Lima host had somehow picked me out of a crowd of other travelers.  As I turn completely around I catch the sight of a six foot tall man –  very tall for Peruvian standards – with olive complexion and slightly shaggy dark brown hair, I say very cautiously: 

“Hi, what’s your name?” 

“It’s me, Massimo; you know from Couchsurfing."  

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure.”

He continues by taking my large backpackers backpack off my back, so I just had to tend to my school bag – or my carry on if you will.  As we proceed outside it hits me that it’s late.  The time is about half past midnight and it’s chilly outside as everyone I see are sporting leather jackets or something comparable paired well with scarfs.  It is Peru's winter after all!  Massimo pays for parking at a counter stall and the first thing I notice is the Spanish that is exchanged between him and the teller.  Now I’m by no means fluent in Spanish, but I know enough to notice the difference in dialect and accent.  It almost sounded like Italian – so smooth and fluid.  We proceed out of the parking lot in his Subaru and I notice the stream of police cars parked in spaced intervals down the rather bare looking boulevard before we hit the freeway.  

“What’s with all the police cars?”  

“Well, you remember how I messaged you that the area around the airport is very dangerous?” “Yes.” 

“Well, I wasn’t kidding, it’s dangerous around the Lima airport.” 

“Huh, well thank you again for picking me up!” 

The rest of the ride to Massimo’s apartment is a bit of a blur.  After an eight and a half hour flight from LA International to the southern hemisphere I can recall how the exhaustion started to hit.  As we pulled into the garage of his complex and took the elevator to the 5^th floor before entering his apartment I kept thinking: I’m really here; I’m in Lima Peru!

Massimo getting an ice cream fix.  Notice how tall he is! 

As my first time Couchsurfing, I could not rave about Massimo more as my first international host.  He had an extra room AND an extra bathroom for me with linens and towels ready; he smuggled the coffee maker from his work office (which I unintentionally broke – I blame the complicated machine) to his place for me; gave me a key to his apartment; he went grocery shopping for me and even let me use one of his work phones to call him while I was in Lima if I needed anything (as my phone was pretty useless besides picture taking if not connected to wifi).  I even spent the next day with Massimo as he showed me around the Barraco district (arts neighborhood) and Miraflores (trend neighborhood for young professional that sits on a cliff that overlooks the Pacific Ocean).  The guy was so hospitable that he had me over for lunch with his folks, sister and twin nephews.  And in good Peruvian fashion they prepared a delicious Italian meal for my arrival that afternoon; complete with fancy cheese, artisan bread and red wine at their nicely set dining room table – not the kitchen table (where they normally break bread together).  I should probably mention Massimo’s father is Italian – which would explain his height, and the Italian meal.  

As a solo female traveler, Massimo could not have been more respectful – never showed any sign of any alternative motive.  Believe me when I say I was well aware of this risk I was running, and how much more vulnerable I was.   And believe me when I say there was a moment or more in my travels where my safety was compromised (another story) but never while with my Lima host – never!  Goes to show you that sometimes you can put your trust in strangers - maybe just sometimes.   

"International Travelers Hit the Imperial City Streets"

Captain's Log: June 25^th 2016 

...“So I’m here, but you have to come get me at the front desk; they won’t let me pass otherwise.” This was the Facebook message I sent a new British friend I met and made on the road to Cusco at his hostel.  As I’m standing at the front desk awkwardly, waiting for my new London friend (Jason) to come fetch me, and as I’m bumming off the wifi, conversation was struck towards me by another lonely sap – also waiting for a new friend to let them in.  What can I say, solo travelers make friends fast!  After 30 minutes of the waiting game and sending another persistent message to Jason (“pssst!!!” clever I know), my fellow sap and me convinced the front desk receptionist to let us upstairs to look for our point people.  We pass through an outdoor courtyard  - which I can assume during the day is quite nice to lay out in the hammocks they had spread out – up to the second floor I nearly collided with Jason as he’s walking and looking at his phone.

“Jason!”  

(Insert British accent here) “Ah, there ya are; I just got your message and was heading downstairs to grab ya.” 

As we meet, he looked like he had just woke up from a nap, as he’s standing in something that resembled pajamas, a night robe and slippers.  Gotta love the life of a traveler! As I chuckled and made fun of him a bit, he explains he’s gonna change, brush up a bit and grab his friends that I had yet to meet at this point.  My front desk sap and I proceed to the party room which was filled with other young travelers, load American music, colored strobe lights and a bar at the end of course.  After a short time Jason returns with three other men: Sven and Harun from Germany, and Tyson from Canada.  Well wasn’t I quite the lucky gal that night?!  Kidding!  Jokes aside, I did feel safe going out till God knew when with four men by my side.  To be honest, I am not much of a night owl, and this particular night, I didn’t plan to stay out late – like midnight at the latest.  So...I stayed out with these dudes till 4:30 the next morning!  When this teacher doesn’t have a bedtime and the night is good and when in Cusco – do like other travelers do!  Starting with limbo and face painting at location numero uno I met them at and moving to tres mas clubs and bars left me feeling like I was in college again; except the hilly streets of San Francisco where replaced with narrow cobble stoned streets!  

One of the last stops we spent some time at is infamous in Cusco – the Wild Rover!  Lemme tell ya – it was indeed wild; wild being the operative word in this case.   By the time we stepped on the scene there I think it was around midnight and it was already packed!  As we trailed ourselves in through the crowds it was as if I was walking into an old gentleman’s basement of a smoke cloud of weed and cigarette smoke mixed with the scent of booze!  Take a deep breath in Barbara; feel that?  Yea, I probably inhaled at least two cigarettes through second hand alone.  At least the aroma of liquor provided a nice chaser.  My senses were drenched!  We positioned ourselves close to the bar and soon and over about an hour the bar had no spare counter space as more than a dozen drunk travelers raised the roof, hands and their heals as they danced on the bar till the lights went out at 2am.  I’ll admit, I think the dense fog of smoke, alcohol aroma and heard of people packed in left me feeling: I’m too old for this.  Then after maybe 10 minutes in there with my international fellas, I thought: why the hell not?!  

“Hey, you gonna finish that,” I asked pointing to a quarter of a cigarette in Tyson’s hand.  As he looks at me surprised, he says... 

“Finish it!” 

With our glasses of poison in hand and cigarettes in the other we cheered and grooved to the beat of the music that left us unable to converse.  Lights went on at 2am, and a unison groan over swept the bar of travelers.  Moments later, as we stood outside with our hands in our pockets with the cold night air of Cusco hitting our skin that had just been inside a room filthy with body heat, not ready for the night to end yet, Jason found a promoter of another club and we stood in a circle waiting for a wrist band to our next stop for the night.  After flagging down a cab, the five of us piled into a taxi to the next stop of the night; and by piling in, I mean to say Jason, Sven, Harun and Tyson had seats while I literally lay on top of them in the back seat, trying not to get caught by any potential law enforcement.  As we climbed out of the cab at some place I can’t remember the name of (it was late and I might have been intoxicated at this point – maybe) I remember thinking how I thought I would bow out at midnight.  Ha!  The streets of Cusco were alive with young travelers who were walking in all kinds of directions towards a hand full of different music selections calling their names with their drinks waiting for them; and the night air sparkled with the old dim lights and stars that lit the cobble stone under our ready feet!  The five of us - international posy if you will – strutted our cool walk up to the bouncer and after casually flashing our wrist bands, we were waved into a base bumping packed club!  After drink number…who am I kidding it doesn’t matter; unimportant detail!  Besides I’m half Irish – I can hold my liquor thank you very much!  Jokes aside – we danced in that packed filled club drinks in hands and hands in the air till about 4 in the morning.  Well I bowed out with one of the four gents who I think thought he’d get lucky with this half Irish lady.  Out of respect for him, he did flag down a cab for me and rode with me back to my hostel to make sure I got in safe.  Gentlemanly for sure!  Sadly for him, I think he expected more – not about that kind of after party if you get my drift; because I am a lady and my mama raised me right!  So I left a sad, disappointed man outside my hostel.  But a very fun, carefree and eventful night, that is for sure! 

Gone Without Rhyme or Reason - But Your Presence Remains

“Are you sitting down…?”

“I’m about to…Why?”

“Are there students or staff around you?”

“…no…why? Jason, what’s going on?”

“sigh…you remember Justin Schaefer?”

“Of course, he’s out in Detroit.  Is he okay?”

“Well…no…gah, I don’t know how to put this.”

“Jason, just tell me, what’s going on? What happened to Justin?”

“Barbs, I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to check out Facebook today or not.”

anxiously nervous… “no…I haven’t”

"Well, Justin was out for a run on Sunday, and…he…died…”

I stop…. “whaaaat...?!  What do you mean he died?! He couldn’t have died, he’s perfectly healthy!”

“He’s gone, Barbs, he died…”

“I mean…was he held at gunpoint; tripped and fell into a ditch; was attacked by an animal?!”

“No, no, nothing like that, there was no sign of foul play, he just collapsed, and died…”
...sighs...."whaaaatt...?'
"yea...."

As the severity of the news sunk in after a few seconds it hit like a ton of bricks and the rage takes over "AHHHHHHHH!!!!” as I lean forward in the agony of the shock “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” as I arch my head back searching for reason from the heavens. SLAM..as my hands hit the desk! GAAAHHHHH!!!!....tears streaming…BAM…as I repeatedly punch the wooden cabinet door behind me….NOOOOOO!!!!...as I pound my clenched fist back on the desk….tears, whaling, tears and sobbing whaling tears continue for several minuets. 

The sound of Jason’s voice from my phone pulls me back… 

“Barbara, Barbara…”  

“I don’t know what to say, I mean how could this happen?! He was healthy, I just saw him update his profile picture not a week ago where he was walking a bike trail in Detroit.  I have been meaning to call that guy for months now, and the last time I thought to do so was when I saw his updated picture.” 

“Yea, I literally wrote on his wall just a couple of days ago saying how I hope he’s doing well and how we should chat soon.” 

“Damn it! Jason, it was just over two years ago when Justin came up from San Diego for my own dad’s rosary and funeral…sobbing…and now he’s gone…I wrote one of his letters of recommendation to the Volunteer corps that took him to Detroit.  the tears stream down my face again.  How have you been taking the news Jason?” 

“Definitely had my cry sessions earlier, and other than that....…as expected.” 

“Gah, I don’t know if I can finish the work day.” 

“You can’t Barbs, you can’t.  You need to go home.”

After I wrapped up the conversation, I stood up to pick up my half eaten lunch and took the weight of my body out of the room and down the school hall.  As I walked down the hall, this familiar feeling of grief and blinders came back to me in these very familiar halls.  I started to wonder if the 3^rd or 1^st grade classes heard me sobbing and slamming just a few minuets earlier. My steps are heavy and load, isolated in a vacuum of a muffled silence.  I think, and I hope the principal isn’t in the staff room, I can’t bare for the upper grade teachers to see my face.  As the odds would have it, of course she’s in the faculty lounge.  I linger in the first entry way of the lounge where I could remain unseen, waiting and hoping for her to end a conversation.  Surly, she has some other task that’ll take her away from the lounge.  Five minutes pass, and the end of the second lunch is quickly approaching; I have to interject.  With zero eye contact, and head down, I quickly step into the room to expose my grief ridden face, as I place my hand on the principal’s shoulder, “do you have a minuet?” I ask.

Moments later we’re sitting in her office.  I tell her everything I was just told by Jason; and my word vomit proceeds…  

“We were friends in college; he was a Berkeley student in the Newman Club while I did the same at San Francisco State; 

we planned events together for the two campus ministries; 

he came to a couple weddings with me; 

we did a color run together; 

we kept in touch when I went off to Philly; 

he was there at my dad’s viewing, rosary and funeral; 

he helped me as I grieved the death of my father; 

I wrote one of his letters of recommendation to the Jesuit Volunteer Corps; 

he was an only child; his parents just lost their only child, their only son.  

I can’t finish the day today; I can handle the last two art classes for the afternoon, I can’t stay after-school today though – I can’t fathom that right now.” 

“Of course.” And she proceeded with the only thing she could say as I lifted my heavy body up and out of her office, “I’m so sorry…”

The few minutes that were left before I picked up my 7^th grade students were followed by throwing away my half eaten lunch in the trash and leftover pizza from my 8^th grade class who earned a pizza party from me in the staff room as silence fell into the room at the very sight of my bloodshot eyes and wet cheeks.  Clunk, click and flick as I closed the bathroom door shut and turned the light on.  As I stood there alone, I hung my head over the bathroom sink for a moment as I caught my breath and watched tears hit the white porcelain sink all I could think about was how Justin died – alone.

RIIIIIIIING

Lunch’s over.  I quickly move to my classroom and quickly - and as if in a fog - grab the materials my 7^th graders will need. As I proceed down a seemly long middle school hallway, I shove all my emotions, all my grief and all my tears just under my facade and place my binders up.  Every heavy step I feel with great intensity and my eyes are focused daggers as the weight of tears are just waiting to pierce through the veil of my thin facade.  I feel every look; and every long stare; by every curious student and every concerned but nervous teacher as I walk by and further down the hall.  I was indeed the elephant in the room - or in this case the school halls.  And through it all, this strange familiar feeling of grief returned...as I walked these same halls in the wake of my father’s death in the same…exact…way.  This moment and the memory of returning to work the day after my father's death came right back - it felt all too familiar.  As I step into the 7^th grade classroom a grim grey cloud followed my demeanor and the students without necessary prompting or question see it, and sit silently and wait for my directions.  I gaze just over the tops of their heads as to not make eye contact, and tell them what they’ll need; I pause briefly, and simply and quietly say “line up.”

I have never seen a more silent or straight line going from their homeroom to my art classroom; and then to see these students sit like perfectly behaved robots.  I stand in front of this room of 12 year olds not knowing if I’m ready to even open my mouth again, as those piecing tears just lay behind that thin veil.  As I quickly go over what they need to accomplish in the hour I have them in class for, a hand of a young boy goes up. After I finish my sentence, I address the young boy. 

“Yes, Joey?”  

“Ms. Quigley, why are you so sad?” Like a trigger, I felt the piercing trigger being tapped; as it took everything I had not to keel over and fall apart in front of my adolescent students.  I threw my head backwards, clutched my eyes shut, rubbed my fingers through my hair all in an effort to pull down that thin facade.  And the students knew as they watched in their paralyzed hypnosis, as their playful sarcastic teacher gone wretched.  

“Joey, I really appreciate you asking.  But let’s get our work done first, and if that happens and there’s time, I would be fine sharing with you why I’m so upset.”

The class time proceeds as usual, except their playful art teacher has checked out and been replaced by a cold disconnected robot.  Hands go up; I walk over to hands of students; “like this Ms. Quigley?” “No,” as I take their paper, and quickly and harshly show them them how, and then abruptly walk away.  Every place I walk or position myself in the room, the eyes of the students follow as they wonder and are mesmerized by the drastic demeanor change of their strict and playful art teacher: where has she gone? I’m sure they are wondering; what happened? I’m sure was going through their heads.  But they don’t even dare to ask one another. 

The time wraps up and students quickly clean up and sit down to hear the grim news of why their teacher is so forlorn.  I pull my stool over to the front and center of the room and sit before taking a deep breath as I lift my head to look at their faces for the first time.

“I got a call today – just at lunch actually – about a dear friend of mine named Justin from college.  Justin has been living and teaching out in Detroit for the past year and a half, and was out on a run this past Sunday morning, and…he…just…died…  No rhyme or reason, just fell and dropped dead."  Pause…  

"Justin and I did campus ministry together in college, we stayed in touch after graduation.  He was there when my dad passed away, and I even wrote one of his letters of recommendation to go out to Detroit.  And you know what gets me the most?" 

As they all are hanging on my every word… 

"I had been thinking about Justin over the past few months, like man, it’s been a while, I haven’t heard from him in a while, I should call that guy and see how he’s doing and we should catch up…and I never did…and now I can’t…"

and those tears start to trickle through the veil…as the students sat paralyzed, not knowing what to do as they see grief seep out of their teacher.  One student; a boy stands up from the back row, walks up, and hugs me....

A simple yet profound gesture. 

With the fact that Justin's passing happened in Detroit, right before the Thanksgiving holiday, I was more than vigilant in checking social media constantly to stumble on an update on when his services would be in San Diego – his hometown and where his parents live.  As the days passed like weeks, friends from college all came out of the woodwork calling and texting each other searching for answers and a shoulder to let their waterfall of tears out on.  In that two week span I spent more time reading and re reading hand written letters Justin mailed to me or Facebook message threads; more time re watching a home video of Justin, some friends and me making fools of ourselves in a college talent show; spent more time making the long drive to San Diego; spent more time on the phone with friends; more time in sobbing and tear-filled group hug sessions that lasted longer than I even dare to guess; more time wondering why?  God, how…why…this makes no sense...he was so young!

Justin’s rosary and viewing had people from all parts of his life including a fare number of college friends from San Francisco State and Berkeley.  These once silly, seemingly carefree and prayerful group of Newman folks, that merely had the worries of an undergraduate student, now a few years older and not silly or carefree – not this time.  A unspoken silence of an understanding lay it’s fog over us all as we stood in the small room that had Justin’s body in the front waiting for us to pay a visit.  He was so young – 26 fucking years old!  And there he lay so still, so motionless, so lifeless; and yet so peaceful.  It was all I could do, to not shake him.  This isn’t real, just wake up Justin; you’re fine! Instead I turn to a college friend as we weep in each other’s arms!  His funeral Mass rained with his presence, his seemingly comforting presence; despite our either bloodshot eyes combined with wet cheeks, or our robotic demeanor – his presence was certainly there.  As the crowd of mourning folks processed to his resting place the solemn faces remained; silence remained; tears and unanswered questions hovered like luminous clouds just above.  One by one, flowers were laid on his casket as the breeze gently kissed our damp eyes and faces - a comforting presence...in a word: Justin.  And arm over shoulder, and arm and arm our Newman friends stood in a line with heavy hearts in solidarity as we watched our dear friend lowered into the earth.  We had just buried our friend.  

As I think of Justin’s life, I think of all the testimonies people said about him over and over.  “Justin always was so present; never distracted; to Justin if you stood in front of him you were always the most important person in his life in that moment; caring; thoughtful; purposeful; giving; intentional; reflective.”  The list goes on.  Personally, I have such high esteem for this young man.  For a friend that I worked closely with in campus ministry while in college, he was someone who believed in my crazy ideas of bringing two identical campus clubs together.  I have some fond memories of him in Bible studies where we both shared a piece of our hearts; there are joyful times of shenanigans in the hilly streets of San Francisco or late night college parties in Berkeley; racing down BART stairs; chasing down city buses; laughing uncontrollably over stories I could never make up; hugs that seemed to heal all hurts and ease all worries.

After college I enjoyed occasional phone conversations and written letters back and forth to Justin as I started a new chapter of  life in Philadelphia.  And when I returned to California, due to my father’s terminal health, Justin was just one of many friends who I could count on as I faced chemo treatments with my dad.  We ran in a San Diego color run; I took Justin as a plus one of mine to a wedding; I’d make the drive down south for taize prayer nights he himself organized; or he’d come up to hang with some mutual friends over some quality happy hours, or a day at Knots Berry Farm when I dragged him and our friend Jason around for my birthday and got them soaked on the white water rafting ride – laughing hysterically of course.   And as Justin questioned his comfy office job, I was one he talked to frequently about his ultimate decision to teach out in Detroit – a program very similar to the program that took me out to Philadelphia.  I was honored when he asked me to write his personal letter of recommendation for the program, and was happy to be a sounding board for his decision to explore the profession of teaching. 

One memory I keep coming back to was one from college.  We decided to grab coffee on Berkeley’s campus before a Newman club talent show that night.  As we sat on this park bench on a sunny Sunday afternoon, sipping our coffee and chatting about midterms and early 20 something worries, he pulls something out of his pocket.  

“I have something I wanted to give you Barbara.” 

“What? What’d ya get me?” Being the geology nerd he was, he hands me a small shiny black rock that’s slightly iridescent.  I look at him, waiting for an explanation.  

“What’s this?” I ask.  

“It’s an obsidian rock, and I want you to have it.  You see, my high school youth minister gave this to me when I was in high school, and told me this metaphor that has helped me.  You see, when you look at this rock, it looks pretty dark and black, but when you hold it up to the sun, you can see a glimmer of light shine through it.  So Barbara, when your life seems dark and hopeless I want you to remember to hold your life up to God, and he will shine His light through the darkness of your life.” 

I remember that day so well, and I still keep that little back rock with that message he gave me when I was an early 20 something fool.  Except now when I hold the darkness or sadness of my life - including the sadness that still prevails from his sudden death -  up to God, and I hold it up to Justin and other dear ones of mine that have passed, and I know they are part of that radiant light that shines in my soul and replenishes my hope and my joy.  

"Crisis can force us deep enough to find that source of passion in whatever you truly love.  The deeper the channel that pain carves into our soul, the greater the capacity we have to allow the river of joy to run through us." 

~Dawna Markova