The country

    

 Went to Pennsylvania's Amish Country last weekend. Inexpensive fabric stores, bags of apples for less than a third of what I would pay in my own neighborhood, restaurants that close at 7pm, quiet country roads, cherry apple cider, well-behaved little boys in straw hats. Good stuff. Except for the restaurant hours. 7pm? Really?

Maine

I like my life. In the decade or so that I have been an adult, I've had a lot of fun. Going here and there, doing this and that... it's been really nice. I know that's about to change - in a good way of course; I welcome the change - and I've been trying to make the most of these last months as a carefree, possibly somewhat self-centered, childless person.

Last weekend, for example. My last "just for me" adventure for quite some time (I imagine). I drove up to Maine for a long weekend trip with a friend. We spent a rainy day in Portland. We went to Acadia National Park. We ate really good seafood. We had "drinks" in a church-turned-bar. We cracked jokes, discussed the finer points of the greatest juvenile literature series ever written, recalled songs from our elementary music classes, talked about our families, stayed in a motel room that looked like it had been sawed off from a corner of my grandma's house, bought fancy soaps... etc.

Did I mention how much I like my life? And the people in it? Did I also mention how totally cool I am with the fact that it will be very different in a few months? This trip, planned before I was pregnant, was perfect at the perfect time.

A few pictures. I forgot to bring my camera along for half of our excursions... these were all taken in Acadia. Gol, I do love the North Atlantic.

As for vacation...

It was wonderful. I don't feel like using so many words to describe it just now - maybe a few photos and captions can fill you in.

Much of our time was spent with Oliver's family - who, because I respect them and any desire they have for privacy - are not pictured here. Oliver's mom's dog though- I can post a picture of him. You don't mind, do you Bodo?

We made our way one day to Bremen (of the Bremen Town Musicians fame). It had a beautiful "old town" section, complete with town hall and rickety cathedral (both pictured). A beautiful place - if you find yourself in northwest Germany at any point, it's worth dropping by.

Silhouetted in the tower of Bremen's cathedral.

Taking leave of Germany after a bit, we made a brief foray into Denmark. Our first stop was Aero Island, a little island in the East Sea. We stayed in a village called Aeroskoebing (pictured). It's a rarity - perfectly preserved 18th century buildings and very little of anything else. No condos, no fast food chains, no malls. The perfect place to go for an escape from the real world. 

Our biggest doing on Aero Island: an epic bike ride. The island itself isn't all that large but the bike route weaves back and forth a hundred times, sucking the strength out of your legs but giving you views like this one over and over again. I could barely pedal come evening, but I wanted to keep going. Every minute was beautiful, and every place I was that day was exactly where I wanted to be. The world needs more bike trails on tiny, quiet islands.

The little guy enjoyed the view - his first of the East Sea.

Oliver also enjoyed the view. 

Copenhagen was our other destination, and it was wonderful too. Canals, bikes, and all those beautiful buildings. We wandered around for a couple days, feeling guilty and nervous about two things we had never bothered to learn: a single word of the Danish language, and the dollar-kroner exchange rate.

My favorite part of Copenhagen - its outdoor cafes and the fleece blankets that hang casually off the backs of their chairs. A fleece blanket in August! Sorry to be the crazy old weather lady again, but I can't help it. This photo captures me at my happiest - wrapped in a blanket, sitting in a cute neighborhood, relaxing. Blankets in August! All right, I'm done now.

Our last stop was Frankfurt, where we spent a couple days with some friends. Frankfurt is mainly shiny tower-like buildings (background) and almost no quaint, old-style "German" buildings (foreground). The old-style buildings are fake-ish anyhow. The city was destroyed at the end of World War II, and all its historical buildings were reduced to rubble. The facades pictured are just replicas of the originals.

And thus it came to an end. We'll be back next year with the little guy in tow. I'm already plotting day trips and North Sea island excursions. Maybe I'll find some more fleece blanketed-sidewalk cafes. I still can't get over that. Fleece blankets! In August!

All right, I'm done now.

Weekend in the Quiet Corner

You might remember me saying that we were going to Martha's Vineyard for the 4th of July weekend. Plans changed, as so many plans have changed this year (sometime I'll tell you about the dozen different summer trips we mapped out before actual flights were booked). Unsure how well three months of pregnancy and three nights of tent sleeping would mix, I canceled our campground reservations only to discover that all hotels were already booked. Ah well. Next year, perhaps?

Instead, we found ourselves in Connecticut's "Quiet Corner", a sleepy, somewhat bucolic area in the north of the state. We stayed at a beautiful B & B, wandered down country roads, snuck into a corn field (being careful, of course, not to disturb any of the corn), swam in a pool, saw fireworks. On the actual 4th, we went to Woodstock's annual 4th of July Jamboree. This place was almost unreal in its small-town Americana charm. There was a frog jumping contest for kids(' frogs). There was a pie eating contest (not for frogs). The ladies of the church sold strawberry shortcake with homemade biscuits. A band played in the gazebo - the band meets once a month in the local church basement, and its leader invited members of the general public to come and join anytime.

The festival's high point was the parade - it was the coolest, folksiest, small towniest parade I've ever seen. The elderly veterans marched first, followed by a marching band of local citizens. The town's kids came next - it seemed like every single one was there - on bikes decked out with balloons, red-white-and-blue streamers, and stuffed animals. A string of vintage cars followed, and the local fire trucks closed things out. Short, simple. 

 the view

 the corn (way more than knee high, by the way)

 measuring the frog's jump

fancy bikes in the parade

(And on an unrelated note, Germany lost its game today. I've written about the team a couple times, so I thought I'd complete the story arc with a mention of their demise. A sad day indeed.)

Memorial Day in Detroit

We had originally planned to go camping over Memorial Day weekend. I even checked out a library book at one point on hikes in Adirondack State Park. Back in March though, I was seized with sudden inspiration. A couple emails to my brother, a heads up to Oliver and it was settled: road trip to Detroit. My brother would drive from Milwaukee, we would drive from New York. Simple. Perfect.

As the weekend approached and I told people where I was going, I got a lot of quizzical looks. Detroit? On purpose? Yes, Detroit. On purpose. I've heard so much about the hard times it's going through. You hear about abandoned buildings, rampant unemployment. I wanted to see it for myself. What is it really like? What's an inaccurate stereotype, and what's real?

I can't say that I've got Detroit nailed down (I imagine it takes a little more than 2 days to do that), but I can say that I really enjoyed it. It's got a Midwest industrial feel to it that feels more "at home" to me than New York often does. It's got killer chili dogs. It has an incredible art museum - after 10 years as an art history buff, I finally got to see a Diego Rivera mural (below). 

It has a lively downtown, and great architecture. And yes, it has abandoned buildings. Lots of them. Some of them are surrounded by vacant lots. One building in particular really caught our attention: Michigan Central Station.

 Michigan Central Station was once a major railroad terminal. Today it is 18 stories of nothing. Completely abandoned and going to seed. Every inch of the inside is covered in graffiti, and scavengers have spent the last 20 years pulling out copper tubing, stair railings, and anything else that might have value.

And how do I know that every inch of the inside is covered in graffiti? That's right, my friend. Oliver, my brother and I snuck into the building. We found a piece of loose fencing, crawled under it, and ran for it. A few pictures to help you understand what it was like in there (and I apologize for the blurry ones: we only had a camera phone):

 The entrance, walking into the main hall. Such an amazing space.

 My brother and I walking through one of the many hallways. We had actually joined a "black ops" tour at this point - I'm not sure where these people came from, but the leader was a local guy who comes to the station all the time. He has done painstaking research, and could tell us what just about every room was used for. He has also been cited by the police several times for entering the building.

 A view out a stairwell window - to the bridge to Canada. 15th floor perhaps? No glass in the windows, of course.

 Top floor. The whole floor was one room with these enormous windows running along both sides. I can only imagine what it looked like in its heyday.

The view from the roof.

Oh, the agony.

Do you have a period of time where everything happens at once and totally overwhelms you? That time, for me, is now. I'm overwhelmed in positive ways (mostly), but drained just the same. I've been coming home from work and crashing on the couch, unable to even get up the strength to read a book. And honestly, the strength that compelled me, just a few minutes ago, to write a little bit here is quickly fading. Couch... couch...

The dishes are piling up. I spilled a little oatmeal on the floor this morning and didn't bother cleaning it up. Didn't have the energy. My library books sit on the coffee table, two weeks overdue. Yes, the library is a 5-minute walk from my apartment. No, I will not be going tonight either.

I'll snap out of this soon. In the meantime, here are a couple pictures I took this past weekend at the Jersey Shore. The North Atlantic! I really love it. If I could get my act together I'd go on and on about why I love it (the cold, the gray, the places I associate with it), but meh. 

Forgot to Mention

After the wonderful three weeks of our vacation, we wound up in hell (not pictured). Did I forget to mention that? I've already told a lot of people about this via email, facebook, conversation, etc., so I won't go into incredible detail here. Very briefly:

Oliver forgot his green card at home...

And was unable to board the plane for our flight home.

He guilted me into staying in Lima with him.

We waited two days for the embassy to open...

And were slapped around by bureaucrats once we arrived. Seriously, those people do NOT mess around. With things like compassion, empathy, or friendliness. (Serenity now!)

We ended up calling our landlords and begging them to "break into" our apartment and mail the green card.

They sent it the fastest way possible - 48 hr. delivery via Fed Ex.

I went home to get things ready for our next trip (we were supposed to leave Thursday night)...

Oliver stayed in Lima and made friends with the people at the Fed Ex office. (Can you track it for me? Where is it now? Will it arrive today?)

The card arrived on Wednesday, and Oliver took the night flight home.

He got back to our apartment at 2pm Thursday...

And we caught our bus to Toronto 5 hours later.

Which is something else I haven't gotten around to mentioning yet: our second annual Labor Day Algonquin Provincial Park extravaganza. It was more or less the same group as last year, and it was a little more poignant this time. One couple was two weeks away from leaving Toronto for Frankfurt. Another couple, one that had moved from Toronto to Frankfurt last fall, was back for a brief visit. (Really, what is it with Frankfurt?) The whole weekend had this undercurrent of "enjoy this very second - time is slipping through your fingers" to it. Why does time always do that?

Lucky for us, we were able to enjoy each of those seconds.

Even if Oliver was a little tired and still a bit freaked out from his recent brush with the Department of Homeland Security.

On Faith

Faith played a big role in our trip.

Faith for one thing, that the bus we were riding in would not sail off the mountain cliff that dropped inches from our left/right (which bus? Every bus. Every single bus we took for three weeks). Faith that whatever we were eating wouldn't make us sick. Faith that the shower water would run hot, or at least warm.

Beyond these trivialities though, faith was everywhere in Peru and Bolivia. There were the cathedrals with their statues of saints dressed in silks and accented with gold. There were hilltop temples covered in candle wax from yesterday's prayers. There was a cave-like room in Copacabana's cathedral where people melted candles and shaped the wax into the objects they most desired, then stuck the wax to the walls of the church to ensure the reception of their prayers.

(Candlewax prayers over Lake Titicaca)

This was a different faith than the one I'm used to. It was more a blending of Christianity and ancient, native beliefs. Statues of the Virgin Mary were decorated with ancient Andean symbols of fertility. New cars were blessed by a priest but also showered with offerings of alcohol. In the spirit of this faith then, and as a summing up of my time in Peru and Bolivia, a few things I believe:

(Blessing a new car)

* I believe that I never seen so many people in traditional, indigenous dress. No one in Germany actually wears lederhosen, for example. Japanese girls wear jeans, not kimonos. Where we were though, the traditional dress among women is something of a source of pride.

* I believe that Lake Titicaca is just about the most beautiful body of water I have ever seen.

* I believe that llamas/alpacas/vicunas are really, really cute.

(C'mon, tell me that's not cute!)

* I believe that Inca Kola absolutely deserves to be the #1 soda in Peru.

* I believe that there is another Machu Picchu hidden in those hills. Absolutely. People are discovering new sites of ruins every year. Those woods are dense and there are so many hills... just a matter of time.

* I believe that La Paz is the messiest, most chaotic, most awful city I have ever loved.

* I believe that the more of the world I see, the more I realize that I have seen nothing.

A Tale of Two Treks

From the earliest stages of planning this trip, we knew it was going to be an "outdoor" sort of vacation. All our vacations are. Cities and small towns, sure. Those are great. Beyond them though, the great outdoors! Soaring mountains! Endless plains! Startling blue waters of lakes and oceans!

Two specific outdoorsy things dominated our plans: hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, and trekking among the mountains of Bolivia's Cordillera Real. They took about the same amount of time (3-4 days each), and both were amazing. The similarities end there.

(Okay, technically, do the similarities really end there? There are probably hundreds of things that were similar. Both were in Spanish-speaking nations. Both skirted snow-capped mountains. Both were difficult. Both were at high altitudes. Both involved a guide. Both involved us sleeping in tents. And so on. Beside the point.)

(Up at the top of Dead Woman's Pass, the highest point on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu)

Hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu was incredible. You're not allowed to hike the trail yourself, so we signed up with SAS, the Cadillac of Machu Picchu trek companies. Oliver and I were 2 among a group of 8 twenty/early thirty-somethings from the States and Europe. It was like one of those movies of safaris in the 1920s. Porters carried our heavy bags. We ate dinner (a feast!) each night in a tent. We were awakened each day with a cup of hot tea and a bowl of warm water to wash our faces. Our guide told us stories every night about the origins of the Incas, mystical Peruvian beliefs (ghosts and pishtacos, anyone?), the Shining Path, and Peruvian politics today. There was even a shower the night before we arrived at Machu Picchu.

(Our guide Paul explains the meaning behind the Andean Cross)

We woke up at 4 that day to start the hike to Machu Picchu, arriving at the Temple of the Sun in time to see the sun rise. Spectacular. We had a guided tour of the site, then had time to wander around for a few hours, soak in everything. Machu Picchu itlsef was overflowing with tourists, but still majestic.


Contrast: trekking in Bolivia's Cordillera Real. We did a three day hike to Laguna Chillata and Laguna Glacier. This time, our guide was a local guy who took us grocery shopping the night before the trip for our food. He spoke no English and we spoke broken (at best) Spanish. The three of us made our way from arid fields to loose rock of a retreating glacier. We saw almost no other tourists. We got drinking water from a stream rushing down out of the glacier. We saw Incan ruins at one point, but they were just there. No ticket office. No preservation. No nothing.

(Oliver and Eduardo load up the mule)

(Inca ruins minus tourists. Except for us, of course.)

The difference in the treks is the perfect symbol for the difference between Peru and Bolivia (from my admittedly limited point of view). Peru is like the older teenage brother. Machu Picchu has been attracting tourists for decades, and Peru knows what to do with the hordes that come in. Bolivia is more of a wilderness. Fewer tourists, fewer amenities. More of an unknown entity. A little grittier in terms of getting from Point A to Point B, perhaps. But.

Absolutely.

Indescribably.

Stunning.

The Clash

Cusco. I know a small handful of people who have been there before, and all came back raving about it. Naturally then, I had to see it all for myself.

It's a beautiful city. It's also full of bars specifically opened for tourists, and its streets are full of people trying to sell you this or that, trying to convince you to go on their tour of the Sacred Valley, trying to get you to eat at their restaurant. Cusco is the stepping-off point for Machu Picchu, so it is used to tourists. Lots and lots of them. At times it almost seems as though it is set up specifically for them. On our days there, we spent a good deal of time wandering here and there, trying to get an understanding of Cusco that went beyond its tourist facade.

We had varying levels of success at different times. At one point we managed to find a great market that was so "authentic" and "local" that it made us both ill, Oliver violently so. (Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not! I swear!)

In all our walks, I kept seeing a common theme, and it sort of defined Peru (and later Bolivia) for me: the great clash of civilizations and ideas. Bear with me here. Cusco was the capital of the great Inca Empire, an empire the people of Peru still very much associate with themselves today. When they were Incas, the people of Cusco sat at the very center of (and controlled) an empire that passes through several of today's countries. When the Spanish came in the 1500s, they destroyed that empire and went about converting the people from heathens to Christians. The Spanish even went so far as to tear down the greatest Inca temple of them all and use the stones to build the foundations of a great church. The church still stands today, and the Inca stones at its base can still be seen. Isn't that what the entire world is? Aren't we all a jumble of clashing cultures? Of beliefs and traditions layered over older beliefs and traditions?

(Inca stonework overlooking Franciscan courtyard)

Cusco was beautiful to me because the clash was so obvious - the people have a mix of Indian and Spanish blood in their veins, their streets are a mixture of Inca stonework and Spanish colonial architecture. And the clashing isn't over; it's just taken a new form. Hungry for a Big Mac? You can get one at the McDonald's in Plaza de Armas.