Redemption

Have you ever suffered through a traumatic event that has forever altered your life?  It may be the untimely death of a loved one, a permanent injury or disease that changes your perspective on life, or a crippling regret or embarrassment that forever haunts you afterwards.  While I have fortunately never experienced any of the above traumatic experiences, I will elaborate on one such event that scarred my psyche, and how I overcame the agonizing ordeal.

Close your eyes, and envision a different time -- an era of legwarmers, crimped hair, acid wash jeans, and fluorescent shirts, all accompanied by the sounds of synthetic pop and rock ballads.  This, dear readers, was the heart of the eighties, and this story takes place in the heart of America -- New York City.  On summer vacations to visit relatives in New England, we would drive the entire distance of the eastern U.S. coast from Florida all the way up to Massachusetts and New Hampshire. In order to make the drive less painful, we would occasionally stop at major tourist destinations along the way for educational experiences to learn about our nation's proud history.  On this particular trip, we just so happened to stop in the major metropolis of New York City for several days to see what all the buzz was about.

I experienced my first subway ride as we hurtled underground to our different destinations: looking out across the city from atop the World Trade Center, walking through the busy hub of Grand Central Terminal, and gawking at dinosaur bones in the American Museum of Natural History. During this carefree decade, we were able to hop onto a boat without prior reservations in order to cross the harbor toward the indomitable symbol of freedom -- the Statue of Liberty -- much like our immigrant descendants had done several generations before.

While I was only eight or nine years old at the time, certain details stand out in my memory from this fateful day.  I remember standing in line to gain access to the statue's pedestal, from which there was a looooong winding stairwell to reach the crown.  Ascending the death-defying staircase during the sweltering summer afternoon, and trying not to get dizzy while looking down at the ground hundreds of feet below was not my idea of fun.  We were all being herded along like cattle, each of us yearning for our 10 seconds of freedom in the crown, where we could gaze at the greatness of Manhattan from one of the city's best vantage points. While stuck in the unending line, I started to reevaluate my current situation.  There I was, on a narrow staircase high above the ground, crushed amongst the crowd of pushy tourists, and it suddenly became clear to me -- this trap was going to be the death of me, so I started panicking and crying for safety.  My mother finally relented and dragged me to the opposite stairwell where we made our hasty retreat back to solid ground, patiently waiting for my father who dutifully continued upward for his singular taste of Liberty's freedom, not about to let some blubbering fool steal his view.

And there you have it: one of the biggest failures of my life.

Flash forward 20+ years to my first repeat visit to NYC.  In this post 9/11 era, getting tickets to go inside the Statue of Liberty takes an act of congress, and none were available in advance at such short notice for this mini-vacation. Tickets sell out months in advance, and after Hurricane Sandy and the recent government shutdown have both indefinitely closed the statue again, it's a miracle that the statue was ever reopened in the first place. On my first morning in New York, I happened to pull up the online ticketing website on a whim, and a holiday miracle occurred -- there was ONE lone ticket for that morning that was available!  I have no idea how or why this single golden ticket became available, but I grabbed the opportunity with such exuberance that I would have made even Charlie Bucket jealous at my good fortune.  I threw on some clothes and briskly walked the 10 blocks to board the ferry in time for my appointed 9:00am timeslot (while passing a prominently placed sign telling tourists that there were absolutely no more crown tickets available - suckers!).

I boarded the ferry, sailed on past Ellis Island, and landed at Lady Liberty's feet, looking for solace within her copper dressfolds to house my poor, tired, and huddled mass.  I was eager to seek redemption for my past follies as a child, and I proudly climbed each step of the winding staircase with poised determination.  After countless steps ascending within the bowels of the statue, I eventually reached the summit and peered out at a spectacular view of Manhattan, knowing that I had managed to redeem myself and close a terrible chapter in my life.  Proud of such a feat, I basked in the glory as long as possible, content with my accomplishment.  When my coveted time in the crown had expired, I reluctantly took one last look back before heading down, and promptly banged my head into the crown's ceiling, leaving me dazed and confused, but with an unabashed sense of victory.

Approaching the Statue of Liberty

Manhattan from Liberty's crown

Buen Provecho

The best way to experience the culture of a foreign country is by totally immersing yourself within the customs and environment of the region to which you are traveling.  Visit museums, admire the architecture, interact with locals, respect their culture and religion, and eat the regional foods.  As someone who loves food, I certainly don't have a problem with that last suggestion!  I've tasted perfectly al dente pasta in Italy, fish 'n chips in England, goulash in Hungary, gozleme in Turkey, paella in Spain, every variation of foie gras in France, and even handmade tacos from a vendor in Mexico selling them out of a shopping cart on the side of the road.  Yes, you heard correctly -- a shopping cart!  As of yet, Montezuma has never exacted revenge upon my culinary adventures, even after that last questionable meal.  In fact, these local delicacies have been some of the most delicious meals I have ever eaten and have created an indelible imprint on my memory.

While I do not consider myself a very adventurous individual when it comes to exotic delicacies, I am attempting to broaden my horizons over time.  Considering that just a few years ago I was too scared to even try sushi (and now it's one of my favorite meals), I feel like I've made great strides in a brief period of time throughout my travels.  Everyone has certainly seen cow, pig, and chicken on restaurant menus, but there are many other types of meats that are endemic to local regions and not widely available in the United States.  This brings me back again to the South American town of Cuzco in Peru.  When you think of Peru, the mind is instantly drawn to the sweeping view of Machu Picchu atop a mountain with llamas and alpaca freely roaming the hillsides.  This is because alpaca are native to Peru, and are common livestock for both their wool and meat.  It goes without saying that my first meal in Peru consisted of a juicy slab of alpaca steak.  It was tender and flavorful, and not altogether unlike eating beef. And thus, after washing it down with a delicious swig of Inka Cola, I was able to add another unique meal to my ever-growing list.

I felt emboldened by this successful adventure, and was ready to take on what else the country had to offer.  Shortly afterwards, I heard about the common dish that once used to be reserved for ceremonial occasions -- cuy.  These animals are held in high esteem by many Peruvians, and oftentimes are bred by the locals for both their meat and for their warmth on cold winter nights.  Intrigued, I acquiesced to my tourguide for the day, and told him I would love to try out a local cuyeria for lunch after our travels.  After tromping through numerous pre-Incan ruins all morning, I was quite famished by the time mid-afternoon arrived and was ready to partake in a grandiose meal.

We stopped at a roadside cuyeria -- a small restaurant that specializes only in cuy and is a thriving business for locals and tourists alike.  We were greeted warmly and overcome with the delicious aroma of lunch wafting toward us.  The brick oven was filled with cuy being freshly prepared, and it smelled quite savory.  I took my seat while my stomach eagerly awaited for the dish to arrive to quench the hunger pangs that had intensified upon entering the restaurant.  I was a little apprehensive about trying a new dish, but I was past the point of no return and could not turn back now.  The waitress quickly arrived with two platters which she deftly placed on the table for all to see, and suddenly my appetite took a dive for the worse.  I graciously smiled to show my appreciation, and slid an entire cuy onto my plate, claws and teeth and eyeballs included.  When I had pictured cuy, this was not exactly what I had envisioned.  I typically don't prefer my food to return my gaze, with its mouth curled back in an antagonizing snarl to bare its little rodent teeth at me.

And so I took my fork and knife, and steadfastly carved away bits of meat that seemed the most edible, chewing on them and forcing myself to swallow.  The meat wasn't necessarily unpleasant, it just wasn't exactly what I had anticipated.  After several obligatory bites (trying to eat enough to not seem rude) I feigned satiety and admitted that I simply could not eat another bite of this delicious meal.  And so there it sat, the unwanted half of a cuy that a hapless tourist did not have the gall to finish.  It's not that I have anything personal against the animal; in fact, I knew many people who had them as pets when I was younger.  But seeing a guinea pig on a platter with its hair completely plucked off and its body still intact, it looked like a large sewer rat splayed out for me to eat... and that was just crossing a line that I didn't want to cross.

Cuy aka guinea pig

Apocalypse Now

Life is full of cycles -- day/night, birth/death, war/peace, and ultimately the rise/fall of civilizations. We are all living in a post-apocalyptic world, whether we know it or not.  According to the well-publicized interpretations of the Mayan calendar, the world was supposed to end on December 21, 2012.  Despite that fact, we are all still wandering this earth with no more than our usual share of natural disasters and calamities.  Regardless of the fact that the apocalypse came and went uneventfully (much like the Y2K phenomenon), there was a large share of believers who wanted to see the anticipated end-of-the-world firsthand, and therefore traveled to the centers of ancient Mayan civilization.  Some would call these people "crazy" or "lunatics" for their actions, with their well-timed foray into the frontlines of the apocalypse.  I normally would have thought the same thing, had I not been included in this group of people.  Yes, I, too, was one of the crazed masses who congregated at Mayan temples on this predetermined date to watch the epic destruction of the earth.  And here is my story...

It all started with a winter vacation, and a lack of foresight on my part.  When one has a 4 or 5 day stretch of time off from work, one does what any person infected with the travel bug would do -- book a mini-vacation!  I had no choice in the days that I was assigned off, but I did have the choice in where to go during December.  It had to be somewhere warm, someplace I had never been, someplace reasonably close due to the time constraints, and someplace with culture and history into which I could be immersed.  There was one clear winner -- Belize.

And so I set out on my mini-adventure, rife with ruins to traverse, jungles to trek, and river caves to explore.  And of course, to top it all off, a side trip to the neighboring country of Guatemala for a visit to the Mayan epicenter of Tikal.  You see, I have a special place in my heart for these Central and South American civilizations, and it is my goal to visit most of them one day.  Plus, I figured it would be a great time of year to go -- not swelteringly hot, and reasonably devoid of tourists.  And yes, I inadvertently chose December 21 as the day to visit Tikal -- a quiet weekday to relax and hike the ruins in solitude, just like I'd seen in all the guidebooks.

I couldn't have been further from the truth.  Upon entering the amazingly vast complex of temples and ruins, I was greeted by a cacophony of drums and chanting, as people were celebrating the rebirth of the world.  There were natives dressed in traditional costumes dancing around fires, and many MANY tourists crammed into the main plazas joining in on the festivities.  So much for solace and quiet introspection.  So much for silently pondering the past and its impact on the present -- the impact was more like a brutal slap to the face as an awakening epiphany hit me as to the significance of the day I had actually chosen to visit.

While not how I had anticipated visiting these holy ruins, I nevertheless took it all in stride, and enjoyed the contemporary festivities juxtaposed amidst the gigantic temples of faded civilizations.  I trekked through ancient palaces, climbed countless stairs to the tops of temples, explored the ball courts where so many had played for their lives and lost, and admired the architecture still standing centuries later.  And then there was the odd discovery on the outskirts of the site.  There, on a platform built many centuries ago (probably to display ancient ceremonial sacrificial rites) was a group of pale people undeniably from the United States.  But these weren't just any tourists -- oh no!  They were performing well-rehearsed, synchronized, ritualistic dancing while chanting in an indecipherable language.  And they had been at it for hours.  There was sweat dripping from their faces as they continued their ceaseless chanting.  I couldn't help but become entranced by their actions; whether it was from amusement at their ludicrous display of beliefs, or confusion as to what was actually happening, I shall never know.  Maybe they were hoping to see the end of the world and failed, or maybe they were trying to prevent it, and succeeded.  Maybe they were lost, crazy souls without guidance, or maybe they were acutely attuned to a higher being and saved us all from destruction.  All I know is that I had the last laugh, as I eventually chuckled and walked away to further explore the amazing temple of Tikal, secure in the fact that the world was still continuing on.

The quiet solitude of Tikal

 

Saving the world

 

At the Top of the World

Many activities in life are meant to be eased into with practice, like trying to run a marathon or climbing Mount Everest.  Despite this (supposed) common sense, some people try to rush into these experiences without proper preparation.  The ensuing results can lead to disaster, or simply an awkward situation which you can laugh about later.  Fortunately for me, merely the latter happened to me on a trip to the mountainous terrain of Peru last fall.

I'm sure most of you are thinking, "Oh great, another unprepared hiker trying to traverse the length of the Incan Trail while making a fool of himself instead!"  Well, here I must stop you in your tracks and tell you that you are most definitely wrong.  I know my own limitations, and I know that a multiday hike with no preparation is among them, so this was not on the agenda.  I opted for the easy way out -- by air-conditioned train with attendants serving me food and drinks along the way.  But before we get to any of that, let me get back on track and resume my story from the beginning...

After an uneventful flight to Peru, I landed in the mountainous city of Cusco and stepped off the plane in a land closer to heaven than any I'd ever been.  Literally.  I realized that I might have a few more troubles than anticipated at this high altitude above 11,000 feet when I took one deep breath while enjoying the beauty of this country, and instantly wondered where the oxygen had gone.  My lungs were thrown into a panic as I continued to breathe this oxygen-deprived air, and my brain became a little light-headed at the realization that I was likely going to die in a matter of minutes from asphyxiation.

Somehow I managed to gradually acclimate to the altitude and muster enough strength to grab my bags and head to the nearest taxi stand, while conserving the last of my air to blurt out the name of my hotel with one final gasp.  Upon arriving to the hotel, I was graciously given a lifesaving concoction of mate de coca, a tea brewed from coca leaves and reputed to help adjust to the altitude.  Whether it be from eventually acclimating to the thin air on my own, or simply from the natural properties of the plant, I started feeling better.  I made it up to my room, and decided to relax for a few more minutes until I was sure that I was ready to take on the city and all its sights.

And now for a word of advice -- no matter how acclimated you think you have become within the first few hours of landing in Cusco, do NOT attempt to overexert yourself and climb a mountain.  With only 4 full days in Cusco, I decided to waste no time and promptly hired a taxi to transport me to the less-visited Incan city of Pisac high up in the mountains.  While sitting in the back seat of the taxi and winding through the narrow mountain roads, I realized this might not have been the brightest idea I've ever had.  I had to lay down to offset the motion sickness that was starting to build within my system.  After what seemed like hours (but more realistically only lasted 45 minutes), we arrived at the foot of the ruins of Pisac.  Wanting to make the best of any situation, I gathered my composure and headed out to venture into my first exposure to the amazing ruins of an extinct civilization.  Replete with stunning agricultural terraces sweeping up the mountain, and topped with a perfectly carved stone complex of buildings, Pisac was certainly a sight to behold as I began trekking toward it.

Overcome with the splendor of this place, I fought back both emotions and nausea that were trying to escape.  I successfully made it to the base of the buildings, but knew it was a losing battle.  I discovered an abandoned corner and paid homage to the Incans the only way I could at that moment in time -- by heaving out the contents of my stomach, with tears streaming down my face from the exertion and emotions roiling through me.  I knew that the Incans had bested me.  And while I will always have a piece of the exotic history and beauty of Pisac forever embedded in my mind, I feel like I left them a parting gift to forever remember me by as well.  Definitely not an equal trade by any means, yet I still feel like I came back the winner of this life-altering venture.  Thus, I snapped some photos as a visual reminder of what I could not clearly see through my tear-stained eyes, and gave up on any idea of hiking deeper into the complex.  I waved my white flag of surrender, and plodded back to the taxi to endure another winding meander through the mountains back to Cusco, admitting defeat for the day.

As every story must have a happy ending according to the rules, I will delve a bit deeper into this adventure.  I eventually DID acclimate further to the atmosphere, and was able to experience the best of Cusco with only excruciating headaches to endure for the remainder of the trip.  I packed enough sightseeing into this short trip to make even Phil Keoghan jealous of my amazing race around the sacred valley.  Salt mines, agricultural terraces, ancient towns and fortresses, pre-Incan ruins, Spanish influences, exotic delicacies and gourmet foods alike, and awe-inspiring landscapes were all visited in this region, and I loved every minute of it.  However, the zenith of any trip to this country is undoubtedly a visit to Machu Picchu.  It is absolutely breathtaking, and no words can suffice to describe the experience of overlooking this world wonder while climbing through centuries of history.

I am dying to return to Peru and see what else this diverse country has to offer, but I will learn from my experience and be better prepared next time.  Premedicate with acetazolamide, sip mate de coca upon arrival, and GO SLOW!  Hopefully these tidbits of advice will prevent anyone else from suffering my same fate.

The ruins of Pisac

Inaugural Flight

My saga begins at the tender age of 23, an age when you feel like you can conquer the world but are as yet untested.  As a recent college grad with no firm direction in life, the future was full of boundless opportunities.  I merely needed to walk through an open door and pursue a path of my choosing.  I had tested my wings and eagerly left the nest several years prior, but was still a fledgling who had never really ventured outside my home state to broaden my perspective.  That was soon all about to change...

A dear friend of mine was planning on visiting her relatives in merry old England, and as a passing thought, she invited me to come along.  I am a self-professed Anglophile, so this opportunity seemed like the chance of a lifetime for me.  A chance to experience many firsts -- my first time on an airplane, my first trip overseas, my first time in the country I had only dreamed about until that day.  I could hobnob with royalty while sipping on tea and scones!  I could revel in the sounds of the delicious English accent while perfecting my own impersonation!  I could travel throughout hundreds of years of history by visiting famous landmarks and archeological sites! So it should come as no surprise when I instantaneously gave her my unwavering response, "YES!!!"

While there was regrettably no teatime with the queen, England was undoubtedly everything I had ever imagined, and more.  Frolicking throughout London on a day trip with my friend's aunt and uncle as tourguides, we were able to meet the infamous Big Ben, step closer to God by exploring the echoing halls of Westminster Abbey, walk amongst the ghosts of kings and their traitorous murderers alike inside the Tower, and watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.  The rest of the trip was spent as guests of her other family members in the countryside town of Mildenhall, where we languorously spent the afternoons at home drinking tea and biscuits the proper British way, whilst watching BBC programming.  We shopped in the local markets and went grocery shopping at Tesco.  We even reveled in a pub to the songs of a traveling troupe singing ABBA songs one night while drinking beer.  I became an honorary member of a new family much quirkier and outgoing than my own, having grown up as the solitary child of a quiet librarian and a stoic blue-collar father.  In fact, I was so eager to share the news of this trip with my parents, that I informed them about it the best way I knew how -- by mailing them a postcard to let them know that their only child, whom they supposed was enjoying a carefree day at home just 15 minutes away from them, was rather an entire ocean's distance away, having embarked on a voyage without their knowledge or permission.

The entire trip, which lasted a mere 5 days, felt like 5 minutes to me.  I kept craving more, and was unprepared for what changes were occurring inside me.  I would never be the same again after this trip, for I had been infected with an incurable disease.  A disease that festers inside your entire being, and can only be abated by one thing -- more travel.  Yes, I had a full-blown case of the travel bug, and I yearned to experience what else this wide world had to offer. And thus began my saga to explore the world, one adventurous mishap at a time.

London viewed from the Eye