From forever ago because I can’t be trusted to update blogs:
I hate to admit it, but over the years, my relationship with bathing has had some dark moments. There have been instances in the last year when Logan gently sat me down and asked/begged me to wash my hair. Upon my refusal, “WILL YOU AT LEAST COMB IT THEN??” It’s not my strongest area.
Bug bites in Coroico. Sandflies are the worst creatures…even though I secretly loved experiencing bugs again.
But these days, I’m a disaster. After Coroico, I was covered in bug bites. Well now I’ve scratched off my epidermis and coated the remaining layers of skin in a greasy film of hydrocortisone…, which I consequently refuse to wash off as a desperate plea for anti-itch protection. My hair is matted into one very large dread and at some point over the last three months I applied mascara. Welp, this mascara now lives in the deep crevices below my eyes. I’ve washed my clothes but 3 times since I left home in May. PS I left with a backpack. Mind you, it was a large backpack, but still…I’ve washed the clothes I keep in my backpack thrice. Sometimes I work out and don’t shower because it’s so cold that I don’t sweat. And I wonder why I have struggled to make friends…
Hospital room at one of our worksites.
Hallway at Los Andes Clinic.
It’s odd though, that this behavior isn’t actually, well, odd here. Washing your clothes after each use sounds crazy. Being nervous about dogs in waiting rooms of the hospital is a sign of generalized anxiety disorder and it’s totally normal to buy bread on the side of the highway and carry it away in a previously used plastic bag.
Random dancers outside my apartment. They block all streets errwhere.
Alpacan road block. TOO CUTE, I WANT ONE TO SNUGGLE.
I can only describe this “strange” (to the former me) manner in discreet events or actions and thus I’ll extend further—with no plans, turning up in cities that haven’t a single ATM and subsequently finding a place to stay—spending countless hours sitting in cafes, with nobody dropping the check for “whenever you’re ready, no rush”…but meaning within the next 20 milliseconds, please leave—prepared/unprepared street food errwhere, including live fish swimming in something reminiscent of a sewer. In Coroico, we met a Brazillian that subsists by selling handmade bracelets and sleeping on the street, drinking HUGE caipirinha drinks in old Sprite bottles. Must be nice.
Dancers breakin’ it down. I want to wear those skirts.
Mah dude. Droppin’ them beats.
Werk it, babay.
And this tranquilo attitude, this calm sea of spices is, well, confusing as hell to me. This Brazilian charmer was lovely and charismatic. He was English speaking and had a smile that just.wouldn’t.quit. He, well, seemingly captured this elusive concept of contentment, with a healthy vista of a life entirely foreign to the quick streets of a “busy,” “developed” America. And to me. In La Paz, I’ve been frustrated. And in a clichéd way, it’s taught me the importance of clean air and quiet winds, fresh fruit, language and communication, the people you love. I often fill my days with moments, but somewhat entirely lack the concepts of meaning and appreciation.
Gotta get your day drink on when celebrating in La Paz with some Paceña beer. I miss microbrews. #MichiganBeerFan
But that’s what’s real. If nothing matters, then why do it? We preach quality over quantitiy, but that’s a lie. Like errbody from Thoreau to TV producers tell us, we tend to resist a “simple life” in the States. Now I’m not saying I want to hop off the “internet” and delete my facebook. (DEAR GOD NEVER.) So what I mean to say is that we really do sweat the small stuff in the States. And for what? What are you really going to accomplish in the 15 minutes you save by expediting the restaurant experience? Did a little hair grease ever hurt anybody? Now, again, I’m not saying accomplishment and drive are irrelevant. I’m not saying development is bad. Lauren and Jennifer make fun of me for “texting while walking” and “surfing the net while jumping around my gym classes” (…that’s another story entirely.) But, I’m just saying sometimes, in my past, present and future, I will be sucked into a life where “dancers break my flow” and road blocks are obstacles not stories. But, I tell ya, they have a point down here in this confusing world of resistance to our resistance. So I will take note. Though hot showers would be nice…