I want to thank Sergio for all of this. For being able to stay with his family for the entire week. There is a poster of him on the wall watching over us while we sleep. He's a celebrity here in La Paz. Even our taxi driver knew him. He plays guitar like I would want to in my dreams. He played for us over Skype and his fingers seemed to connect with the neck like they had been born together. His friends took us to a market at night. We went in a random ally up two flights of stairs to an antique bar with carved little devils and old dusty typewriters and beautiful wooden ceiling to drink maté and sweet corn drinks called Api. They laughed at our Spanish and we laughed at their stories. We drove without seatbelts and rapped to M&M and listened to German rock music. His family speaks their Spanish slowly for us and they have green curtains and a golden dog with a timid little nose and short stubby legs and a happy tail. They give us food like plantains and chicken and quinoa soup and drive us places like Lake Titicaca. I learned about that lake in my history class this semester. It's like the Israel of South America, and Israel means a lot to me. All the food is organic. Their meat, milk, fruit... Everything here is what I would imagine South America to be like. The traditional dress... The elderly ladies wear skirts to their ankles and shawls and top hats like the mad hatter in Alice in Wonderland. There are sweaters and gloves and socks made from alpaca hair. I purchased green socks with a yellow and red pattern and white llamas dancing around the ankles for the equivalent of three American dollars. The people's faces are beautiful too. You can tell this country is much less touched by European and United States influence. I'm one of the only blondes I've seen here and by the way they stare I feel the most out of place that I ever have in my life. But I like it. I like how they have remained their own. They even built their town hall clock to tick backwards to prove their own identity.
I tried to journal the other day. I have a little red moleskin journal that can bend in my hands. I'm bad at journaling. All I talk about are what color the walls are and the comparisons between people and cotton candy and saints. I tend to skip over the big pictures. I think in details. I think in the wrinkle lines on lips and how the sun can make the solid green curtains ten different shades of the same green. It overwhelms me sometimes. But it is good. It's good to pick up life and switch it around and make it tick backwards. It's good to remember the people in airports who let you borrow pens and the ones that tell you about journalism and silver mines. I think it's good to be who you are.
I don't know how to end this post. So, here's un beso to you and another to the start of six weeks traveling South America.
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