Waxing and waning on sex tourism

'I see a lot of gringas in here, but you are like a yeti.’

I was in an awkward position to feign offense, given I had one leg over my head and nothing on but my alpaca socks and sweater. This is what happens when you wax in Peru – you get a frown and some sarcasm.

Jimena, my ‘technician’, was working in a very dimly-lit salon abutting a flute and fruit juice market where indigenous women chatted by the lucuma ‘eggfruits’. She furrowed her brow at me. Again. I suspected Jimena did not love her job.

She drew the thin white curtains, took a deep breath and went about her yeti work when a man walked in.

'He-hello?'

Hmm. He twanged strongly of North Carolina. I believed he was one of my people, getting out in the world! Yay my people!

'Sí señor, usted necesita un masaje?'

'Ohh, I uh... no speak Espan-yolo. English?'

'Marianela! Este hombre quiere hablar Inglés!'

A girl I suspected to be about 15 sped out of the back room at her auntie's order and said triumphantly, 'Yes, I speaking English.'

'Oh, wonderful!' The man wrung his hands together and through the curtains I could see he was short, grey and very nervous. 'I would like a massage please... but... um... do you do a... huh... happy ending?'

He whispered these last two words as if he were... ashamed.

His request was so inaudible that Jimena made him repeat it twice more before Marianela translated. Then the auntie and her niece began what I suspected to be very common conversation in Cusco: do we want to give this old white guy an orgasm for some extra soles?

After a very short discussion, Marianela said yes. Technically, Jimena did, and Marianela nodded in bewildered, uncomfortable agreement.

There are ladies all over the Plaza de Armas, the city’s main square, handing out cards for massages, pedicures, waxing and – wink – more. For a town swarmed with hike-happy Inca Trail-ers chewing coca leaves and popping altitude pills, a little pampering is actually a nice, uh, touch.

And an especially nice touch for the guy about to get touched. North Carolina was now disrobing and lumbering giddily onto the mensaje table. You know, the one only three feet away from mine.

As Jimena was only halfway done de-yeti-fying me, I realized I would be enduring not just the normal delights associated with hot wax and hair removal, but now I had to do it listening to an old man get rubbed down in every sense by an impoverished teenage girl at the behest of her own family?

This is the time to believe in the privacy and sound absorption capabilities of chiffon curtains, Jules. Do not vomit.

It would be easy to end the story here and write off this dude as a creep taking advantage of Peru's poor. But while one tourist made his intentions clear with heavy breathing and smarm, another sat wondering where the lascivious line gets drawn.

You see, amigos, I have a confession. The reason I was getting a wax that day was not because I love having hair ripped from my pores in sensitive areas. It was because I met a very charming and handsome local fellow who had taken me for hot chocolate at Jack's Cafe and told me over and over again how beautiful and intelligent I am, and what a fascinating life I'd been leading.

You guys, I am so fascinating.

Life lesson: when a cute boy asks you to make out on a park bench in South America, as per Latino tradition, you do it. Don't think, just beso.

My Hot Novio and I spent an amorous week together. We went for dinner, we went dancing, hiked to ruins, lots of fun things! And, as an unfortunately relevant aside, because he was rather poorly, I gladly paid. For everything. As in food, drinks, hotel, trips…

I mean, it was all very innocent.
I wondered if North Carolina thought his happy ending was innocent…

But my affair with Hot Novio wasn’t blatant! We were young lovers!
North Carolina’s affair was also very discreet – hello? There was a curtain! Okay, and a major age gap.

But Hot Novio was clearly willing, able and enthusiastic... obviously.
Marianela is also willing and able, though unenthusiastic... obviomente.

Oh my god, you guys. I'm a sex tourist.

But wait, I am not nefarious in my intentions. Is that a requirement?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized the difference between a dirty old man from Raleigh and a dirty young woman from Seattle maybe wasn’t that great after all.

Very quickly, I wanted to leave. One man’s lechery was enough. My own was just freaking me out.

'Rapido!' I pleaded to Jimena, realizing the guy next to me was probably whispering the same thing.

Eww.

The Official Language of Lucifer

After three months of mopey, self-indulgent PTTD (Post Traumatic Travel Disorder) I decided I wasn’t making enough of an effort to fit in with my own people.

So when my good friend Carolina suggested we go to church so that I might stop obsessively baking molasses cookies and instead find a purpose in life, I said, ‘Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, are you shitting me?’

I’m an agnostic. That means I don’t know, and I don’t know if you know. You know?

It’s the most commitment-phobic belief system out there and I enjoy all the ways it allows me to be wishy-washy, flippy-floppy, and as detached as possible to any depth of thought related to the spiritual meaning of life.

It’s how I like to live my life in general. Being agnostic also allows me to make fun of every organized religion in equal measure, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Christian evangelicals.

‘It’s not an ordinary church,’ said Carolina, who has in fact has accepted Jesus into her heart. ‘My friend invited me - he worships in Tongues.’

Ooh. What?

‘You know, the kind of service where people are possessed by the power of God and start speaking His language. Tongues.'

Wait a minute. If God is American (and - obviously - he is), he speaks English. Anyone who grew up in our education system knows other languages don't matter because other countries don't matter.

We are his favorite. He is ours! He is monotheistic. We are monolingual! We are so meant to be...

So, what's with the foreign chitchat, Ubiquitary Master of the Universe?

'God doesn't actually speak a language, he speaks through people in different ways. Didn't you go to Bible camp? Anyway, if we’re lucky, you might get to see an exorcism. I know how much you like underworldly projectile vomit... tempted?’

How could I possibly say no to this? I have only seen such novelty on the Holy Trinity, Sky Angel and GOD1, GOD2, GOD3 and GOD4 channels. To see the omnipresent power speaking in Tongues through real-life Auburners?

I probably should have seen the following as a sign from the King of Kings (or whomever):

1. The Tongues church is located in a shopping center called The Great Wall Mall.

2. It is located adjacent to an acrylic nail salon with Hello Kitty clocks in the window and abuts the Saigon Musics & Video store.

3. I’m pretty sure this church used to be a Korean kimchee joint, because I was smelling spicy boiled cabbage and vinegar all through the homily.

Okay, so it wasn’t the classiest temple of worship I’ve ever seen, with mirror-lined walls and an industrial kitchen in the corner. But there was a lot going on when we walked in. The Live Tongues Band was belting out some gospel jams while three preachers skulked around the haphazard pulpit, one with arms outstretched to heaven, one sitting down looking sort of bewildered, and the third on his knees, petting the carpet and chanting.

Chanting… in Tongues?!

No, I could understand him saying something about sacrifice and forgiveness. In English.

Sigh. False alarm!

The Tongue-gregation was in various stages of musical rapture, with lots of people periodically hollering Hallelujah!, singing off-key and just moving with the spirit, man.

The spirit moved me to sit down right away and try to blend, wondering if people could sense I was a fraud. I clapped a little to help with the acculturation and smiled encouragingly at the little girl in the front row who knew every lyric and projected like she was auditioning for American Idol.

But why was she not singing in Tongues, the Official Language of Lucifer?

I did the mature, rational thing I always do when trapped in an Asian shopping mall full of earnest evangelicals with overstimulated hippocampi: I started giggling. A lot.

‘Oh my heavens, Julie, what are you doing!’ Carolina was annoyed with me.

‘Dude, I’m really sorry, but this is hilarious… and did you really just say ‘oh my heavens’?’

‘I feel so guilty right now. It’s like we’re making fun of their faith! It’s so wrong.’

‘Yeah… so, so wrong. Hey, do you think we’re going to burn in the eternal flames of the abyss?’

Conveniently, I don’t believe in hell and I think people would be less stressed if they didn’t either.

‘You might. I’m a safe bet. Here, learn something.’ She handed me a Bible.

Ugh.

This was getting so boring. I felt duped. Like Carolina had brought me to a real church with real freaky fundamentalists, not speaking in real Tongues.

‘If I don’t see an exorcism in five minutes, I’m out of here!’

'The demonic extraction and Tongue convos happen later in the afternoon,' Carolina's friend whispered to us.

Riiight. That's what they all say.

After an hour and a half of sitting politely through an elementary lecture on setting priorities, dressing appropriately, and the difference between good (Christians) and bad (me), we slipped out and went for dim sum.

Then I went home. And pulled out the molasses.

More Than You Imagined

I was on Skype the other day with the Brazilian Princess and I couldn’t help but feel jealous.

‘Julie, I can’t really talk right now,’ she whispered, stifling a giggle. ‘I just got back to the dorm room and everyone’s sleeping.’

‘Hey, keep it down!’ somebody grumbled. There was a lot of rustling and it sounded like she ran into a bunk bed before the line died.

‘Oops! Sorry, I lost you there. It’s 5 a.m. here… but I’m still a little tipsy from last night – tee hee! – and I don’t know how it happened, but I’m standing here with my bra in my hand…’

See, that’s the kind of life I’ve grown accustomed to. For twelve consecutive months, my bra mysteriously undid itself in exotic locales around the globe. It’s unsettling, but hardly unusual. And I miss it.

While BP is still on her world tour, playing strip poker and beer pong with diplomats in Mozambique, I have been back in the United States for two months.

Playing house in a McMansion.

With my brother.

And his three cats.

I hate those cats. Not only do they make me sneezy, wheezy and teary, but every morning when I step out of my Pepto Bismol room – painted saccharine pink by the former tenants whose taste in décor clearly modeled a My Little Pony advert – I have to scan for barf.

The Pepto Room is a CFZ (Cat-Free Zone), but B’s ‘little buddies’ periodically leave me presents outside my door in the form of coagulated fish kibble, fur balls and green-blue bile that smells exactly like the contents of one’s innards should: bad.

I know they want in - I suspect the Pepto color eases acid reflux. I can’t prove it, but I swear they’re burrowing tunnels into the CFZ at night, planning an all-out projectile vomit party designed to gross me out of their territory.

While I avoid the cats, B worships them. He is an old cat lady in golf shoes, driving a Beemer and refusing to drink tap water.

‘Then what would be the point of having bottled water?’

Sometimes, we see things differently.

When he comes home, he says something chatty to me like, ‘Hey.’

When he sees the cats, it goes something more like this:

‘Ohh, hey Sam! Hey little buddy! Were you a good boy today? Ohhh, I bet you were my cool little man! Oh, yes, you are such a good little kitty, yes mister, yes yes yes you are!’

My 38-year-old brother then proceeds to rub the cat’s belly on his head, nuzzling its neck with his nose, kissing its feet and generally freaking me out because I just watched that cat upchuck congealed tunafish behind the couch 20 minutes earlier.

The neighborhood is a ‘planned community’ – planned so that the trailer park is concealed at the bottom of the hill while Stepford enjoys its own elementary school, Starbucks, tanning salon and bus line, not that anyone here takes public transportation.

It’s a conservative area. Republicans drive.

The local grocery store has an entire section of its news aisle devoted to gun glossies. Next to that is personal defense, which is above exotic game hunting.


(In case you’re wondering, American Handgunner has the most comprehensive glock reviews this month, while I enjoyed Personal & Home DEFENSE’s exposé on 9mm vs. .223 entitled ‘Got Enough Gun?’ The answer is always no.)

Frankly, I for one am reassured to know my neighbors are well educated on violent weaponry should an albino zebra happen to walk through the gates and stomp up the ornamental fountain grass.

My favorite part of B’s neighborhood is the rock lights. See, there are these yard lamps very cleverly disguised as rocks. And these rocks sit in various parts of the garden in to theatrically light important things like wrought-iron deer.

It is so sneaky – you’re just on your run through the woodsy path of concrete, enjoying the natural sounds of the freeway below when BAM! Those soft-serve twist topiaries have never looked more tantalizing at twilight.

These little gems of American authenticity come courtesy of the City of Auburn, a suburb of Seattle, whose motto is More than you imagined.

Frankly, I don’t think the marketing team anticipated what kind of imagination people living in McMansions are forced to have.

For a city that used to be called 'Slaughter', I feel Auburn needs a qualifier.

You know, for people to really get what living in the USA is about.

‘More foreclosures than you imagined.’

‘More recreational monster trucks without mufflers than you imagined.’

‘More Sir Mix-A-Lot sightings than you imagined.’

(What up, Mix!)

For now, this is what my life is about, too.

Some days I embrace the preoccupation with pump action shotguns of my fellow Auburners.

Other times I retreat to the Pepto Room, wondering if the house painters knew suburban America causes an upset stomach for snarky travelers.

And cats.

Big Pimpin'

So the other day I was sitting in The Cheesecake Factory at the mall, squeezed between the flower girl and the best man at my cousin's rehearsal dinner.

It had been two days since I flew home from The Adventure and I was looking at my super-sized plate of pasta and 32-ounce bottomless 7UP wondering how things could get more American when the Best Man leaned over to me and said, 'You know, my wife and I are kind of scandalous.'

Wink.

In my book, this is both an excellent and creepy way to start a conversation.

'Oh really? Do you have a young girl living in a backyard tomb that you've indoctrinated as part of your religious cult that worships brussel sprouts and cottage cheese?'

'Not exactly… but you're close.'

They weren't running from a Las Vegas bounty hunter. They hadn't ever been molested by aliens. They weren't trafficking orphans out of Lesotho to farm hydroponic rhubarb. Frankly, how interesting could a woodwind musician and a clinical psychologist be?

'I'm plum out of ideas, man. What's your scandal?'

He got real quiet and told me he'd have to whisper it in my ear, and nodded to the 9-year-old to my left.

'I'm dating my wife's girlfriend.'

Umm… what? I laughed it off, like I hear this sort of confession every time I order penne primavera, whatevs. Across the table his wife, also the Matron of Honor, gave me the same wink.

'What's with the winks you guys?'

'And I have another girlfriend, but she has another boyfriend, too. They are all my people. I care so much about my people.'

Okay, this was infinitely more interesting than my overdue parking tickets theory.

Confused, I asked to see a flow chart. Instead, he showed me photos of His People together in a Seattle park.

There are five members of His People: the Best Man, his wife, their mutual girlfriend, another girlfriend of the Best Man, and her boyfriend. They were posed couple by couple, with one girl sitting in the middle sort of looking up dejectedly at the others embracing, probably kicking herself for not signing up for a partner on family photo day.

That's how His People, um, swing it. Heh. You have to calendar which night you want a certain partner, and stick to it. Otherwise, there could be 'issues'.

'Well, sometimes there is jealousy, but it doesn't happen very often. Don't worry, you'll get to meet the girls tomorrow - Bob can't make it, unfortunately.' He nudged me in the arm. Then he gave me The Look.

You know The Look. It's the one that means, 'I want you to join my polyamorous world of fantasy fiction-loving theatre people, hope you have your Grendle's Modor costume in your backpack.'

Oh. My. God.

The Big Love crew was coming to the wedding? The one in my mother's backyard? Did she know? Once she did, what words would The Diplomat come up with to make everyone more okay with the medieval swingers club congregating by the hydrangeas?

This was going to be... awesome!

I sat with my brother, B, and pointed out all the players in His People during the ceremony.

'So that's Big Pimpin'?' he asked, pointing out the Best Man who was bedecked in a dapper Shakespearean suit, sweating in the 82-degree summer sun. He fit in fine with the ye olde theme to the bridal party - even the groom wore a top hat and black velveteen cape. It was fab.

'Wait, so that guy has three chicks here?' Brother B was trying to wrap his head around the implications.

'No, they aren't all lovers, like not all at once. I don't think. I don't really know, but can we talk about me? What am I supposed to say when they ask me to visit Poly-wood?'

'No offense, Jules, but you're not their type. You're not a Wiccan or whatever, and you don't even read Harry Potter.'

I followed His People around the reception, trying to suss out who had signed up for whom that day. Girlfriend One was a fair-skinned redhead who stole some snuggles from the Matron of Honor in the living room. Girlfriend Two had kinkier curls and the same morose sort of demeanor in person as she did posing solo in the family photo. Somebody needs a hug.

Dinner, cake, dancing, then pouf - the whole night had passed without any more winks or Looks. I won't lie and say I wasn't offended - don't I look like plural wife material? Maybe Girlfriend One and Two realized I was too mainstream for their alternative.

They all piled into their minivan and drove off. The Diplomat - blissfully ignorant - said, 'Doesn't your cousin just have the nicest friends? I'd like to be a part of that group.'

'Really mom? You'll want to rephrase that. They're pretty scandalous.'

The Great Lawn Ranger

One Father's Day dad wanted all of us to help fix up our yard while he supervised with a toasted cheese sandwich, a root beer float, and a pack of Lucky Strikes.

My pimply brother, Walkman jamming Too $hort (that's still how he rolls), was busy making long, crooked lines over two acres of browning grass freckled with molehills. My sister was on back-breaking weed-pulling duty in The Diplomat's 'naturalist' style rhody garden.

Being nearly a decade younger than my siblings, dad told me my contribution would involve a really fun game.

'It's called 'Pick Up Sticks'

'Pick up what?'

'You see all these sticks laying around the yard here honey? Well, your brother can't mow this part of the lawn because there's too many sticks in the way...'

A wailing screech of rocks grinding against the metal blade of the John Deere interrupted his sale of the 'game', followed by a puff of dirt blowing over our heads as my brother ran over yet another rocky molehill, chuckling with destructive teenage glee.

'Godammit son, don't break the goddamned thing! Gawd!' He sighed, rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to me.

'But I want to ride the lawn mower,' I whined, accustomed to getting my way as the youngest, cutest, daddy's girl.

'You're 9 - you have to wait until you're a double-digit to operate industrial machinery. Just do it. It's going to be fun!'

Coming from dad, master of sarcasm, purveyor of pessimism, I suspected this false bit of cheer right away.

'Is this a real game?'

For the record, no, Pick Up Sticks is not a real game. It's more like a lesson on the diabolical nature of, um... nature.

With every stick I was enslaved to drag to dad's pyro-tastic bonfire, the alder above watched its former self pile as a collection of shattered, dead limbs - a symbol of the lack of strength (and lets face it - willpower) the tree had to retain its own branches against an enemy as pithy as wind.

'You're pathetic, tree.'

An early retiree, dad spent the majority of my growing up years covered in wood chips and grass stains with the dog lapping close behind. The Buddha is to enlightenment what dad was to the weed whacker.

The last Father's Day card I bought him read, 'Happy Fathers Day to the Great Lawn Ranger'. Heh.

I meant to give it to him 5 years ago, but decades of Lucky Strikes wouldn't allow him the extra week for another Father's Day. One extra week and we could have cussed out the tree playing the game.

I miss you so much, dad.

Eduardes

It seemed I was meeting Eduardes at the pinnacle of his possession.

Earlier in the day I had come across Vermont Lew, an affable carpenter trying to cope with the dissolution of his 25-year-marriage by traveling through the most remote villages of Indonesia and waving at every passerby and shouting, 'I'm Misterrr Lew! From Am-er-i-ka!'

Lew is a very proud Jew who picked Indonesia after the Israeli ambulance charity, to which he contributes annually, ignored his requests for two months of ride-alongs.

Lew was nonplussed and for the last two weeks, he has been driving around Flores, a lush island east of Bali, with Eduardes, a slight, 50-something Indonesian with dark skin and light eyes.

Eyes cursed by the devil, actually. No, literally, by demons, or at least this is Eduardes' self-diagnosis brought on by symptoms common to all possessed people:

1. inability to sleep
2. inability to eat
3. constant cough that could easily be mistaken for The Devil's own voice

To combat these problems, Eduardes took to obsessive Bible reading late at night, with the book 3 inches from his tired, evil eyes.

'See, it started out great the first few days, but then he just got weirder and weirder,' Lew said, his unkempt white mustache waggling from side to side while his eyes bulged from behind thickly prescribed glasses. 'I kept having to wake him up and watch the road! Kids! Dogs! Golly, he just stopped paying attention sometimes, and it was just the weirdest thing.'

I nodded, as if having a devil-gripped Indonesian insomniac operate a moving vehicle for 14 consecutive days in a hazy shade of Lucifer is totally normal. I couldn't really disagree, having no experience with possession myself.

After dinner, Lew invited our random group of German, French and Americans a ride into town to visit the Internet cafe. What's a girl to do when presented with an opportunity to ride with the devil?

I was the first to jump into the car. Eduardes ambled in, apparently perturbed Misterrr Lew had interrupted his meditation on speaking in tongues. It was dark at 9 p.m. and Eduardes peeled out onto the road and took us through a scenic tour of the ditch before we righted the wheel and he brought us back to the left side of the road.

Eduardes was coughing and hacking every few seconds now, making little retches and filling the car with the burpy air of would-be vomit, if there was anything in his stomach to regurgitate. Halfway to town, he became distressed for no apparent reason and started chanting.

'Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...'

All under his breath and between hacks, but it was loud enough. If anybody needs Jesus in this world, it's this guy. Being the seasoned traveler, the epitome of cultural respect and communication, all I could do was giggle. Luckily, he ignored me.

After some wrong turns, we ended up at the cafe, where Eduardes proceeded to pace for an hour before announcing to the group we would have to leave, he needed to do some *reading*.

The next morning, I heard him promise Misterrr Lew he'd seek a doctor and a priest to help exorcise his demons, or at least give him some cough drops.

I hope the devil lets him rest.

Yoda sucks

'I have to pee,' was the first thing this old Balinese man said to me, standing from his bamboo mat with great effort.

I had been waiting two hours to see this guy and now I was listening to him urinate on the other side if his ornately carved teak and marble wall. It was an inauspicious way to start things off.

He wobbled back and said, 'Where are you from? Oh, I have a lot of friends in USA! You have lips like sugar... Did you read my book?'

He pulled out a brown, sweaty hardcover of 'Eat, Pray, Love' and said 'I not understand this. Can you explain?'

He made me read the paragraph describing him out loud. 'It says you look like Yoda - do you know Star Wars?'

He gave me a glaucoma-glazed stare and I realized that was a stupid question. 'Ok, um, it says you're small, it says you're old, it says you don't have any teeth. But it's not true because I can see you have one tooth left!' I gave him my brightest, most enthusiastic American smile.

Blankness.

'That no make sense,' and he pulled out a letter. 'Please, you American, please. Tell me what this mean.'

It was a letter from Elizabeth Gilbert that basically said: Dear toothless small man, I heard you were sick but now you're better, that's nice. Thanks for teaching me about love (and making me an effing millionaire!!!). Love, Liz

'Um, she loves you and she is thanking you for being her spiritual master? Like, you know, a professor of love? Heh.'

'No no, she no love me! I married!'

I sighed. Now I had to pee. 'Do you know about Google Translator?'

Finally, he started in on my fortune telling. (Hey, if everybody is already comparing me to Julia Roberts, I should embrace my inner cliche and just ride my bicycle through the damn rice paddy already!)

'You very smart. You very pretty! You impatient. You very quick!'

My palm also told him I'd live to 100, have one husband, two children and no divorce.

'Well, what about a job? I'll need a new one eventually.'

'What job you have now?'

'I don't. I quit.'

'You no worry. You have one husband, two children, no divorce. Also, when you in night bed with husband, you make sex three times daily, very good.'

Um...

'I'm sorry, could you repeat that?'

He grinned with that one, yellowed canine hanging, suicidal, from black gums.

'Um, ok, but I don't really want kids... Can you see anything else? Like, I don't know, some sort of purpose?'

Because I have lotus flowers on my scapula, Yoda says I'm fertile and will have children.

'Come on, you make me happy! You meet handsome boy and marry for no divorce and two kids.'

Jesus. I was starting to understand why Liz Gilbert's book frustrated me so much - her guru is a one-trick pony, the trick being he tells me the inevitable life purpose he thinks every woman should have and I give him $25 to annoy me.

I should really stick to reading my aura, at least there are pretty colors involved.

Twenty minutes later, I watched the next girl in line spring up to see Kutut Liyer, spiritual master of staying on message.

'Where you from? Oh, I have a lot of friends in Canada! You have lips like sugar... You read my book?'

Ian Thorpe is not a queer

My mom has always had a million friends. It never surprises me that upon walking off the plane, she'll know the most detailed life stories of her seat mate (twice divorced), the flight attendant (working overtime - again) and the single mother in the second row (post-partum, what a shame).

I call her The Diplomat because she has this ability to like and respect everybody, a laissez faire approach to being judgemental that I find maddening.

If had dinner with Hitler, she might say, 'Well, I don't agree with him, but I do understand where he's coming from...'

So I wasn't surprised at all when I left her alone for 10 minutes at the Sydney Opera House to find she had made two new friends on our second day in Australia.

Meet Nice Aussie Mum and Cool Aussie Daughter. Both extremely friendly and FUN, Mum is retired from working with disabled kids and Daughter is a pediatric nurse.

Salt of the earth types, they tucked us two Yanks into their proverbial Aussie marsupial pouch. Okay, it was a Ford hatchback. And to The Diplomat's great delight, drove us all over Sydney's suburbs not one afternoon, but two!

I was impressed. How many people give up their days off to be kind to complete strangers? Americans, no less? We were really hitting it off when Nice Aussie Mum said:

'Do you have many Muslims in Seattle? We do here, and it's a real problem.'

Hmm. Silence. The awkward kind. She was referring to a group of ladies walking down the street, heads covered, pushing baby carriages.

I prepared what I thought was a witty retort to a rather ridiculous comment, when The Diplomat shot me a look that said, 'Keep your mouth shut, young child, these are our new friends. Don't ruin it!'

I frowned and listened to her non-answer about there being a number of mosques in Seattle. According to The Diplomat, whenever one is encountered with an uncomfortable (read: racist) question, it is best to bob and weave with statistics, then quickly change the subject.

'And what are those funny trees with the green leaves?'

Thusly, we moved on to tropical deciduous shrubbery.

The tour of Sydney continued. The Harbor Bridge! Yorktown! The Ian Thorpe International Swimming Center!

'Say, where does Ian Thorpe live?' I asked.

Ian, ahem, ‘The Thorpedo,’ and I go way back to the days where he battled Pieter van den Hoogenband - my Dutch dreamboat - in the Olympic pool. Ian and I have an unfulfilled destiny, of course, and I figured being in his hometown was my best chance.

'I think he lives in Los Angeles now. He's turned awfully queer, hasn't he?'

The word queer slipped off her tongue like she was trying to spit out sour milk.

Actually, I can think of worse things than my future husband having perfect eyebrows, a Beverly Hills mansion and a collection of scandalously low-slung Speedos in the closet. Even if he sleeps in there with them.

But I hate the word queer and was going to explain why when The Diplomat knocked over my soapbox, offering to buy everyone lunch.

‘Dim sum?’ Cool Daughter asked her Mum. They both snickered.

‘Hmm, wonder who’s going to be working there! Oh, wow, more Asians!’

We went for Mexican instead. My guess is Australians have very limited knowledge of Mexico and its stereotypes (or even what Mexican food should taste like). In this case, I was thankful for their ignorance and ate my enchiladas in peace, starting to forgive their casual racism.

After we ate, mom fell asleep in the backseat of the car, snoring along lightly as we drove through a beautiful public park lined with eucalyptus trees. Picnickers played with rugby balls and little doggies fetched on a nice, sunny day. It was so lovely! And then...

'There's some Abos for you there, Julie,' Nice Aussie Mum said. 'Well, at least they're with their families. That's nice, I suppose. It is a public park.'

‘Abo’ is Australian for ‘Aboriginal’, and its use also identifies the speaker as ‘scared of black people.’

From my travels, I know racism exists in every country, but I had kind of thought Australia was less… like the United States?

Mom snorted loudly, momentarily waking herself up and mumbling, 'I'm so sorry... I just have... to take a little... nap.' She took a deep breath and wiped out again.

I seized The Diplomat's moment of low blood sugar weakness.

'Say there, do you, um, not like Aboriginals? Or Muslims? Just wondering, 'cause you keep commenting on it...'

These super nice people, being extremely kind to the foreigners in the back seat, sort of laughed it off and explained all the politics of Aboriginal issues I obviously wasn't privy to, like how Aboriginals suck off the government, how the Stolen Generation thing was unfair all around, how they’re all drunks anyway and...

'I see. And the Muslims? Do you hate them as individuals, or as a whole group?'

The Diplomat stirred. I was losing time.

'I mean, god, what would you do if you ever met an Aboriginal Muslim? Wouldn't that be crazy! Especially if they were queer?'

The Diplomat awoke after I said this and apologized loudly for snoring, interrupting my moment of socially aware indignation. She was onto me, even in her sleep.

'Gee, what does that number '70' on the sign there mean?'

It was the speed limit sign.

'Oh, how interesting,' The Diplomat said, looking at me sideways.

Another classic save, mom.

I kept my mouth shut and kept The Diplomat happy.

N'Djamena

Usually, I loathe children. Babies are the worst because they are complete narcissists - it's all about them, all the time. I'd like to see a baby cook me mushy peas one day! Children cry for unreasonable reasons, they wet the bed, they can't even drive. Frankly, I am not a kid kind of person and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

But last week, my anti-child resolve was tested by a pair of plucky 9-year-olds living on a hippie commune on the lush island of Chiloe, along the middle of Chile's pretty coast. We stayed at the guesthouse of our travel agent, a lady we met arbitrarily wandering out of the bus station in search of a penguin-gawking tour.

'Well, I have a guesthouse in our backyard, it's beautiful and quiet and we'd love to have you stay - then you can rent our 4x4 to visit the penguin colony tomorrow! I just have to pick up my girls from school, then we'll be on our way'.

I kind of didn't pay attention to that last part after another 24-hour bus journey around Chile. So when she swung around again in the super cool minivan-cum-SUV, not one, not two, but three little girls were sat in the backseat. The two 9-year-olds, and a 3-year-old, all excited and acting goofy because of the funny foreigners in the car and peppering their mom with requests for ice cream.

I assumed they would exclusively speak Spanish, which would instantly impede any attempt to converse with me, the anti-child lady.

'Oh, you're American, oh my gosh, our dad is American, and we're half-American!' the first-born twin, Miska, exclaimed. Her glee was palpable.

'Did you know we have 2 dogs, 5 cows, 10 chickens with little baby chickens - ooh, they're so cute! - and one sheep, but Pepe, our sheep's girlfriend, got killed last month because there was this pack of wild dogs and they got hungry and ate her, and Miska cried because she always cries,' said Tamie, the younger twin, while Miska shouted, 'I don't cry all the time! Moooom!'

We pulled into the neighborhood, which was basically fancy houses with farmland beset on a lush green hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a shade that reminded me forthwith (!) of Oregon and when I found out Miska and Tamie's parents grow their own food in the backyard, built their own yoga house on the beach, and just got electricity two weeks ago, I just wondered where the organic goji berry bog was. Oh, how it made me miss Eugene!

'Did you know that Thanksgiving is on Thursday, but tomorrow is Saturday, and because Thanksgiving is about sharing, you have to come over and cook with us?' Miska asked, rather, ordered me. 'I'll give your assignments after lunch. Wanna listen to the Jonas Brothers?'

So over the compound we traipsed to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for this family of proud half-Americans, with my two English girlfriends who have never celebrated Thanksgiving Dinner in their lives but gamely sous cheffed our Chilean version. I was on carrot peeling and pie crust kneading duty while Miska played my favorite game in the world: trivia.

I started: Which country has the strongest economy in Western Europe?

'Um, I'm 9, can you try one a little easier, please?'

Point taken. So we exchanged these little gems...

How many countries border Switzerland?
Who was the second US President?
How many land-locked countries are in South America?
What's the deepest trench in the world?
What language is spoken in Suriname?

And so on...

But then Miska asked me a question that made me sort of love her and hate her at the same time: What's the capital of Chad?

I didn't know. 'Can you even find Chad on a map?' she said, hand on her hip, so totally pleased with herself for perplexing a full-on American.

Well, no. I can't. I had been bested by a 9-year-old half-American. And it stung.

It's not my fault I lost the game because somebody is going to be a geography bee winner someday. But if I'm honest, I'd like to be there to watch her win. Perhaps we could celebrate with a glass of organic goji berry tea from the backyard bog? Viva N'Djamena!

Dia de los Snort-os

I knew it was going to be a weird day when the man took my student ID card to cut lines of cocaine for our tour group. For weeks the backpacker circuit had been abuzz with story of the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, a special place for murderers, rapists and pedophiles. Also, a a place you could take drugs with said lovely people. Lots of people were reading the book, ´Marching Powder´, an account of an English inmate who started offering tours of the inside.

The inside was still a mystery. I hadn´t actually met anyone who had been inside. But whenever I talked to someone about San Pedro, we spoke in serious italics. For emphasis.

Generally, I tend to avoid prisons, which I have always found to be wise. I don´t like violence, drugs or orange jumpsuits, and on TV, that´s all prison´s about.

But, it was Day of the Dead. And I had convinced some burly-looking guys from the north of England to come with me. Israelis would have been preferable, but they were too cheap to do it. You have to pay 400 Bolivianos to get in - roughly $50 - plus bribes once you´re on the inside to stay safe. But the pound is strong, and so it was - two electrical engineers from York, and yours truly.

San Pedro is capitalism at its most glossy-eyed. Every prisoner must pay for his own cell (who they pay was never clear), which has created an entire community of strung-out venture captalists. Restaurants, laundry, artisans and drugs or alcohol are all available for a very unfair price. Those who speak foreign languages can make more as tour guides, and those good at beating people up make the best bodyguards. My group got Felipe and Jose for both jobs, respectively.

Felipe is 47, has a tan like George Hamilton and a rasp like Phyllis Diller. A Portuguese national, Felipe was arrested 36 months ago for drug smuggling. He pled guilty at trial and has yet to receive his sentence.

He seemed bitter.

But at least he dressed up for the occasion. His black blazer was just slightly tattered at the elbows and his white button-down was gray, though neatly tucked into his jeans which were held up by a rope. I wondered where he got the rope...

Felipe is a master of languages and almost blew my cover off the bat. We were standing over a pool with a giant painted Beluga whale smiling up at us from below. They used to find corpses floating in the pool every morning not long ago.

´Blah blah blah´, he said to me in French.

´Pardon?´

´Didn´t you say you are from Canada? I thought every Canadian spoke French.´

Shit. I did lie. The York boys told me to because the prisoners here blame Bolivia´s poverty on the United States. Listen, I know we´re bad and stuff, but do I really have to take responsibility for Jose´s armed robbery?

I knew tombe-pas-de-bourrée-glissade-assemblé wasn´t going to help here. The extent of my French is ballet vocabulary. I mean, I doubted Felipe, a self-proclaimed con-man, had ever taken a ballet class, but when you´re on the inside, you can´t make such assumptions.

´Actually, in Vancouver we really don´t speak French. Just English. It´s a western province thing.´ Bright Canadian smile.

I mean, what´s a little white lie among pedophiles anyway?

For two hours, Felipe showed us around, in English. There are 7 main ´neighborhoods' in the prison, all with increasingly better cells or cleaner-looking particleboard. The prison is a hodgepodge, with cells atop each other, and an extremely rickety-looking web of staircases that lead you through atriums, concrete soccer grounds, lots of mini cocaine or chocolate shops or the laundry blocks.

The prisoners get stuff to sell to each other because their wives or girlfriends bring it in. Actually, if you´re married, you can live with your sweetheart in his cell in prison. It´s so romantic that lots of women do. And so do their children. In Bolivia, just because you´re locked up doesn´t mean you lose the right to see your family. The kids are released for school every day, and come back by 5 p.m. for dinner or church.

Prisoners can sell and take drugs because the police don´t go into San Pedro, preferring to let the inmates police themselves. And they do.

Dudes in black shirts with batons are the official security team. They enforce a 3-strikes rule. If you tattle, you get a beating. If you do it again, you are beaten until you bleed. And a third time gets you all that, plus extended time between the walls, where a lot of people are found dead.

We don´t tour between the walls, thank god.

According to Felipe, if you murder someone in prison in Bolivia, you only get 2 years added onto your sentence. He grimaced. There was that elusive word: sentence. Poor Felipe...

He took us into the kitchen where the prison mush is cooked. Bolivia will pay for water, electricity, tea and bread. The rest is up to the prisoners. The day we visited, it looked like they were cooking killer stew. Five teenage boys were peeling potatoes in the corner with 6-inch knives I was praying were dull.

Avoiding actual eye contact, I could see the peeling had become provocative, as you might imagine it would when you´re a 19-year-old convict.

´Íf you can afford it, it´s great to take a shower here because it´s hot water. I take a shower once a week in the sauna room...´

Felipe´s hygiene was fascinating, but the killer spud peeling gallery was getting raucous. I´m glad my Spanish sucks, because the words coming out of their mouths just sounded foul, and I needed no translation. I grabbed on to a York engineer for dear life, Felipe took the hint, and we went to another, equally uncomfortable area with no visible knives. That smelled.

I wasn´t sure if the aroma of boiled vegetables, mold and nervous sweat was making me ill, or the fact I was in a prison on my own will. Prisons on TV actually look like they smell pretty clean, because prisoners are always assigned to mop and things. But San Pedro is not like TV prisons. TV prisons don´t have little girls hugging you for dear life, and the whole time I kept thinking ´Glad I left my wallet at home´, not ´Geez I hope this little girl isn´t ruined for life.´

I am a terrible person. I mean, she´s already got 10 years of therapy ahead of her...

Also, TV prisons don´t have cocaine labs where you can sample the local product, purported to be the finest in Bolivia. Don´t worry mom, I don´t take drugs, and if I did, it wouldn´t be in an effing prison. But I did proffer my ID card - not my Duck ID, of course! - because one has to appease the drug boss when you´re on the inside.

Pablo, another tour guide, told me San Pedro really isn´t a bad place to live.

´Before I was deported, I did 3 years in SoCal, and it was always the Mexicans vs. the Blacks vs. the Russians... shit man, here´s it´s different. Everybody mixes - Bolivians, the foreign dudes, the drug dealers, the hard murderers. And nobody has to wear that ugly-ass orange bullshit. Fuck, man.´

Fuck, man, indeed.

Inca Trail of Pus

When I´d envisioned summiting those devilishly hard steps of Machu Picchu, I never thought I´d have pus dripping from my ankles.

But sometimes pus happens.

Especially when you have an allergic reaction to the 159 mosquito and sand fly bites covering legs, thighs and an odd spot on my armpit. And the bridge of my nose. Is there even blood there?

I know, I know, the first thing you´re thinking is - but what about the knees? Well, the front, non-veiny part has been spared. But behind the knees... where the flesh is ripe for the bloodsucking... it´s been compromised.

It all started 4 days earlier when I booked a jungle trek through the Sacred Valley of the Incas. It was supposed to be an adventure, and it was. Days of mountain biking, white water rafting, zip lining over rivers and a lot of hiking through the Inca jungle.

I can´t say I hadn´t been warned. For days prior, I´d see hikers filtering in and out of Cusco with tiny red pocks imprinted on legs, ankles and arms, in a bloody staccato. But they weren´t that bad...

So I took a bath in insect repellent and asked our guide, a 24-year-old ham named Willy, if shorts were okay for the first day´s 8-hour trek into the Inca´s ancient Pony Expressway.

´Of course, Miss Suli, becasue the jungle is very hot today.´

Worse advice was never given.

By the time we reached the end of the first day´s trek, my right thigh had swollen inward, hips swollen outward, and my cankles were blistered from the poison of those evil little Incan insects. Maybe anthropologists aren´t 100% sure why this group went extinct... but I sure as hell know.

My elephant-lady-ness got worse the following day when I awoke, legs burning, muscles tight and the ooze starting to weep. Willy took one look at my legs and announced, ´Miss Suli, you scratch at night. Therefore, you are a suffering. If you do not scratch, you is fine.´

´But Willy, I haven´t scratched! They aren´t even itchy, just uncomfortable.´

´No Miss Suli, it is your fault! No scratch!´

And there I was, goo seeping onto the faces of two golden labrador retriever puppies smiling up at me from the plush blanket, staring up at the tin roof, the singular florescent lightbulb swinging under the clatter of rain, and arguing with a Peruvian obsessed with fart jokes about the consequences of scratching.

It was the beginning of the end for me and Willy when we started talking about using ´hot´ as an adjective.

´You know, ´hot´as in really cute or foxy?´

´Oh, you mean like a donkey in the spring?´ We nodded, politely.

´You know what this means, when the donkey is in the spring, he likes so many lady donkeys and...´

´Yeah Willy, but it´s not really the same meaning...´

´Yes, but do you understand this terminology, donkey in the spring? I explain it better to you...´

And he did. We realized this was our guide for the next four days and he was giggling like a 12-year-old boy at his own joke. Other real doozies included:

Miss Suli, you to share a room with Mister Ben tonight, do you know the matrimonial bed? But you are not married! Haha!

Miss Suli, I think you want to become concubine of Mister Florian, do you not? Neither he is married! But he has German mamacita! Haha!

Miss Suli, you know the Inca tradition - we have to sacrifice a lady. I think Miss Suli wants to be sacrificed, yeah guys? Guys, she no likes my jokes.

Well, between the pus and the matrimonial bed, self-sacrifice was sounding like a good option.

The German mamacita had also been prescient enough to wear shorts that day. We agreed the second day to take the train instead of more hiking in mosquito hives. At the station, we encountered a gaggle of middle-aged trekkers from Alabama of all places, one of whom was a doctor. One look at my legs, and I got the riot act read to me on the virtues of amoxicilin.

Which I bought, no prescription necessary, for less than $10. Willy was, for once, silent.

FARC and Circumstance

Second-hand danger stories are always annoying.

Firstly, danger is an overused term. Stranger danger. Austin Danger Powers. Highway to the Danger Zone. So when I heard stuff like kidnappings, armed robberies and other scary death-related stuff goes on in Colombia, I thought - wow, this could be unpleasant. But gee, there's a place that could use some positive press. And off I went.

And the funny part was, as soon as I arrived in Popayan in southern Colombia, I started meeting people who were actually held at knife-point - they, themselves - and taken for the equivalent of $15 by 10-year-old children in Bogota.

And when my two friends finally met up with me in Cali - 3 hours later than planned - it was even funnier to hear them talk about how their bus had been roadblocked by FARC, Colombia's most charming terrorist organization. And when I say funny, I mean in that uncomfortable way that makes you want to clutch your wallet and suck your thumb. Not that I did that...

They told me, first-hand, how they stood single-file while a soldier explained the FARC had nothing to do with the assassination of their leader the day beforehand, and how they were really a peaceful group - difficult to buy when an automatic weapon is aimed at your torso. Doubly difficult when you can see soldiers hiding in the jungle on your narrow stretch of road, rifles ready to cover their compadres should anything turn ugly... Also, their uniforms cost a lot of money. Oh yeah, and all the strife in Colombia, including that leader's death, is the fault of the Americans.

Well, I guess we do have a bad reputation for covert assassinations in this part of the world...

They let them go after 30 minutes of complaining. The FARC could really use a community newspaper or something less, um, scary to inform the masses of their statements of peace. There's a group that could use a PR professional. UO Journalism School, are you reading?

All this wasn't helping my quest to create my own non-danger Colombia story. All FARC and no fun makes Colombia a dull drug lord. So after arriving in Cali, the salsa capital of the world, I decided to make the most of my Mexican salsa lessons and dance for an entire weekend. Employing my best judgment, I decided to first hop on the CHIVA Party Bus with some hostel mates.

For those who don't know, the CHIVA Party Bus is an old schoolbus pimped out in disco lights, a great stereo system and no windows or doors so that innocent pedestrians may also enjoy said strobe lights and overly-loud reggaeton against their will. It is, undoubtedly, the most obvious way on earth to announce I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE ROB ME.

The Party Bus leads you all over town, subjecting all walks of Cali life to our noisome menagerie of shot-swilling foreigners and a fair number of Colombian women, drop-dead gorgeous with their stilettos and silicon out for the night. My favorite was a lady in a red bedazzled tube top and bionic breasts. We called her Boobs. She was extremely friendly and didn't speak a lick of English to her extremely appreciative American novio. I was concerned for her health given the air tightness of her jeans, but 'yeast infection' doesn't translate like you might think it would.

Anyway, everything was going well - we boogied past the posh neighborhoods, then the red light district, and Boobs waved to the skinny and starving homeless people sleeping by the library. I started to wonder just what part of town we could possibly offend next. That's when we arrived at a red light and a huge group of high schoolers were drinking en masse right behind us. Obviously, the Party Bus is way more fun than drinking on the street with your teenage friends. Duh! We had Boobs! So a couple of them hung off the side and danced along with us.

And at that point, all was right with the world. Smiles were smiled. Drinks were drunk. Lovely, young Colombians were enjoying our evening out as much as we were.

But the bus driver was vexed with all this merriment from people who hadn't paid, and lurched the bus forward, knocking some of the boys to the hard concrete below.

Well, nobody likes to be knocked off the Party Bus by a grouchy driver, do they? I mean, I wouldn't.

The DJ cut the music and the boys, mad, started smacking the electric green siding with their fists and yelling things in Spanish that were, frankly, fowl. And it was around this time I thought again, wow, this could be unpleasant.

The boys were scrambling to get into the windowless/doorless bus with agility when the light turned green and we took off, popping onto a viaduct to another classy part of town. Only a few glass beer bottles actually hit us, and even Boobs' botoxed eyebrows seemed to have moved slightly to express pain or concern. I think she was really scared, but no one could tell.

Alas, this could have happened anywhere in the world. And there is no point in running around being scared of the danger that happened to others. Or even the almost-danger that is likely to befall the ridiculous Party Bus on its next round of the city.

I would like to give Colombia props for the following cool things:

* Lush green countryside with deep valleys and pointy, jungly mountains
* Excellent coffee, thanks Juan Valdez
* Fabulous graffiti art
* Men with rhythm on the dance floor (though not even remotely as good-looking as the women - or Ecuadoreans! - they do have pizazz)
* Cowbells in the salsa bars
* Excellent and varied fried food
* Very flirty and helpful police officers
* Super yummy local drink - hot chocolate with melted cheese (mixed) and a fried piece of cornbread

Next stop: Cartagena on the Caribbean coast!

The knee creeper

You know when you get that gag reflex when the mustard in the fridge you want to put on your tater tots is really sour and moldy, or you're cleaning the bathroom and a mess of clotted hair and shampoo has been clogging the drain, making you wonder for ages why you've felt like you're taking a shower in a foot of water?

Well, the DF subway was like that for me a couple days before I left, and not a spore of mold was involved. There I was, minding my own business attempting to meet friends in DF's main square to look at murals (when I say DF, it means Districto Federal, which is the same thing as Mexico City). Julie (me), advised by her DF hosts (Manny y Maria!), sits in the car designated for women only for added security in the world's largest city. Creepy Random Dude enters women-only car and sits perpendicular to Julie.

Glances become stolen. Julie notices, but ignores. Stares become stared. Julie - still not 100 percent certain glances/stares are aimed at her - continues feigning ignorance. However, when Creepy Random Dude's hand starts trembling, Julie notices said glance/stare is unapologetically fixed. On her knees. Meaning, my knees.

Now, let's just take a moment here to recognize how incredibly fabulous my knees actually are. I, too, have always admired the way the joint moves with ease and they never get too sore, unlike their cry-baby neighbors to the south, my feet. At the moment, they are tan, and the bones don't stick out too much like other people's knees. I have always enjoyed them, and while it's nice for my knees to get the recognition they deserve, I knew in my heart of hearts Creepy Random Dude was not silently praising my superior cartilage, but entertaining more lascivious thoughts in his middle-aged, upper class creepasaurus mind.

Concern was had that creepy trembling hand might be tempted to touch one or both fabulous knees.

Cue gag reflex.

I sat there thinking of all the words I could muster that were rude in Spanish, but assembling them in a sentence just sounded like a disjointed laundry list of synonyms from my dictionary, including 'mean', 'weird', -'heart with cold' and, of course, 'motherfucker'. Veronica, my college roommate and a Mexico City native, taught me that one. Thanks, GF.

Instead of saying anything, though, me and my knees just got up and changed seats - but with a loud sigh and my best eye roll, which probably doesn't translate anyway.

But the problem didn't stop on the Pink Line. It's knee season in Mexico, and I felt hombres undressing my undressed knees all day. I've heard about this whole machismo leering thing before, and how it's all cultural. But hey, in Oaxaca, I didn't get leered.

And anyway, I would prefer it if the hombres interested in my knees treated me they way I'm used to: ignoring my very existence, avoiding eye contact in favor of socially awkward body language, and throwing me a bone with an occasional, apathetic grunt. Then they may proceed to tell me their theory on why wrestling is not a homo-erotic sport. I mean, it's the American way!

I feel I should clarify my outfit before anyone jumps to blame the leer-ee here. Blue dress, cut just above said heartbreaking knees, rather boxy, frankly, and nothing compared to the low neck/high heel combo so many Mexican ladies favor.

So my solution was to put on my sunglasses (it was not sunny), add my rain jacket (nor was it rainy) and glare back. I channeled Crazy Sandra. I stared down potential knee offenders with a wild, arched brow and furrowed my hair. Big hair always scares people off. I got even more slouchy than I normally am, and held my hand on my belly, thinking creepers don't check out pregnant chicks' knees. But they do! Then, when someone would have the absolute gaul to strike a conversation, I'd tell them I was Israeli. "Habla Hebrew?"

My ode to the 'don't fuck with me' charm of Israelis continues (see posts from Guatemala).

This is also what I told to Leatherface the Organ Harvester, a 7-foot-tall 'basketball player' on the Oaxaca basketball team with very suspicious skin (I later learned Oaxaca does not actually have a basketball team). Leatherface skulked around the city and the salsa clubs, looking, in my opinion, like the type of person involved in the black market organ trade. I always felt him eyeing my spleen. He did not habla Hebrew either, which is an excellent way to end a conversation.

On the epic journey from Mexico City to Quito yesterday, a CSI Miami episode centered on illegal organ harvesting which is just another sign that one must be extra vigilant when protecting one's innards. Which, in my book, includes kneecaps.

Sol Searching

Did I mention Guns drives a motorcycle? Just wanted to throw that out there...

We took a second-class bus through the bends into the Oaxacan mountains one weekend. By we, I mean a couple of other American girls in my class, and their 'intercambio' partners - Mexican students trying to learn English. In sum, there were 8 of us. And that was enough.

To give you an idea of the difference between first and second class bus service in Mexico: the first class bus has TVs, reclining chair backs, assigned seats, and a clean, flush toilet in the back.

The second class bus has none of the above. The second class station, however, did have toilets, but they did not flush. Maids swished the loos out with buckets of water, which I found, frankly, off-putting. More for them than me.

The mountain puebla we visited was gorgeous. The air was clean, the food was yummy, and they served us bowls of hot chocolate with breakfast, lunch, AND dinner. Bowls. Of hot chocolate. I took a picture.

We went on a nature hike and zip-lined through the cacti. We wandered the puebla and discovered ancient women, faces leathery and wise, rolling dough in a smoky, wood-fired panderia (bread shop). Their lungs must be immune, black, or both, because the smoke hugged the building like a chubby fleece blanket, blobbing its way out the one open window. Standing from our cabana above, it looked like the panderia roof was levitating. I wondered if it knew about the human body levitation exhibition I talked about in class the week before (see previous post).

The puebla was peaceful, tranquil, effing freezing at night and very oddly empty. There were a lot of children and grandparents, but I noticed a generation was missing: mine. Then one of the intercambios, Judith, dropped this little revelation on me:

'They're all in the United States. They're the ones working in your fields, not their own. The people Arizona wants to keep out? They are from pueblas like this one.'

Ladies and gentleman, a dot has just been connected.

I don't know who I thought migrant workers came from, but it wasn't sleepy little mountain villages, crisp and verdant where even the donkeys seem to bray in a better mood. And you get bowls. Of hot chocolate. At all meals. If the standard set forth by the 75-year-old woman toiling in the smoky bread house is any indication, its no wonder men and women are willing to break their backs picking the organic strawberries I blend with my non-fat organic yogurt and wild harvested honey from the Eugene farmer´s market to go with my free-trade coffee in self-conscious Portland. And thus begins an entirely new chapter of liberalism in the life and times of Jules.

The nights in Oaxacan mountains are cold, even in August, so we huddled around the fireplace in the cabana. (As an aside, the fire would not start. No, seriously. This after I told the group, rather optimistically, ´Don´t worry! I´m a Girl Scout! I can start a fire underwater!´It wasn´t true. I was neither born to dance salsa, or start underwater fires, so please feel free to call me on it next time I utter either falsehood). To keep warm, our group of 8 did the usual - drink beer, tell ghost stories, play truth of dare... they all spoke in English and we all spoke in Spanish and it became a fabulous mismash of incomplete sentences and modifiers dangling in mid-air. Our compadres were college students, around 20 years old, some older, all Catholic. This made for what I thought was becoming a rather boring game of ´Would You Rather´...

´Would you rather marry a rich man who was cruel, or a poor man to painted your pictures in the sun?´

´Would you rather kiss a pretty girl with braces, or an ugly girl with nice teeth?´

´Would you rather make a fart in school, or walk around with toilet paper on your shoes?´

It felt like I was reading letters to the editor at TigerBeat Magazine. Then, just as it all became too Disney for what I´d refer to as a worldly soul, rather than a jaded soul like mine... this little gem popped out of nowhere from a 19-year-old university student:

´Would you rather sleep in a room full of lesbians, or a room full of strippers... who are sick.´

She said this last part, ´who are sick´, with emphasis, realizing this last detail would probably make the strippers look really, really bad. It wasn´t clear, though, just what said strippers were indeed stricken with. Was it gout? Did they just have a headache? Was it the black plague? I had to find out, but I couldn´t form the words because I was laughing so much. So were my American classmates. We snorted, chuckled, slapped our knees, completely lost it and, with all of our stomach clutching and tear wiping, completely freaked out the Mexicans with our reaction to their very innocent game.

All this led to a very interesting discussion the next morning about homosexuality. Some were fine with it, others didn´t want lesbians sitting next to them for fear of molestation (lesbians, you really have a lot of work to be done here in Mexico). In the end, we all agreed it would be best to make friends with a homosexual in order to better understand their lifestyle. So an SOS to all the gays and lesbians reading this - please come befriend Mexicans. They need you.

Infirmed strippers, however, might want to vacation elsewhere.

I would tell you all about a beach weekend that included 18 hours of overnight bus travel and a night sleeping in a suspended ´bed´on a cliff at the hippie commune, but the story sort of ends when I vomited my papaya and yogurt breakfast all over the sea turtle rescue park and I´d rather not memorialize that tale in writing. Whatever you´ve heard about Mexican drinking water, it´s true. And I apologize to the sea turtles, because I love them.

Living in Oaxaca for the last month has been a fabulous start to my adventure. I´ve been living with a 78-year-old woman who makes her living renting rooms and a hot shower to mostly American students. I´m just one of about 300 who have stayed in her casa over the years, and I think all 300 of us should count our blessings - Maria Elena´s food is made from scratch, of the authentic Oaxaqueno style, and super yummy. She is forever cracking jokes, none of which I´ve ever understood, but giggling in solidarity doesn´t really need translation.

She has 8 children, 11 grandchildren and 2 dogs. Everybody wants to talk, until they realize I don´t talk back. Or at least not well.

"Years, how many?" I asked one granddaughter.

"´How old are you?´" she replied.

"No, years, how many?"

"Of course, ´How old are you?´" She was trying to help. It didn´t stick.

"Oh shoot! You don´t understand the word `years`?"

She is 15. I had much better luck talking with another granddaughter, age 5, about our mutual admiration for butterflies, specifically in colors pink, red, and yellow, but not black. They´re scary.

The house is huge, I suspect. Two student rooms in the back garden, 5 rooms in the main house, 2 dining rooms, 2 parlors, a back garden, a front garden, a cactus garden, and a special zone for the maid (who travels one hour each way and earns $15 a week) to iron, wash clothes or do whatever. When I asked Maria Elena if her house was typical in Mexico, she said, ´No.' We did not discuss further.

Everything was going great until Crazy Sandra arrived. Last week at lunch, a woman in her 60s buzzed the door, with chopped white hair that stood straight up, shocked, like her wild, sad eyes. She had stayed at the same house 9 years ago as a Spanish student and had been living in South America teaching English. She was on her way home to North Carolina. Did I mind sharing my bathroom?

At first, Crazy Sandra was very nice. She took the room adjacent to mine and she told me of her adventures teaching. I found her very worldly and brave. Then she invited me for a beer - I had one, she had three, and learned she hates the United States, she´s divorced and her two daughters think she´s nuts.

"You mean crazy, as in ´my mom´s so cool, she´s traveling around the world, following her dreams´kind of crazy?" I asked.

"No. I mean crazy, as in pathologically." Her wild eyes got wilder, and I swear her hair started quivering. I know I did.

Crazy Sandra told me her dentist thinks our host sister is bipolar. She complained about the maid for moving her books so she could clean. She wears pajamas at all hours. She is constantly sick, tired, victimized, and tells me all about it. She also feels at liberty to correct my Spanish, which is really a lost cause for any human being. And the final, damning indictment against Crazy Sandra? She doesn´t like the dogs. The wiener-beagle was crying one day and she threatened to bust his nose. New rule of thumb: people who tell you they are pathologically crazy should be trusted with that fact, and that fact alone.

And so it is with some bittersweet feelings I move on to Mexico City tomorrow, and off to Ecuador next week, away from the beauty of Mexico and its people and away from Crazy Sandra. And Guns. Que triste. More adventures to follow...

Guns & Roses (ok, mostly guns)

I spent a whole lot of time writing this e-mail three days ago and I'm
pretty annoyed with myself that it didn't go through. I guess I'll blame it
on the typhoon blowing through the south of South Korea that day.

Let me summarize my last days in Korea (for those who care, I'm already
home, so some of the charm is lost as I write this).

My trip to Panmunjeom was one of the highlights of the trip, as I
anticipated. Panmunjeom is in the DMZ, the de-militarized zone, right where
the North and South have a staring contest. I paid a lot of money to take a
day-long tour, which started off pretty weak, visiting shrines and bridges,
and finished with an awkwardly quiet bang. I'll skip the boring part and get
to the good stuff.

Our caravan of Japanese, British and German turisti had to be escorted into
the twilight zone with the aid of an American soldier from New York named
Perrione. We had a briefing beforehand about how to act -- no pointing, no
facial gestures, no sudden movements. No sandals, no jeans, no trackpants.
You know, if the North Koreans see the rest of the world wearing flip-flops,
holy hell might break loose.

They led us around in a big UN bus through the encampment of soldiers - men
only, thank you - where I got a few of the ROK (Republic of Korea) soldiers
to smile and wave. I'm charming, what can I say? They pointed out lots of
places where people had been shot, maimed or famously axed to death as the
North tried to sneak into the South, or vice-versa. Naturally, all this
mention of ax murderers was very comforting.

We went into the room they always have on TV, where there's a big table full
of fingerprints where all the dignitaries sit and talk about peace (but more
likely last night's episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"). It's divided in
half by a microphone cord, and surrounded by three armed ROK guards who have
to stand at this menacing "ready" taekwondo position. I wanted to spar with
them, but I didn't think my high green belt would get me too far this time.

All of the soldiers were toting AK 47s and wearing dark, reflective
sunglasses, because not being able to see their eyes makes them all the more
intimidating. Or at least that's what "Justin," our lovely Korean tour
guide, told me.

When the ROK soldiers walk around, they jingle, so I asked Justin about
that, too. Apparently, they have marbles at the bottom of their cuffs which
serve two purposes: 1. They make their pants hang down straight, making
their legs look bigger; and 2. They make more noise when they walk around,
so the enemy might think they have a big weapon on them. I think they like
it because they can play marbles between standing around and looking mean.

So there we were, standing about 3 feet away from little white pickets that
separate the North from the South. A North Korean guard was at first hiding
behind a pillar on their side, checking us out. He eventually walked around
his building and stood in the center, on the top step, just watching. What a
job.

The entire place is filled with cameras that are forever monitoring each
other's every move. If you couldn't tell, it was tense.

What was also interesting was our trip to Tunnel Number 3, an underground
tunnel (oxymoron?) burrowed 60 kilometers outside of Seoul. As an American,
I couldn't tell you how many miles that is, but looking at the map, it was
pretty close. Anyway, our group of goofs trekked down to the bottom to a
sulphurous cave, complete with drip drops of water and plenty of mood
lighting, a'la Disneyland.

It was pretty rough around the edges, literally. Can you imagine those
Northerners toiling down there for years, dying along the way, just to
burrow into the south a few feet?

Supposedly the North could move 30,000 troops across the border overnight if
they were so inclined. Tunnel 3 is one of four in total, although they think
there are about 20 deep beneath the earth. Like good capitalists, they've
turned it into a tourist trap.

Now on to the roses part of this e-mail. Take a break, if you need it.

Yuno's wedding was the stuff of dreams. I spent the entire week with her
shopping for her hanbok (traditional Korean dress) and western-style white
dress. We found the perfect dresses and she was all set to go.

Korean weddings are funny. I don't know what I expected, but there was a lot
of clapping, singing and grandeur. It was very fairy-tale like at the hotel.
For instance, when she entered the room, two wide doors swung open slowly
while white smoke filled the floor and the spotlight centered on the bride,
smiling with her dad by her side. She floated into the room and bowed to her
husband. We clapped.

The Korean pastor had the same diction as the MovieFone guy, which was
highly entertaining, even though I didn't know what the hell was going on.
Everything was translated into Japanese for her side of the room, and Shun
took pity on me from time to time, explaining in English. Most of it was
lost on me, though. There were some confusing highlights:

- At one point, her husband, Jeong, dropped and did 10 push-ups. We clapped.



- Everyone at my table bawled when Yuno and Jeong read letters to their
parents, and I felt cold-hearted just observing with a giggle. Then we
clapped.

- Shun and I sang a horrible rendition of a Josh Groban song. Everyone
politely clapped, taking pity upon us.

I was super-impressed when Jeong told the crowd of about 150 thanks for
coming, first in Korean, then Japanese, then finally English. I know he was
talking directly to me, thanking me for coming all the way from America - I
felt really special, as the only whitey non-Asian speaking friend.

The rest of the wedding was just as beautiful. Yuno had a total of four
intricate costume changes, enough to make Celine Dion jealous. As per usual,
the wedding night ended in some rambunctious renditions of Ricky Martin at
the karaoke bar. It was fun.

Those are the highlights of the trip. The 10-hour flight home was uneventful
and I was shocked into fall weather -- when we left, it was 90 degrees,
today it's 50. Ugh.

My next adventure? I got a request to go to Iceland next summer, so we'll
see...

Thanks for reading!