Who doesn't enjoy luxury? Whether it be the luxury of owning a Peruvian Hairless dog, the luxury of eating an extra skewer of beef hearts, or the luxury of driving the finest motorcar in the world, I believe everyone can appreciate the finer things in life. I read an article today which detailed the findings of an elite team of luxury scientists (they may have just been normal scientists, the article wasn't entirely clear on that point.) studying the effects that various purchases have on lasting happiness. Using a double-blind technique and the Schweitzer-McCall Luxury Matrix (they might have just asked a bunch of people. Again, the article was very vague about the details.), these luxury experts determined that spending on experiences contributes much more positively to enduring happiness than spending on more permanent luxury items. For instance, a luxurious trip, meal, or concert can have greater emotional returns than a Ethan Allen mauve couch, an Irish Setter sweater, or a Jaguar convertible. I decided to put this theory to the test tonight at my monthly haircut session. And let me tell you, after the luxuriousness of all I experienced, I might have to make my haircuts a bi-monthly occurrence.
Let me start with some background from my day. Today was the first day that I was running the Buena Voz show. Was it harder? More stressful? Unluxurious? It was actually none of those things. I realized that being the bossman afforded me a much better view of all the tasks associated with Buena Voz. Once difficulty with working with Melissa (through no fault of hers), is that our communication is not what I am accustomed to in the US due to the language barrier. Therefore, I struggled to understand everything that was going on with the program and the ways I could be most useful. Sometimes I wasn't even clear why I was doing what I was doing. In one day I suddenly felt much more comfortable because I was forced to be involved in every aspect of the program. This was definitely a good start to the day and to the month of Melissa's absence. Of course, wouldn't it be ironic if everything unravels tomorrow? Well at least I would prove Melissa's value to Susana that way. See? She is irreplaceable! The day only got better when Susana and I went to lunch at one of her favorite beach restaurants. We drove down the coast for ten minutes and parked by this startlingly turquoise blue cove. Set against the steep, desolate cliffs, it was really a striking spot. Plus, the sun was finally out and the waves were especially frisky, so it felt quite summery. We ate at La Mesa de La Herradura, a sort of tapas/ceviche hybrid. We had three different bites of ceviche all served on scallop shells, a couple different varieties of cause, a lomo saltado with shrimp and steak (surf and turf is most definitely luxurious), and a few other seafood dishes I am hard pressed to remember. It was a tasty lunch, and the seaside setting really made it special. Unfortunately in Lima, there seems to be few restrictions about building near the water. The benefit is that you can eat and drink in some breathtaking locales. The downside is these locales could be enjoyed by many more individuals (including animals) if they were just left undeveloped. Sigh.
After a taste of luxury (not a great pun, but I'll give the pun alert) during lunch, I knew that I was hooked and needed more in my day. After work I made my way to my favorite salon named after Los Angeles (remember there are two. Therefore having a favorite is meaningful!). This time, however, a 28 year-old (lady doesn't sound quite right, but girl sounds too young. Female? Too impersonal. Chick? Not respectful enough. Brawd? Not sure about the spelling. Not guy? Winner, winner, chicken dinner!) not guy was free to cut my hair instead of the bad-age-guessing guy from last time. I'm not going to say he burned a bridge by believing I was 39, but he certainly did conflagrate a wooden river crossing. She took great care to ensure equitable hair length (since I ask for as simple a haircut as could possibly be asked for), and her neck and mustache grooming was clearly the product of years of study and practical application. I was about to stand up and leave once she dusted me off, but then she offered to wash my hair. I really enjoyed myself during the haircut, but I wasn't quite ready to drop some extra bills for the mane and tail routine. Let's face it, there isn't a whole lot to wash on my dome. I was about to refuse when said it was included. Now THAT is a luxury I couldn't refuse: getting your hair washed when there really isn't any hair there to wash. Isn't that so indulgently purposeless? Don't confuse that with porpoiseless, since we all know that a good level of luxury necessitates the possession of porpoises. Now get this, she washed my hair three, count 'em, three times. I have absolutely no idea what she was working on up there, but you didn't hear me complaining. As I write this I am still savoring the opulent luxuriousness and luxurious opulence of my haircut and triple wash, and I can personally vouch for the scientists results. They could have saved themselves a lot of trouble and expense if they just came to Peru for a nice haircut. Hindsight is 20/20 I guess.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Big Payoff
Thursday night, similar to most Thursday nights, was Help night (the Barranco club, to refresh your memory). I was fully recovered from my cold and decided to head out with the Casona gang and some of their Belgian and Peruvian friends, and boy am I glad I did! After waiting outside for a little while (normally we can waltz right in, Richard Grieco style), we walked in just as the last band was starting their set. I was expecting some sort of modern rock group with a nice brass section (the most common type of band I've seen since coming here) or maybe a hard rock or reggae act. Well I was way off, because we were treated to a band covering The Who exclusively.
Yes way.
And what a treat it was, for me at least. Now the demographic at Help tends toward the younger folks, so I was surprised to see a Peruvian, Spanish speaking band covering a British, British speaking band which enjoyed it's greatest popularity in the 1960s and 1970s. Sure, you'll see the local bands toss in a single Green Day track or maybe one from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but 40 minutes of Roger Daltrey and company? And they even had a keyboardist jamming the organ parts (that wording is absolutely awful). I was able to get my Who fix, and my CSI: Miami and New York fix (The Who theme songs). Fortunately, things only got better from there. At about 3am I decided to call it an early night, and Kike, Jessica, Bruno, and I all headed for the taxi line outside Help (quick sidetrack: during the day on Saturdays, Help transforms into Mr. Fish. No, not the fictional supervillian or internet electronics supplier, a daytime cevicheria/bar. It is notorious because people consume copious amounts of raw fish with excessive quantities of alcohol. Now I like a nice seafood dinner and cold one as much as the next guy, but Mr. Fish seems to have the recipe for a messy afternoon.). Before we passed the final gate to enter the street I saw a fellow move towards me and say something while holding a bag of chips. I noticed that he was standing near a cart of candy, chips, sodas, second-rate wigs, and gum, so I instinctively told him "not this time, Jack" while giving him a strong "cut it out" gesture. He apparently wasn't deterred and spoke to me one more time. This time I realized he wasn't selling anything, wasn't speaking Spanish, and actually commented "nice mustache!" I suddenly was overcome with pride and gratitude for his appreciation of my soup strainer. While I like my "horseshoe" mustache, it has certainly involved sacrifices and trade-offs. For instance, try finding a girl who is attracted a mustache variety you'll find on the biker for the Village People or half of major league baseball players in 1982. All my friends (the non-female ones) have shown overwhelming support for the style, but I felt tremendously gratified to receive international recognition. He then told me he was from Melbourne, Australia, and they have an annual mustache-themed fundraiser during the month of November. Except they call it "Movember" (here in the US there are also many mustache-growing fundraisers in Movember and/or Mustache March, so I was familiar with the practice.). This tradition originated in Australia, so I was blown away to receive commendation from a true pro. I sometimes feel mustache inadequacy because of the blond hue, but I now know that I made the right decision to shun any potential female attention for the enduring glory of a horseshoe mustache. Did I have a slight hangover at work the next day? You got that right. Was I still walking on air? Brother, you better believe it.
Yes way.
And what a treat it was, for me at least. Now the demographic at Help tends toward the younger folks, so I was surprised to see a Peruvian, Spanish speaking band covering a British, British speaking band which enjoyed it's greatest popularity in the 1960s and 1970s. Sure, you'll see the local bands toss in a single Green Day track or maybe one from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but 40 minutes of Roger Daltrey and company? And they even had a keyboardist jamming the organ parts (that wording is absolutely awful). I was able to get my Who fix, and my CSI: Miami and New York fix (The Who theme songs). Fortunately, things only got better from there. At about 3am I decided to call it an early night, and Kike, Jessica, Bruno, and I all headed for the taxi line outside Help (quick sidetrack: during the day on Saturdays, Help transforms into Mr. Fish. No, not the fictional supervillian or internet electronics supplier, a daytime cevicheria/bar. It is notorious because people consume copious amounts of raw fish with excessive quantities of alcohol. Now I like a nice seafood dinner and cold one as much as the next guy, but Mr. Fish seems to have the recipe for a messy afternoon.). Before we passed the final gate to enter the street I saw a fellow move towards me and say something while holding a bag of chips. I noticed that he was standing near a cart of candy, chips, sodas, second-rate wigs, and gum, so I instinctively told him "not this time, Jack" while giving him a strong "cut it out" gesture. He apparently wasn't deterred and spoke to me one more time. This time I realized he wasn't selling anything, wasn't speaking Spanish, and actually commented "nice mustache!" I suddenly was overcome with pride and gratitude for his appreciation of my soup strainer. While I like my "horseshoe" mustache, it has certainly involved sacrifices and trade-offs. For instance, try finding a girl who is attracted a mustache variety you'll find on the biker for the Village People or half of major league baseball players in 1982. All my friends (the non-female ones) have shown overwhelming support for the style, but I felt tremendously gratified to receive international recognition. He then told me he was from Melbourne, Australia, and they have an annual mustache-themed fundraiser during the month of November. Except they call it "Movember" (here in the US there are also many mustache-growing fundraisers in Movember and/or Mustache March, so I was familiar with the practice.). This tradition originated in Australia, so I was blown away to receive commendation from a true pro. I sometimes feel mustache inadequacy because of the blond hue, but I now know that I made the right decision to shun any potential female attention for the enduring glory of a horseshoe mustache. Did I have a slight hangover at work the next day? You got that right. Was I still walking on air? Brother, you better believe it.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
"His eyes seem so glazed, as he flies on the wings of a dream"
For the uninitiated or non-Iron Maiden fans out there (yeah right, as if there are any!) the title of today's entry can be found in one of Maiden's many pseudo-historical rock ballads, "The Flight of Icarus." But before we get down to business we should probably brush up on our Greek mythology. I don't mean to suggest that you are anything less than an expert in Greek mythology, but I needed to reread the story of Icarus and I'd like to make sure we are all on the same page.
Anonymous Reader - This is a blog about your crackpot idea to go to Peru, right?
Andrew - Yes, I'll get to the point eventually. And, c'mon, what's the rush? It's not like you have somewhere to be right?
Anonymous Reader - Well, I was thinking about checking out that new Tom Cruise/Cameron Diaz flick...
Andrew - Me too! Except here it is called "Encuentro Explosivo." I guess the pun-tastic title of "Knight and Day" doesn't translate too well, but really, is "Explosive Encounter" the best they could come up with? Just stick around a little bit longer, I hear the movie wasn't that good.
Anonymous Reader - Oh, hmm. Well I sorta need to....wash my goldfish?
Whatever! We don't need that "Negative Nataly" attitude bringing us down (it is surprisingly hard to find a Spanish name that starts with "n"). As I was saying, Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a master Athenian craftsman. The tyrannical (wouldn't it be fun if that referred to the quality of being like a Tyrannosaurus? Maybe I'm the only one who would find that delightful.) King Minos exiled and imprisoned Daedalus and Icarus on the island of Crete. To help Icarus escape, Daedalus whipped up a set of wings made from wax and feathers. He warned his son not to fly too close to the sun because the melting wax would compromise the structural integrity of the wings. Were I Icarus, I would be thinking "Thanks for the present, dad. I'm blown away that you were able to fashion flight worthy wings out of only wax and feathers. Where did you even find enough wax and feathers? Due to the fact that they are untested and not made from aircraft-grade aluminum - and the fact that you are a master craftsman who knows his stuff and I'm just a punk kid who watches too much "Teenage Mutant Gladiator Turtles" - I will heed your advice and not fly too close to the sun." Of course, we all know what adventurous little Icarus did. He was enthralled by the sun and flew too close to it. The wings melted and Icarus fell into the sea. And what does he get for that brash behavior? They name the Icarian Sea after him.
The reason I bring this up is because next week I will become a sort of Icarus. Melissa will be leaving for four weeks to manage Fronteras Huaraz, the international art festival she has been planning. Up until this point, we have shared duties in coordinating the Buena Voz program. I have been been mostly just supporting her (as I have harped on many a time, actually working in Spanish is easier said than done. Well, Spanish involves speaking, so maybe it's easier done than said? I do love a good word play!), but her absence will necessitate me taking the reigns for a month. Susana has played the role of Daedalus and fashioned Melissa and I a lovely set of wax/feather wings, and now it is time for me to fly. I will be using these wings to direct the spending of the budget (and hopefully snag a few good deals to improve the financial position of Buena Voz), coordinate workshops and a 200-person field trip, and support the teachers and youth coordinators in the program. I will also be increasing outreach to potential corporate sponsors and planning a fundraising event. And you better believe I will not be flying too close to the proverbial sun. Melissa has organized everything for her absence so it shouldn't be too hard, but I still plan to exercise caution since I'll be in charge of a $55K budget and 8 schools. I know, what are they thinking letting me handle all this? I think I'll be fine until Melissa gets back. It's not the nature of the activities that I find daunting, but rather operating within a foreign system. Will I be getting the best deal on catering for the event? Does the cement company sponsor mind if I allocate the cost of the t-shirts to their donations? Do I need to acquire a roof dog for the fundraiser? It should be an excellent learning experience, but I really hope to not have the ocean here named after me when Melissa gets back.
Now I would like to completely shift gears and talk about a product which I find intriguing, Nestle Milo. Milo is packaged in a green coffee-like can and has a picture of an active person doing active things on the outside. The tag line says that inside you will find "the taste of energy." After having licked a tiny bit of battery acid when I was younger (sorry Mom and Dad), I sincerely hoped that Milo did not have the taste of energy I was imagining. Fortunately, it's a chunky, chocolate powder similar to Nestle Quik. However, unlike Quik, this powder is extremely crunchy because the primary ingredient is barley malt. It is meant to be mixed with hot or cold milk and served as a nutritious breakfast. I am not sure how nutritious it actually is, but the can boasts of the nutritive properties of the additive "Actigen-E." Well I'm sold. I first discovered Milo at the Casona breakfasts, but I didn't try it because I am not a huge fan of drinking my breakfast. One day I was speaking with Reece, one half of my favorite Australian-Kiwi couple, and he told me that Milo is insanely popular in Australia. Then Jemma, the other half of this couple, told me about how she would sneak into her school's kitchen to eat spoonfuls of the stuff straight. I knew I had to try it. So I bought a modest portion of Milo and brought it to work with me, armed with a spoon from a kitchen. I scooped a healthy portion and and took a bite. It starts very crunchy and light before it dissolves into a tasty chocolate mush. The chocolate flavor is superior to Quik in my estimation (plus you have the power of Actigen-E on your side), but it was the crunch that won me over. In fact, I am crunching my way through some Milo right now. I don't think it has the taste of energy (more like the taste of chocolate), but then again I am not working on Madison avenue. Next time you see Milo in your comings and goings, I suggest you give it a shot, perhaps on an ice cream cone. Or as the Milo website suggests, have your muesli with Milo. What a tongue twister, Nestle!
Anonymous Reader - This is a blog about your crackpot idea to go to Peru, right?
Andrew - Yes, I'll get to the point eventually. And, c'mon, what's the rush? It's not like you have somewhere to be right?
Anonymous Reader - Well, I was thinking about checking out that new Tom Cruise/Cameron Diaz flick...
Andrew - Me too! Except here it is called "Encuentro Explosivo." I guess the pun-tastic title of "Knight and Day" doesn't translate too well, but really, is "Explosive Encounter" the best they could come up with? Just stick around a little bit longer, I hear the movie wasn't that good.
Anonymous Reader - Oh, hmm. Well I sorta need to....wash my goldfish?
Whatever! We don't need that "Negative Nataly" attitude bringing us down (it is surprisingly hard to find a Spanish name that starts with "n"). As I was saying, Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a master Athenian craftsman. The tyrannical (wouldn't it be fun if that referred to the quality of being like a Tyrannosaurus? Maybe I'm the only one who would find that delightful.) King Minos exiled and imprisoned Daedalus and Icarus on the island of Crete. To help Icarus escape, Daedalus whipped up a set of wings made from wax and feathers. He warned his son not to fly too close to the sun because the melting wax would compromise the structural integrity of the wings. Were I Icarus, I would be thinking "Thanks for the present, dad. I'm blown away that you were able to fashion flight worthy wings out of only wax and feathers. Where did you even find enough wax and feathers? Due to the fact that they are untested and not made from aircraft-grade aluminum - and the fact that you are a master craftsman who knows his stuff and I'm just a punk kid who watches too much "Teenage Mutant Gladiator Turtles" - I will heed your advice and not fly too close to the sun." Of course, we all know what adventurous little Icarus did. He was enthralled by the sun and flew too close to it. The wings melted and Icarus fell into the sea. And what does he get for that brash behavior? They name the Icarian Sea after him.
The reason I bring this up is because next week I will become a sort of Icarus. Melissa will be leaving for four weeks to manage Fronteras Huaraz, the international art festival she has been planning. Up until this point, we have shared duties in coordinating the Buena Voz program. I have been been mostly just supporting her (as I have harped on many a time, actually working in Spanish is easier said than done. Well, Spanish involves speaking, so maybe it's easier done than said? I do love a good word play!), but her absence will necessitate me taking the reigns for a month. Susana has played the role of Daedalus and fashioned Melissa and I a lovely set of wax/feather wings, and now it is time for me to fly. I will be using these wings to direct the spending of the budget (and hopefully snag a few good deals to improve the financial position of Buena Voz), coordinate workshops and a 200-person field trip, and support the teachers and youth coordinators in the program. I will also be increasing outreach to potential corporate sponsors and planning a fundraising event. And you better believe I will not be flying too close to the proverbial sun. Melissa has organized everything for her absence so it shouldn't be too hard, but I still plan to exercise caution since I'll be in charge of a $55K budget and 8 schools. I know, what are they thinking letting me handle all this? I think I'll be fine until Melissa gets back. It's not the nature of the activities that I find daunting, but rather operating within a foreign system. Will I be getting the best deal on catering for the event? Does the cement company sponsor mind if I allocate the cost of the t-shirts to their donations? Do I need to acquire a roof dog for the fundraiser? It should be an excellent learning experience, but I really hope to not have the ocean here named after me when Melissa gets back.
Now I would like to completely shift gears and talk about a product which I find intriguing, Nestle Milo. Milo is packaged in a green coffee-like can and has a picture of an active person doing active things on the outside. The tag line says that inside you will find "the taste of energy." After having licked a tiny bit of battery acid when I was younger (sorry Mom and Dad), I sincerely hoped that Milo did not have the taste of energy I was imagining. Fortunately, it's a chunky, chocolate powder similar to Nestle Quik. However, unlike Quik, this powder is extremely crunchy because the primary ingredient is barley malt. It is meant to be mixed with hot or cold milk and served as a nutritious breakfast. I am not sure how nutritious it actually is, but the can boasts of the nutritive properties of the additive "Actigen-E." Well I'm sold. I first discovered Milo at the Casona breakfasts, but I didn't try it because I am not a huge fan of drinking my breakfast. One day I was speaking with Reece, one half of my favorite Australian-Kiwi couple, and he told me that Milo is insanely popular in Australia. Then Jemma, the other half of this couple, told me about how she would sneak into her school's kitchen to eat spoonfuls of the stuff straight. I knew I had to try it. So I bought a modest portion of Milo and brought it to work with me, armed with a spoon from a kitchen. I scooped a healthy portion and and took a bite. It starts very crunchy and light before it dissolves into a tasty chocolate mush. The chocolate flavor is superior to Quik in my estimation (plus you have the power of Actigen-E on your side), but it was the crunch that won me over. In fact, I am crunching my way through some Milo right now. I don't think it has the taste of energy (more like the taste of chocolate), but then again I am not working on Madison avenue. Next time you see Milo in your comings and goings, I suggest you give it a shot, perhaps on an ice cream cone. Or as the Milo website suggests, have your muesli with Milo. What a tongue twister, Nestle!
Monday, August 2, 2010
"I Wish They All Could Be..."
By virtue of the fact that I live permanently in a residence where the majority of the guests stay only temporarily, I meet a lot of people for the first time. There are both positive and negative aspects of this arrangement. I have a lot of interesting discussions and see many different perspectives. I am able to share the information I have gathered about Lima and the surrounding areas. I make friends, albeit short term friends (I'm having lunch with the Aussie-Kiwi couple Reece and Jemma. They were the folks who got mugged after encountering a corrupt taxi driver, but they bounced back strong and have returned to Lima after visiting some areas to the south.) If I don't like someone (like the guy who closes and locks the door to the shared bathroom when he showers. The showers have doors, you putz, do you really need that much privacy?! You are monopolizing two showers, two stalls, and two sinks while I freeze my bunions off out here. Gah!) they are usually out of my hair in a day or two. While I enjoy these benefits, I should also point out a less enjoyable activity that comes with the territory. I have almost identical conversations over and over again when I first encounter people, and end up answering a lot of the same questions: What's your name? Where are you from? What are you doing here? Six months in a hostel?! Do you expect to get girls with that mustache or just frighten children? Do you know the name of a good wig man? However, one question that gets me thinking more than all the others is "What do you miss in the United States?"
In the beginning of this wacky little sojourn I didn't feel like I missed very much. The constant surprises and new experiences probably kept my mind so busy that I didn't stop to consider what I missed. I started to notice the things I missed during the past week. I had a hearty cold, and since I was not working Wednesday through Friday because of the independence day, I had plenty of time to rest and recuperate in the Casona. This also gave me plenty of time to reflect on life in the US and think about what I was missing. First and foremost, I miss my family and friends. Though I have made friends here, they can not substitute the support structure I have in the US. For instance, when I read a really good Star Trek/hockey joke here I have no one to share the mirth with. Or, when I am sick I have no one to hold the hanky while I blow my nose. Flippancy aside, I do miss you guys and I appreciate the contact we have maintained. Now, I would like to talk about some of the less obvious things I miss about home:
Good ol' American sizes. This encompasses a variety of types of sizes that I miss. I have purchased one t-shirt, two polo shirts, one sweatshirt, one pair of sweatpants, and one short-sleeve button-down mothers-lock-up-your-daughters shirt, and none of them seem to fit me properly. The pants are too short and the shirts and sweatshirt are all too small. And I'm not talking stylishly small. I wanted to buy some hiking shoes in the North Face outlet here but the sizes only go up to 11. I'm a 13! I don't consider myself particularly tall or long of foot, but Peru is not the place to outfit yourself if you are 1.91m tall. Other sizes cause me consternation as well. The food portions here are smaller than what you'll see in the US, but this is not a problem for me. I really shouldn't be eating sandwiches which weigh over a pound, all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ where I can easily pack away a laserjet printer-sized quantity of beef, or burritos which are sometimes mistaken for newborns (don't worry everyone! I am eager to start gorging again upon my return!). However, there are specific portions I do miss. Why can't I get my coffee in a big boy cup? I want more than five ounces at a time, and if that is greedy or unhealthy, it's still a freedom I enjoy in America. And beer! The bottles are either 330ml (less than a 12 ounce can in the US) or 660ml (almost double a can in the US). Where's my 355 ml spec can/bottle?! I don't want a liter of cola, but I also don't want a half liter of cola. Perhaps you have a bottle in the back that strikes a sensible balance between those two sizes? No? Bully! Maybe this is a sign that I should not drink these beverages, but darnit, I like 'em! Just in different portion sizes, please.
Good ol' American hardware. I'm talking about the hardware fixtures you find around the house. This may seem like a frivolous thing to miss, but when you live your whole life turning on the lights with an up-down motion, it's hard to adjust to these crazy sideways switches.
Yes you heard me correctly, sideways switches.
And unfortunately for me, it doesn't stop there. The power outlets don't accept the two/three flat-pronged plugs (well, some do, but let's just ignore that little fact for argument's sake) which make our country so great. Rather, the stubborn outlets here only accept ROUND two-pronged plugs. Are we in the stone age?! The showers here have either one or two handles which help to regulate the hot water-cold water ratio (but hey, I wouldn't know! I'm stuck outside while Francois [I don't know his name, and I don't think he was French, but let's just go with it] enjoys not only a shower to himself, but an entire bathroom to himself! Gah!), but the handles on the sinks in kitchens or bathrooms only allow one to dispense cold water. I can accept the fact that my hands are cold after washing them, but let's think of the hygiene, people. I truly miss American household hardware.
Cheese. While there is plentiful Edam, Gouda, and Queso Fresco, the variety and quality of cheese here is sadly lacking. It's possible to encounter a few imported cheeses from Europe, but they are prohibitively expensive (even in the US, these would be considered very pricey). I miss cheese shops with their stacks of cheese in all shapes, sizes, colors, and smells. We are really lucky in the US to have access to all the local and imported cheese that we do. I know what some of you are thinking. Our cheese pales in comparison to what you can find in Europe. That may be true (although there are a lot more artisan cheesemakers in the US now, and the American cheesescape is gaining ground quickly), but come to Peru and you'll appreciate what we do have. I would murder for some Boschetto al Tartufo or a decent goat cheese right about now. If you're curious to try more cheeses, I suggest Andrew's Cheese Shop on Montana near 7th in Santa Monica (yes, that is the real name). Andrew is a real good guy and makes the cheese-buying process interactive and unintimidating. Or you could try the Silver Lake Cheese Store and get some Intelligentsia coffee after, just make sure you wear your skinny jeans and ride your fixed-gear bike there. If you want to delve into the wonderful world of cheese, a cheese shop is a great place to start. Don't be afraid to sample without committing to buy!
There is truly one thing I miss above everything else, but sometimes pictures do a better job of telling the story:
Once again, the Master Gym comes through bigtime when Andrew needs a little taste of the States.
In the beginning of this wacky little sojourn I didn't feel like I missed very much. The constant surprises and new experiences probably kept my mind so busy that I didn't stop to consider what I missed. I started to notice the things I missed during the past week. I had a hearty cold, and since I was not working Wednesday through Friday because of the independence day, I had plenty of time to rest and recuperate in the Casona. This also gave me plenty of time to reflect on life in the US and think about what I was missing. First and foremost, I miss my family and friends. Though I have made friends here, they can not substitute the support structure I have in the US. For instance, when I read a really good Star Trek/hockey joke here I have no one to share the mirth with. Or, when I am sick I have no one to hold the hanky while I blow my nose. Flippancy aside, I do miss you guys and I appreciate the contact we have maintained. Now, I would like to talk about some of the less obvious things I miss about home:
Good ol' American sizes. This encompasses a variety of types of sizes that I miss. I have purchased one t-shirt, two polo shirts, one sweatshirt, one pair of sweatpants, and one short-sleeve button-down mothers-lock-up-your-daughters shirt, and none of them seem to fit me properly. The pants are too short and the shirts and sweatshirt are all too small. And I'm not talking stylishly small. I wanted to buy some hiking shoes in the North Face outlet here but the sizes only go up to 11. I'm a 13! I don't consider myself particularly tall or long of foot, but Peru is not the place to outfit yourself if you are 1.91m tall. Other sizes cause me consternation as well. The food portions here are smaller than what you'll see in the US, but this is not a problem for me. I really shouldn't be eating sandwiches which weigh over a pound, all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ where I can easily pack away a laserjet printer-sized quantity of beef, or burritos which are sometimes mistaken for newborns (don't worry everyone! I am eager to start gorging again upon my return!). However, there are specific portions I do miss. Why can't I get my coffee in a big boy cup? I want more than five ounces at a time, and if that is greedy or unhealthy, it's still a freedom I enjoy in America. And beer! The bottles are either 330ml (less than a 12 ounce can in the US) or 660ml (almost double a can in the US). Where's my 355 ml spec can/bottle?! I don't want a liter of cola, but I also don't want a half liter of cola. Perhaps you have a bottle in the back that strikes a sensible balance between those two sizes? No? Bully! Maybe this is a sign that I should not drink these beverages, but darnit, I like 'em! Just in different portion sizes, please.
Good ol' American hardware. I'm talking about the hardware fixtures you find around the house. This may seem like a frivolous thing to miss, but when you live your whole life turning on the lights with an up-down motion, it's hard to adjust to these crazy sideways switches.
Yes you heard me correctly, sideways switches.
And unfortunately for me, it doesn't stop there. The power outlets don't accept the two/three flat-pronged plugs (well, some do, but let's just ignore that little fact for argument's sake) which make our country so great. Rather, the stubborn outlets here only accept ROUND two-pronged plugs. Are we in the stone age?! The showers here have either one or two handles which help to regulate the hot water-cold water ratio (but hey, I wouldn't know! I'm stuck outside while Francois [I don't know his name, and I don't think he was French, but let's just go with it] enjoys not only a shower to himself, but an entire bathroom to himself! Gah!), but the handles on the sinks in kitchens or bathrooms only allow one to dispense cold water. I can accept the fact that my hands are cold after washing them, but let's think of the hygiene, people. I truly miss American household hardware.
Cheese. While there is plentiful Edam, Gouda, and Queso Fresco, the variety and quality of cheese here is sadly lacking. It's possible to encounter a few imported cheeses from Europe, but they are prohibitively expensive (even in the US, these would be considered very pricey). I miss cheese shops with their stacks of cheese in all shapes, sizes, colors, and smells. We are really lucky in the US to have access to all the local and imported cheese that we do. I know what some of you are thinking. Our cheese pales in comparison to what you can find in Europe. That may be true (although there are a lot more artisan cheesemakers in the US now, and the American cheesescape is gaining ground quickly), but come to Peru and you'll appreciate what we do have. I would murder for some Boschetto al Tartufo or a decent goat cheese right about now. If you're curious to try more cheeses, I suggest Andrew's Cheese Shop on Montana near 7th in Santa Monica (yes, that is the real name). Andrew is a real good guy and makes the cheese-buying process interactive and unintimidating. Or you could try the Silver Lake Cheese Store and get some Intelligentsia coffee after, just make sure you wear your skinny jeans and ride your fixed-gear bike there. If you want to delve into the wonderful world of cheese, a cheese shop is a great place to start. Don't be afraid to sample without committing to buy!
There is truly one thing I miss above everything else, but sometimes pictures do a better job of telling the story:
Once again, the Master Gym comes through bigtime when Andrew needs a little taste of the States.
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