I Just don't know

1. Squash.

I have three of the prettiest butternut squash y'ever saw in your life. I'm not taking a picture because I'm lazy. I don't know what to do with them. IF YOU SAY a) soup or b) roast it, I'll be like, blah blah blah. I am thinking of being really really really ambitious and making ravioli. Don't quote me. I've been whipping up some serious brown butter sage sauce using the righteous sage from the garden and let me tell you ... butternut rav with some brown butter sage sauce with a dash of nutmeg will make you squeal.

I am pondering this because I am ready to move and I'm saying bye bye to the time I spend attending to aphids. I want to live somewhere really stylin'.

I am also bringing back adjectives from the '80s. I realize I'm a little late and we're currently revitalizing the '90s, but I do that via music, so permit me my lexical luxury. This brings us to quagmire

2. Where the hell should I live? I'm in LOVE with my city as y'all know. What you don't know is that I'm also in love with a man, to a degree, but he lives in Lima. I love L.A. more. I will not compromise. Therefore, logically (for I am more logical than you know - to some of you I seem emotional and I am that too), I must live in a home that I love, for I am more of a homebody than you know and I adore decor and I want to show off the furniture I commissioned in Mexico in 2003. Thus I am deciding:

a. Loft. Downtown, thick of it. Modern empty palette. Rooftop pool. PARKING.

b. Hancock Park/Fairfax/Larchmont. Clean yuppie walkable trees yuppie did I mention yuppie? Homey architecture.

c. Los Feliz. Walkable, trees, young, "hip."

d. Silverlake Reservoir area. Yuppie, not so walkable, hilly. Beautiful.

e. Koreatown BUT a historic building with a breathtaking loft and a view and dark wood and exposed brick and a residential area that is safe(r) and delicious, not gritty K-town. Been grit, done grit.

f. The absolute heart of Culver City.

g. Hollywood BUT SEE e.

h. Hypermodern amenities.

Times have changed. I am a grownup. I need parking. I have Mia now, my baby. I work on the west side of town. I need a dishwasher, more space. More light. No dog shit when I step outside. Fewer, far far fewer, barking dogs (mine don't bark, they're obedient, disciplined, loving, attended to). Peace, y'all. I'm out of Hi-Fi/Echo Park. Paid my dues.

By the time I buy, I have a feeling the Talking Heads will apply: "I've lived in a brownstone ... I've lived in a ghetto ... I've lived all over this town!"

Never get too close to the Angel

At Velvet Margarita, midday ...
I met a man we'll call Adrian. We'll call him that because it's his name. Adrian is a bartender at Velvet Margarita, which "Big Daddy" owns, along with partner Vince Vaughn, who is nice and rowdy.
You see, I'm lucky. I'm well-connected. It's because I don't try too hard. I don't need anything from Mr. Vaughn nor from Big Daddy, except an occasional shrimp fajita and/or a bloody mary.
I'm lucky in general, you know. As I've discussed time and again on this blog, Our City of Angels (El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles de Porcinuncula), either spits you out or embraces you in her wings of silver and gold.
Adrian and I were talking about this under the extreme kitsch of the VM. Adrian is from Austin, Tejas, a city that tries too hard anyway. He worked his way up, you know, up up up. He said he didn't know how he had been in Hollywood proper since 1991, and I see why. It's a freaking zoo, and the VM is like right off Hollywood Boulevard and Cahuenga, tourons stumbling by.
I mentioned that the Angel must love him and he said that if not love, she tolerated him. But that, he said, is because he kept his distance.
I've all but made love to the Angel and I hope she doesn't tire of me ... I believe in forever still, but then again, I don't hold her down.

Like a Virgin: Things I Haven't Done Since I've Lived in El Lay

Friends say that I've done L.A. up, having lived here for four years. That's a product of having gotten lost a lot, as well as having lots of cool, adventurous friends. I don't necessarily want to do all of the following; they're just examples of facets of the city I've yet to experience.

1. Biked the Los Angeles River

2. Visited MOCA 

3. Shopped at the Pasadena Rose Bowl Flea Market

4. Seen the Rose Bowl floats, for that matter

5. Been to Disneyland (since I was 5 - not that I like Disneyland necessarily, but ...)

6. Seen TB's friend perform on the organ at the Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral downtown

7. Seen a taping of "Jeopardy"

8. Eaten at about 1,000 restaurants I want to try

9. Shopped on Rodeo Drive

10. Seen the tide pools in Malibu

11. Felt a biggish earthquake

12. Had a negative dangerous experience ...

I'm slipping into a territory I'd rather avoid: the yucky side of the city. As such, I'll stop, but the point of this entry is to remind myself and you that my adopted city is so jewel-laden that in a lifetime, I'll never be bored (unless I live forever because I choose to be cryogenically frozen, which I could do here too).

Home is Where the Hearth Is

Dammmmmn.

Lima's culinary scene is just booming along, and if I just reduced the amount of money I spend going out here in Los Angeles, I could fly back and forth more often and eat at events such as these:

http://www.livinginperu.com/news-12494-lima-chef-from-noma-worlds-top-restaurant-cook-with-chefs-peru

(Basically Soren West is coming to a cooking event in Lima. It benefits Valle Sagrado farmers whose land the flood devastated, and goddess knows I would have been there in my alternative life.
"Mom! All my friends are going! Why can't I?"
"Because you have to teach.")

I'm dying a little bit for ceviche - not Mexican ceviche, but real, Peruvian ceviche. That's ok - I can make it.

But I want my lúcuma yogurt and I want to eat it with my friends.

Peruvian ceviche with a sweet tuber, yuca, which tastes like a cold sweet potato. 

Drinkable lúcuma yogurt. 

Why are we so norteamericanos slow to catch on to drinkable yogurt? 

I pay a pretty penny to keep drinkable yogurt in my US fridge, but it's in every Peruvian (Latin American, I think) household, all the time.

Nobu Matsuhisa, of the sushi empire, began his career in Lima upon leaving his native Japan. 

Among many other things, he popularized the eating of eel in this hemisphere. 

He would buy it at the Peruvian fish markets, and the fishermen would ask what he was doing with the taboo fish. 

He responded that he was feeding it to his dog. 

Little did they know ... 

An Edible Eden

I should do garden work right now, I should. These monster weeds - I can't remember their name - which actually bloom a pretty violet, but which take over the world, need to go. I used to love the scent of natural jasmine, but my landlady appears to be using ours as protection against burglars or something. It's devouring our front gate to the point that you can't enter unless you duck down Limbo style. But right now I'm doing something else food-related, not just blogging. I'm using the crops that my nutritious dirt, together with water, has provided me.

I've broken out my food dehydrator. YES! Right now, I'm drying apricots (not from my garden), and apples, also not from my garden. They're local, though, so I don't feel too badly. I'm going to dip half of the apricots in Mexican chocolate.

The back yard now yields an abundance of peaches - too many to eat before the gross worms attack. I'm not a real big fan of pesticides, so the peaches are catch-as-catch-can. As soon as I can pluck a good one or two, I'll dry them too.

TB turned me on to a nearby restaurant called Forage (cute) that uses local gardeners' excess produce in organic, but not just vegetarian, dishes. They also provide classes, and, for a select few, mini grants to support home-based LA County microgardening endeavors. SO COOL! Here's the link: http://www.foragela.com/?view=forage

I'd also like to refer you to this article; I found it rather empowering: http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/la/outdoor/homegrown-la-on-starting-an-edible-garden-118643

Another wonderful thing about Los Angeles and food growing is the guerrilla food movement, whereupon people illegally plant edibles on vacant public lands. If you read my penultimate blog entry, you'll know that I really like secret stuff that feels right, not wrong. Somehow planting food crops on vacant lots feels right. It feeds homeless people. It has historicity. No one is using the land. I don't want to go to jail so you won't catch me participating (note, "catch"), but here's a cool link to an old story on the topic: http://articles.latimes.com/2008/may/29/home/hm-guerrilla29

Maybe I live in a healthy version of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. If only I had an Oompa Loompa ... Well, the gardener's coming soon. I just hope he doesn't squash the squash again. He annihilated my butternut last time. But he's absolutely better than an Oompa Loompa. He's taught me soooo much. Sure could use some help with the kudzu-esqu purple flower thing.

Recommendations

People often ask me for recommendations to restaurants, bars, and hiking trails. I can usually provide some excellent matches to your requests. To render it succinct for both of us, check out my Yelp site.

ocotilloangel.yelp.com

Secret LaLaLand

Our City of (Fallen) Angels holds infinite secrets, even for natives, especially for naives such as myself.

Last night I was out with my (native Angeleno, mind you) friend S., who has some secrets of his own (a hankering for bacon-wrapped hotdogs, which, Jewish as he is, he honors after only two drinks); I devirginized him to old-school photo booths at the one in the Shortstop; and others ...

L.A. is a hush-hush Mecca.

Our night last night was marked by young people. But these young people were in the know, you know? At the Shortstop, we played pool with bi-curious D., a beautiful Black man. Turns out he was 22. Almost 23, he said. S. almost told D. about the party he had recently attended with his non-girlfriend girlfriend, where tawdry things had happened, tawdry things I can't handle anymore, at least not without a partner I trust very, very deeply. Maybe that was the first "secret L.A." story that inspired me to blog this blog today.

After hitting up our respective bad-for-you food stands, which a secret undocumented Guatemalan husband and wife own, we meandered to the Gold Room for their unadvertised $4 tequila shot and beer deal. We toasted Zen (tequila with a beer back was his poison of choice - well, one of them), and sat down next to a young cute couple on a first date.

Immediately we adopted a secret set of personas. We squished together as if we were a non-couple couple, and the girl leaned over and asked us why we weren't engaged. I told her it was because I was a lesbian and S. told her ... wait, what did he say? Something to the effect of having just come out of an abusive relationship. I love pretending to be someone else. It was obvious that her date was uncomfortable, but he was soooo cute, that I comforted him, desquished from S., and began to whisper secretly to him. S. pretended to be jealous of this, and he countered by asking the girl, quite loudly, if she knew of any secret sex clubs in the area.

She didn't flinch. I had her pegged for a prude, admittedly because of her hair, which S. said he didn't judge people by. I do - head hair AND facial hair, but that's another blog. S. began to ask further tawdry, even dirty, questions, which flustered the boy and gave me an additional "in." Too bad I don't go for younger men. Yet another blog.

Girl surprised the crap out of me when she said she didn't know about secret sex clubs - which I wouldn't attend anyway, trust me - but mentioned the nearby secret "Alvarado House," which opens after the bars close, serves alcohol, and generally hosts a large number of people who want to dance in a run-down mansion. I know where it is, and I think she exaggerated its prowess. I googled it just now and only found one possibly relevant web site, so I think I'm safe in outing this L.A. secret scene without getting it shut down.

L.A. has many secret gems like the Alvarado House - some formal-ish, some so covert that I can't write about them at all. L.A. resembles Amsterdam in many ways, because if you have a prescription, you can legally partake in secret underground hash parties. We have illicit warehouse parties unlike the ones I've visited in most other cities. At the secret R Bar, you have to know a secret password to get in. It seems contrived, but I think it's kind of fun. They have no sign in front, and seeing the restored copper ceiling and interior space, with secret booths where you can make out, is worth the trouble. I belong to a group called the Ghetto Gourmet - we host secret dinner parties in secret locations where, if the Health Department found us, we'd get big ol' fines. The food is usually worth it, as is the tingle of community sneakiness.

I think that's what it's about - harmless community sneakiness. To me, participating in all the examples I provided above feel sexy - though not literally. Again, I veer away from attending the sorts of secret venues S. was in the mood to attend last night. But I always enjoyed playing Hide and Seek as a child, and this feels like the $5 cover version for adults. Maybe I'll host a secret Hide and Seek party sometime soon.

Ultimately it feels like the charm of L.A. will never wear off, and even though we're professionals now, we can be who we want, wear costumes, and no one cares, or knows.

LaLa Love You, Don't Mean Maybe

John Muir died in Los Angeles in 1914, after spending his lifetime creating the environmentalist movement as we know it. He worked hard to preserve large tracts of land throughout California, including Yosemite, and formed the Sierra Club.

The fact that he was anywhere near L.A. toward the end of his life may come as a surprise, but he, like me, saw nature and "home" as inseparable. He saw all of the earth as "home" and Southern California was no exception. He was en route to the extreme desert near Daggett, California, when he had to go to the hospital in L.A.

http://www.mapquest.com/maps?city=Daggett&state=CA

I count the mountains as home; I don't think I'd like to even try to live anywhere without mountains. My sense of place and my sense of home are inseparable and they are very much grounded in mountains. Others feel that way about the sea.

Muir's Sierra Club has hundreds of holdings throughout Southern California, and maintains a "Hundred Peaks" list of valuable ascents people might make throughout their lives here in this part of the world.

http://angeles.sierraclub.org/hps/hpslist.htm

The point of all this is is that Los Angeles is still one of the loveliest places on the planet. Angelenos navigate through the admittedly nasty smog and traffic because we know that the quality of outdoor life supercedes the trouble. The smog is nowhere near as bad as it once was, though the traffic has increased of course. But the perfect weather allows for year-round exploration, gardening, and camping ... escape from the traffic and the full calendars of events.

Below are some photos I took today on a misty, drizzly four-mile round-trip hike to Hermit Falls, a trek very much worth your time ...

http://www.trails.com/topomap.aspx?trailid=XTR003-088

Hummingbird                                  

West LA, East LA and Term Limitations

Are there term limitations on stereotypes? Just a thought. "Republican," "Liberal," and "Conservative" used to mean entirely different things than they do today. I'm wondering about the duration of semantics. I'm wondering about the limitation of the symbolism of spatial relations, in relation to gentrification. I think about that in regard not only to immigration but also in relation to reputation. For example, and bear with me please unless this concept is entirely too boring, in which case shut the window because I won't know and I don't care - this is cathartic to me anyway - West Los Angeles has a completely different vibe and reputation than East Los Angeles. And as many others have written, the dividing line between the two can be arbitrary and laughably so. Is it Fairfax? Koreatown's foreign signage? The sounds of Armenians fighting and making love at dawn? To me "East LA" signifies crime, rampant crime, and rap videos. And good tacos. But herein I'm talking about the HIP East LA, where I live, choose to live, choose to drink and play and absorb graffiti and see people and walk around and have stupid mutt dogs (literal ones and men) bark at me. I'm not talking about the municipality. I'm talking, where, as you drive east, Santa Monica Boulevard becomes sketchy, Sunset becomes tolerable again, and Beverly becomes downright "where's my Kevlar." West Hollywood is another story altogether. But I think it's illustrative. For my Limeño audience - or just those of you who've not been here in a long time or never - WeHo is the gay district (there are a few) of Los Angeles. But you know what? It's illustrative because it wasn't always and it won't always be. and not just because of the politics of being out. I mean the geography of reputation. I've not thought this through and I need to reread my Richard Sennett before I blab, but no I don't, because unlike in Peru I can say what I want without getting deported. Filipinotown isn't Filipino anymore. In Lima, wealthy San Isidro butts up against some poor-ass 'hoods, which renders it partitioned into "San Isidro" and San Isidro, a claim for which I only have observational and experiential evidence, which since I'm an anthropologist feels as valid as weighing shit on scales. I've been deemed worthy of making such observations. So back to the question: semiotics representation place duration of stereotypes. Boundaries change. What's hip now won't be hip later and what's snobby and elitist, well, that probably still will be unless new money moves to the other hills (but BevHills is quite the anomaly, in all the world, barring maybe Luxembourg and that other little baby country with the casinos). I dunno. Mapping reputation seems so easy in my mind. Would it overlap with yours? I don't think so. Because like Sennett, I wouldn't gauge class by income alone; in fact, I don't even think I'd use class as a classification because I think it's a sort of diaphanous strata and I'd rather use symbolism for my map. Symbolism and oil pastels. I miss oil pastels, but also they smudge.

LaLaLove

Since Zen's death I've acquired a little baby silver convertible Mini Cooper, Mia Lawrence. "Lawrence" was Zen's middle name, and he hated hated HATED being called "Larry." I digress. I haven't had time to take her to the places he and I shared, as I said I would in my previous blog. But I will. She's a pleasure.
I got her partially because of Zen. He and I both loved driving - found true joy in it. It was bittersweet that he died doing just that. His car was a piece of POOOOOP. So much was wrong with it that, one day when I tried to surprise him by fixing something on it, my mechanic just shook his head. There was nowhere to begin, and not enough time. Fittingly.
I hesitated also to get my first convertible, but the first time (EVER) that I drove one was just this March 24, with him, the very car he died by rolling after "Dukes of Hazarding" it off a gravel pile. We laughed and sang Guns 'n' Roses (the stereo worked, sort of) down the Sunset Strip that day and I will never forget the feeling of elation. (I know I can really be myself with someone if I can sing at the top of my lungs with them. I'm an excellent singer but people I'm uncomfortable don't know it, because I won't really sing with them. And drunk singing doesn't count, because I suck when I'm drunk).
Zen might not have died were he not in a convertible with the top down, but yeah, he would have. That stupid f-ing car. We all hate it so much. He was actually in the process of buying a new one.
That's what I've been learning lately from these recent deaths of young men so close to my heart. My friend CK said it - a first line from a poem I'd long forgotten - "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." And I am.
My Hyundai Lucille epitomized responsibility. She was way paid off, got like 40 miles to the gallon, had a big trunk. But I had named her appropriately. She's now serving a LOVELY Bosnian grad student who was giddy with glee to acquire Lucille, just as I am giddy to get Mia Lawrence, thinking of Bob and Zen and trying to savor the wind and the views Lucille couldn't afford me.
I love to drive. I'm connected to Zen that way. It's going to be ok; just stay present. We only got one life, we gotta do what we should.

This Ain't It, Lawrence

I figured out what to do with my next couple of posts on this blog ... I am going to remember the Los Angeles places my "best friend" Zen took me. One thing about Zen - he was everybody's best friend. I only just found out how many best friends HE had.

Though he was born in L.A., Zen died on Saturday, April 10, while visiting his mother in Rosarito, Mexico. We put him to rest here in L.A. (eewwww! The Valley!) near his father Hank on Sunday, and then we had a luncheon at his Uncle Bob's house, and then a rockin' wake-like-thing at Ye Rustic Inn (Hillhurst and Franklin).

The Rustic is where I met Zen. I had just moved to L.A. and I had just seen Roger Waters at the Hollywood Bowl with an icky date I met on the Big Island of Hawaii the previous month. It turns out he had tickets to the same concert for the next day's performance.

Thus, it was Friday, October 6, 2006 when I met Zen. It's so cool that I can pinpoint that.

Anyway, at Rustic on the 6th, the yucky man I was with became sort of aggressive and drunk. I turned to the guy next to me and mouthed, "Help Me!" Zen mouthed back, "Ok!" I got up to go to the gross little Rustic bathroom, escaping the date man, and Zen shouted across the very noise barroom, "Hey! What's your name?" I made him guess, giving him the clue that it's a Rolling Stones song. By the time I got back to my bar stool, which Zen had guarded for me (Rustic on a Friday? That took some work!), he had guessed it, or at least gotten close, and I had his name and number. Bad date dude got the hint and meandered off to squeeze some Barbie's fake tits or something. I never heard from Andy again. :)

I called Zen on my drive home late that night. Bad idea, I know. But I was VERY new to town, and this was pre-GPS and smart phones, and I was accidentally traveling north on the 405, instead of south toward Venice where I lived. Had I not called him, I would have ended up in Sacramento.

That is how ZenZen (what I called him in my head) became my Lawrence of Los Angeles. And so he shall remain. Over the next few days, or weeks, I'll revisit the cool secret LA places he showed me, and I'll take some pictures. He knew this city like no one else, and he made me fall in love with my City of Lost Angels, the city which has embraced me and swept me up in her wings and which hasn't spat me out yet and which yes, taunts me with the glint of gold and the glitter of fame and the sparkle of perfect white teeth and lifted tits and ...

but wait ... the skyline. The huge urban coyote he and I saw together at 4 a.m. in the mist alongside the Hollywood Reservoir. Laurel Canyon and his backstreets he loved. South Pasadena. Abuelitas in Topanga Canyon. Just last Tuesday shuffling through Little Tokyo: ME showing HIM something for once.

A loving passive aggressive vocal competition (how unusual). After he arrives an hour and a half late (HE CALLED):

"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know, what do you want to do?"
"I want to do what YOU want to do. We're celebrating your 5-year anniversary at ABC. And your haircut."
"Yeah, but didn't you just accomplish something too? Like, getting your data in Peru?"
"Well, the f--king sushi place I wanted to take you to is closed now. Let's just go get a beer."
"I don't like beer."
"Fine. Tequila."

Fucking Zen.

We never made love in the colloquial sense - never had sexual intercourse - but when we were together it was like we were making the abstract concept of love into a tangible and sarcastic magnetic imp child that everyone could feel. It made me smile, it made you smile, it made our city smile.

I'm going to try to write it and render it visual.

Shine on, you crazy diamond. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-8PtoSSBDI&feature=related

Querida Jardin: Plants for the Sunny Side

I love Los Angeles for her weather and her soil. While I was in Peru, my lovely subletters watered, so everything's blooming. In fact, they couldn't harvest fast enough, so a lot of my cabbage and all my lettuce bolted before they could use it. They uprooted it, and now I have an all but empty palette on one side of the yard.

Or I did.

Yesterday I spent less than $50 on plants for the sunny side. It's going to bring me a lot more joy than a night at the bars, for the same amount of money! I bought baby veggies and flowers, and I must say, since I have a green thumb like my sister Lisa, so I have great hope.

With luck and love, I'll have cayenne peppers, all sorts of herbs, snapdragons, more petunias (EASY), a creeping flowering vine/ground cover named "superbell," irises that my mom split from her own rhizomes (though I'm quite pissed - I left them for my landlady to plant, and she obviously left them outside all winter, because they're all shriveled up. It's going to take a miracle, friends. Keep your fingers crossed - they're lovely bearded heirloom varieties!), and pansies.

I also weeded, fertilized, and the works (I only use organic fertilizer). We got a lot of rain while I was gone, so the soil was super clay-ey and hard to work.

Tomorrow I will start butternut squash, beets, tomatoes, sweet peas, lettuces, cilantro, and sunflowers from seed. I've never been great at that skill, but I'm going to try. Here in LA we can generally plant all year 'round, so I suppose everything is conducive in the environmental arena.

I've decided I'm going to keep the house rather than moving, primarily for the yard. I'm getting a puppy soon, and hopefully my car will sell soon so I can get a convertible Mini Cooper. I love LaLaLand. I do.

What I'd really like to do is trade the garden food for art or maybe for other things, LA friends! There's no way I'm going to be able to eat all this come harvest time.

Off to make zucchini bread. Much love from Welcome Street.

LaLaList

There's a film I like, which other people don't like, which is not unusual, but hey. The film in question is "A Day Without a Mexican," and the scenario is that all the Latinos vanish from Los Angeles for 24-hours. Needless to say, the city stops dead. What I enjoyed about the film is not just the premise (imagine - you're a racist bastard and you don't know your husband is of Latino heritage, and he and your kids disappear!), but the cute informative subtitles that pop up at the bottom of the screen to sort of chide the audience into mindfulness. For example, one reads something to the effect of: "There are more than 20 countries south of the United States. They are not all named 'Mexico.'"

That rocks. People think Peru and Mexico are synonymous; I risk having to explain the difference each time I say I conduct research in Peru. This is especially the case among ignorant Anglos.

Having just traveled from Peru to Merida, Yucatan, Mexico (with a quick suitcase-changing layover in Los Angeles), I would like to delineate some important differences (barring the obvious geographical distance).

1. While people in both countries speak Spanish, they sometimes use different words. Words for peanut, monkey, avocado, for example, and lots of slang, are different and not interchangeable.

2. In Merida, a touristic Colonial city of about 1 million people, the taxi drivers don't give a damn where you're from. In Peru, they want to know "de donde eres," and all about you, and why you don't have kids.

3. In Mexico, there is no set price for anything. You can't just go shopping for, say, a shirt. It's a big, annoying game. Nothing has a price tag. You ask how much something costs, and they ask how much you want to pay. You have no clue how much you should pay for, say, a guayabera. Should you start at 100 pesos? 500 pesos? Shit. JUST TELL ME HOW MUCH THE SHIRT COSTS. In Peru, the price is marked or at least pretty firm. You can ask for a discount, but no means no and that's ok. Typical bargaining happens upon entering taxis, whose prices are set in Merida. Backasswards.

4. Policemen are NOT your friend in Mexico. They are only slightly your friend in Peru.

5. Don't tell Peruvians you like Mexican food. To Peruvians, all things Mexican are crap.

6. To Peruvians, all things non-Peruvian are crap.

7. Mexican food is diverse. Mexico has 32 states. It is a big country with lots of geographical diversity. There is corn, wheat, mole, chocolate, coffee, habañero, jalapeño, goat, huitlacoche. There is fish. There is beef.

8. Peruvian food is diverse. There is an amazing revitalization of Andean cuisine happening throughout Peru and South America in general. Pre-Spanish contact food included high protein grains, potatoes unlike any you've had before, cuy (guinea pig), alpaca and fish. The flavors are very, very different from Mexico, though now since the Spanish came there are similarities too.

9. The Maya and Aztec were the main prehistoric groups to affect Mexican behavior and language; the Inca were the main pre-Spanish people to affect Peruvian behavior and language. There may have been trade throughout the region before Spain arrived and stole everything from everyone. But the words and the customs and the art and all remain noticeably different.

10. Mexico has Speedy Gonzalez and other completely racist stereotypical ignorant cultural icons. Peru really doesn't.

11. You probably can't name a famous Peruvian person.

12. Peru is a lot poorer than Mexico. Lima is the fastest growing city in South America, though.

Out of the Woods

I left Lima Sunday (it's Saturday). I'm feeling raw and a bit sad, confused when I wake up as to where I am and who I'm with. I miss certain people pretty badly right now.

I'm in Mexico now for a conference. I had an 18-hour layover in El Lay, after a 7-hour one in El Salv. After this, I'll fly to Arizona to get my car, then drive home to L.A. sometime in the first week of April.

Sometime in early April, I'll start the LaLaLand part of the blog. You know the title is "LaLaLima LaLaLand" because it sounds cool, but LaLaLand is one of Los Angeles' many nicknames. I want to keep the blog thematic, but I'm not sure yet how I'll narrow the content. I don't want to publish a journal, so I need a topic.

There are 900 gazillion L.A.-related blogs, so I'm not sure where to go ... but I will go. I can't shut up :)

Of Two Hearts

This city is so confusing. I am so confused. There is a thin line between love and hate. That is a cliché, but it isn't and you know it. The ideas you hate most, you sometimes begin to love, if you let them in. I used to hate certain foods, and when I let them into my life, I began to love them. The same is true with music sometimes (I once detested all Country music, out of pride or something, and now I love some representations of the genre).

I can attest that the opposite is true. The people you love the most, you can too easily hate ... but that's not the point of this post.

The truth is, I used to hate Lima. I used to hate L.A. I used to be naive. But I let them both in. And now I have two hearts.

Everyone in L.A. and Arizona keeps saying, "I miss you." I can't say the same, and I'm sorry. THE REASON IS THE INTERNET. My friends Stateside are online all the time, like me, and I'm not ashamed of the fact. I get to see them virtually all the time, in real time. And that is COOL. Networking is part of my job (corresponding with students and professors) and, believe it or not, I am constantly working (actually reading and writing anthropological theory and method and grants and announcements and syllabi) in another window. As such, when I need a break, I click open another window and say "hi."

But here in Peru, people aren't online so much. I know, because I ask them. It's one of the questions I ask my friends and the people who participate in my study (who graciously estimate for me exactly how much time they spend online). We must MAKE TIME for one another, face time. Now granted, everyone has Facebook (though Hi5 is way more popular), but they're not on it, like anywhere near as much as we are. The teenagers are.

But I digress. The point is, I WILL miss my friends here, and I have a lot. That is my way: I am social, and I must be, for I need people (which, according to a rather famous song, makes me one of the luckiest people in the world), and I make deep friendships easily. They help me, and I help them a bit, I hope. I assume that if I am not helping them, they would leave.

I can't come back too soon. Maybe in August I can. Maybe I can bring a friend, because I won't be toooooooo busy. But it would be nice to have a vacation somewhere I haven't been, too. Or to see my friends on Hawaii.

Sometimes I think it seems like my work IS a vacation, but it isn't. It's more like I get settled here and then I have to leave again, and it sucks, because I DO get attached to people, and places have power, and buildings and plants and all. Then I get used to the water, and then I can start to eat lettuce (though strawberries are another story - ask my friend C!).

I leave Monday morning, really early, after a "despedida," which is a going-away party. I am sad to leave certain specific people, though one is visiting L.A. soon enough, and that will be FUN ... I can guarantee him ... we are free birds and we like to dance and eat and laugh together ... and no one is allowed to care (at least on my end).

Nonetheless, I miss my kitchen and my sewing machine and I'm thinking about moving and I want to sit in my office with the beautiful view at UCLA and all that. I just got new knives and a new magazine subscription and a new stock pot for soup and chili.

But I'm not homesick. That's because, I think, it's my first time living here without being married or in a relationship. It is AWESOME not to have ties when you're doing this. To have ties is too hard, too distracting, at least for me.

There was an article in the more liberal Limeño paper yesterday. It warned that in 5 WEALTHY districts there wouldn't be water for 13 hours today. I live in one of these districts.

http://www.larepublica.pe/sociedad/17/03/2010/atencion-este-jueves-habra-corte-de-agua-en-cinco-distritos-de-lima

I was stressed - I hadn't showered and these little sugar ants are really into my dirty dish (not dishes) lately. I needed water. And then I thought, "What the HELL? The city knows ahead of time that there won't be water for HOW LONG?"

And I mean no offense, but Lima is poor, ok? There are five classes here, A-E, and Class E is so poor it hurts even hearts of steel. So I can see half a day without water in the "cones;" I'm sure it's common.

But how can a modern city - the fastest growing city on this continent - possibly advertise such a warning?

I have three AWESOME assistants from the Catholic University here in town. They are bright as hell, and, more importantly, motivated. One said that this is normal, though not in this season (the rainy season in the highlands, where Lima's water derives), and that Classes A-B have cisterns for just such occasion. He rolled his eyes and said that if he turned on the shower and nothing came out, he'd just go turn on the alternate water source.

I don't think I have a cistern on my roof; I've never seen a way to turn it on. So I'm pissed. In I guess an arrogant way - god forbid I can't bathe for one day. People here can't freaking eat. But this city needs to get her shit together if she wants two hearts (modernity and history?).

Some photos of my recent trip to Ancash, out of context:

Homesick? Me? Nope.

I am in Home 7 tonight: Huaraz, Ancash, Peru. I type this from the hostel that belongs to two sisters ... friends of mine ... with whom I pass a lot of time in Lima. They are great girls. They are Huaracinas. Most Huaracinos are great people. They are soft-spoken, they have a great sense of humor (quick to laugh, witty), and they work hard. They speak Quechua and love animals.

I will post photos soon, but just know: I'm happy and healthy and safe, and I can see the stars of the Southern Hemisphere, which always makes me glow.

If I had one wish for you tonight, it would be that you could have a place like this in another country - a place that you knew pretty well, where you have friends, where you can see the tallest mountain in Peru, or another amazing natural feature ... where you can feel at home in another world.

Cross-cultural Constructs of Two Big Deals - and Writing them Down

When I assign critical thinking papers, or interpretive papers, my students tend to start with concepts that are too vast. They want to solve the mysteries of the universe in five to ten pages.

In my upcoming Intro to Cultural Anthropology class that I get to teach at UCLA this summer, I will hand out this fun, funny list of writing rules. Several authors each provide 10 rules that they have learned and earned from their own experiences and mentors. I don't think it applies to fiction only.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/20/ten-rules-for-writing-fiction-part-one

The recently deceased William Saffire  provided rules too:

http://www.chem.gla.ac.uk/research/groups/protein/pert/safire.rules.html

and my masters degree mentor Christine Eber has a penchant for Orwellian writing rules:

http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/300

I admit that my writing has many flaws. Maybe in this post I will attack too much at once. But then again, a primary suggestion is to write, and I can't stop, especially after my morning Peruvian coffee, which is currently making me twitch, and this freaking car alarm next door won't shut off, and I realize I can't live here after all, or if I do, it must be on a quieter street, lest I lose what's left of my mind. Which leads me to segue into what the actual topic of the post IS ... cross-cultural constructs of the aesthetics of interior spaces (initial thoughts, for that is the topic of my current research) and cross-cultural constructs of etiquette.

Today I will go on an interview with a favorite family, one I already know. The dad is a relatively high-ranking government official in the tourism industry (as I recall); the mom is a wedding planner. When my Peruvian brother Lalo first introduced us, the mom middle-management at a credit card company, which I believe is Chilean. I have been to the family's house. It's cute but small, and it's in the neighborhood of Ate.

Ate, by the way, is on the far east side of Lima and features many archaeological sites within its municipality.

http://www.muniate.gob.pe/zonas.htm

Anyway, I doubt these people will cancel. I've been chasing them like a bloodhound for nearly two years, reminding them, complimenting them. I have help. My Peruvian brother is on my side, helping me out, reminding them. They're tired of me.

In their defense, they are busy. Everyone here is busy. I get it. I am busy. The people I want to know are busy. I don't like lazy people. I like go-getters, always have. This is one of the points of my research - busyness.

In my defense, they are interested in and informed about my study, especially the dad. I went to his father's funeral (at least the one-month anniversary of his dad's funeral). He likes me, and I him, and let's just get this DONE.

So again, I doubt they will cancel. Which is good, because my assistants have set aside time to help me, and I have a chocolate cake for them, and I can't deal with these damned cancellations anymore. Which segues into the other topic: cross-cultural constructs of etiquette.

Is it a Peruvian/ Limeño construct of etiquette, or is it a construct of time? If this family cancels, it will be the third cancellation (one social, two professional) that I experience this week. I find this implicit policy to be quite disrespectful of my time. I have only 18 days left in this country and I need to interview a lot more families.

At least with the interviews, I know that I am asking a big favor - 2 hours of their precious time. But don't cancel. Don't make the appointment if you don't want to do it.

Then again, this is a cultural thing. They don't trust that I won't use their information (the interiors of their living space, their names, their data about income, their kids' names) for bad purposes. I get it! It's an occupational hazard that no one teaches fledgling anthropologists how to do. You learn, or you don't. Sink or swim, baby. But in Lima, I'm barely afloat. I maintain my dignity and I might have to come back.

I'm not trying to bitch. The goal here is to try to understand the origins of these ways of treating people who want something from you (?), foreigners (?), time in general (?). Some don't even call to cancel.

What is this about? I'm not even going to get into the social cancellations - they have an origin of their own - but the professionalism. We don't do that in L.A. We don't do that in the U.S. and I'm not saying we're "better" - I'm too much of a cultural relativist to go there. I'd be a huge hypocrite. I'm too much of a martyr to be a hypocrite. But maybe I'm naive. My friends who are, say, salespeople or who've been called upon for their services (especially my gringo friends, come to think of it) are equally disrespected - their clients are late or don't show up at all. It's not a city thing. It's a Peruvian thing. Is it a Latin thing?

Ideas? Feedback?

So I kept it small. I don't want to go into interiors now. My coffee is preventing my yoga and I have to get ready for my lunch so I can be on time. I'll just hold plank and breathe first.

Pobrecitos!

Poor Chile, poor Haiti ... we should be grateful if we have not suffered directly, and think powerfully good thoughts for those who have lost loved ones already this year. Pachamama ain't happy.

Human Nature and Desperate Measures?

Today was sort of funny, if you like to laugh at nice people who don't deserve it, such as myself. I woke up on a mission: I need specific types of families for my dissertation research. These families need to have at least one child between the ages of 7 and 12 years, and at this point, I'll take 6 with an upcoming birthday, or 13.  They can be neither rich, nor poor, as I abide by John Ehrenreich's definition of middle classness as something that one isn't.  

While people from the U.S. rapidly assert their middle classness (probably due to tax law), Peruvians do not self-identify with the label. I am observing that this is because they are either proud or ashamed of their fiscal status and don't really see a liminal position between rich and poor. It's not that a middle class doesn't exist. 

Most scholars agree with Aramburu's 1989 criteria for determining Peruvian classness, though I sort of can tell when I enter their homes whether they are too poor to participate. Or too rich. It's pretty obvious. I define classness by occupational type, neighborhood, and other social factors, too (have they traveled? do they hire professional help in their homes?), not just income. It's hard to quantify, though I could, with the help of the department of Peruvian statistics, but I trust my own instincts, and you should too.

Also my study is pretty broad when it comes to class, as it is an analog to the families that the team of scholars, of which I am a part has analyzed for 10 years now. 

www.celf.ucla.edu

 

Said simpler: class is a broadly defined topic and that's ok. 

But what is important is the kid thing, and that mom and dad both have to work "full time" in Lima. "Full time" appears to be a different construct here than in the U.S. too. This is a good thing, since I can take more families here than I would be able to there. I am erring on the side of inclusion versus exclusion. 

That is partially because I am desperate. Scared. Families cancel, don't want to participate in the first place, or love the idea but refuse to set a firm date. I am going nutso here. I assumed a human nature that I guess doesn't exist: I thought people love to talk about themselves. I think it's an American thing. Gulp! Overgeneralize much? Peruvians do, if they are proud of their homes. If, on the other hand, they are ashamed of their poverty, they do not love to talk about themselves, nor their homes. I must be sensitive, so I keep the camera rolling, as we say in LaLaLand, even if they ARE too poor. 

What these families want is compensation. Which is cool. The Institutional Review Board allows for some compensation for the families' time. That's cool, because people here work six days a week. And THAT, friends, is human nature. We are mostly greedy people.

I am a hunter now. I am going to museums, restaurants, grocery stores, banks, schools, churches ... I am shier than you might think, too. I am asking all ladies if they have kids. They're obviously at work, so that's a no-brainer. Human nature? Ladies love to talk about their kids. Most men, too. 

Today my mission took me to my neighborhood archaeological site, Huaca Huallamarca, to talk to museum administrators who might know what the hell anthropology doctoral students go through (I already have friends at the Catholic University and they are super helpful). 

I ended up swooped into a tour. I have taken said tour three times now. I had no hat, I was bored until we got to the hairless doggies and the plants (Horrible, I know. But I can recite that tour).

Huaca Huallana

  When Peruvian Hairless Dogs are about three, they get a yellow mohawk

Nonetheless, after the tour, the lovely museum administrator, Nancy Prieto, took some time to talk with me. She schooled me a little. She told me about Peruvian families' unwillingness to spend time with me. She told me that if I'd tapped my network here, which I have, I'd have to pay for data. Secretly, I knew this, though my 9 families have complied willingly and graciously and I still have naive hope that the 11 I need are mysteriously hiding out somewhere in Wongs or another grocery store or restaurant right under my nose. Nonetheless, Nancy is on my side and she is on the quest, with me, helping like all of Lima. Damn. I'm so lucky.

State of the Nation State

Rich versus poor Lima: Stark Contrast

I find it difficult to understand, much less explain, Peruvian history. In the 20th Century alone, many changes affected the country's current growth spurt.

You might say that Peru is post-pubescent, but that her pre-pubescent youth lasted a particularly long time. Maybe she started her adolescence very late due to malnutrition.

In 1948, the year Israel was created, a military coup instilled President Odria. He lasted a long time as president, and in 1956 allowed free elections, which strikes me as interesting, since he could have rendered himself obsolete.

Twelve years later, General Juan Velasco Alvarado seized power via another military coup, and this brought the nation somewhere between capitalism and socialism (where it still sort of stands today). The Velasco regime sought to eliminate class struggle by eliminating elite patterns of land use and nationalizing public service companies. Family farming became the renewed focus of food production, reverting some parts of Peru back to pre-conquest times. Still, the regime promoted and encouraged Peruvian-borne industry. Let's call this Peru's real growth spurt. Peru bought her own mines (especially copper) but microeconomics and macroeconomics became seriously out of balance, because this new concept was too foreign and the general public didn't really know how to manage all this change. It was a methodological failure, but an ideological breakthrough.

A new military regime overthrew Velasco on my birthday in 1975. General Francisco Morales Bermúda came into power. Remember, this was a time of worldwide petroleum crisis, not unlike the one we're "coming out of" today. Four years later Morales instilled a new constitution, and was reelected. Friends tell me that Morales was the butt of much public mockery, but this was only possible due to the fact that he allowed freedom of press.

At the time, the APRI party did well too, and the current president, Alan Garcia, now in his second term (reelected after a break) is APRIsta. In 1992, Japanese-Peruvian President Fujimori won the election an soon dissolved the Peruvian Congress.

Corruption ran rampant throughout the nation, though Fujimori did end the Maoist Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path), a revolutionary terrorist movement that killed or displaced a total of about 220,000 innocent Peruvian civilians. SL was active from about 1960-1992, but most powerful from 1980-1990. There are still teeny strongholds in certain parts of Peru. The general opinion of Fujimori is that while he embezzled millions of dollars from a struggling nation and was actually extradited to Japan, he improved the infrastructure of Peru enough to almost be reelected this last cycle. His daughter, with little political experience, will run for president this next electoral cycle.

Now I'm no expert, and this synopsis is completely incomplete and likely somewhat erroneous, but it seems to me that Peru, like most of Latin America, is affected by revolutions, coups, and instability in general. The difference is, Peru is ABSOLUTELY THRIVING, even in this world economy, with exports of metals and rubber and fish to India and China.

What. The. Hell? Absolutely all the wealth is concentrated in Lima, particularly in this neighborhood of Lima, and the discrepancies between rich and poor are so very vast that I cannot adequately convey the life experience of my neighbor and the people 25 kilometers away, who must burn their trash, because there is no one to take it away, and nowhere to take it.

I just don't think it's sustainable. It's a soap big bubble. And the bigger the bubble, the thinner the walls, no? But what a time to document the story.

"How's Peru?"

Peru is, to say the least, unpredictable. When you want to do something in Peru, you must have alternate plans. And a seat belt. And a bevy of saints.

I like Francis of Assisi, and the patron saint (female) depicted on this freaky amulet I carry with me everywhere. I've toted the thing with me everywhere since 2003, when an wizened old lady pressed it into my hands in the highland Andean town of Carhuaz.

The female saint is depicted on an old syringe vial, sealed with lead, full of preserved jungle slugs and other unidentifiable gross things, no kidding. Everyone in Carhuaz knows who she is: she is the Andean patron (matron? I'm not Catholic) saint of prostitutes. If you saw it, you'd carry it with you too. And if you know me pretty well, you'd know that I freaked the hell out in 2007, when I noticed the vial and made some connections.

I digress. But I'm looking at the vial now.

My friend L., who is home in the EE.UU. now (los Estados Unidos, the United States), found out about Lima and Peru in general the hard way. When she first arrived, there was a land strike: transportation workers refused their duties, in typical Peruvian style, because their crapola pay doesn't adequately compensate their dangerous work. This prevented her from going to Machu Pichhu immediately, which was her life's goal (one, anyway), but that was a good thing, because had she gone on schedule, she would have had to been evacuated. Mudslides and other horrendous flooding-related phenomena forced hundreds of tourists off the mountain, and it's still closed.

L revamped her schedule but was terribly disappointed to reallocate her savings to do stuff she didn't enjoy. She was bummed out the whole trip, maybe barring our trip to the Amazon (what a time THAT was!), and had to stay with me in Lima a LOT. I had to work; that's why I'm here. She was stuck going to museums, most of which were closed.

Lima's growing really fast. I mean, REALLY fast. The Guardian says it grew 6.8 percent in December 2009, depending on how you measure. (If you look on the bottom of this page, you'll see that I installed a scroll bar of Google news for L.A. and Lima. You just have to watch it for a sec.) I, like you, am not a big fan of stats, but Lima is growing fast.

To wit: I've been going back and forth to this country since 2000, I think, for a field school. I always had to pass through Lima for some length of time. Lima was graced with her first Starbucks in 2003, I think. I'm sorta pulling this out of memory, but I bet I'm about right. Now, in my swanky 'hood alone, there are three that I can walk to. I can actually connect to one's internet connection, though I only get one bar. We have McDonalds, Dior, Abercrombie. Chili's and TGIF, in constant competition, have valet parking (which never ceases to crack me up).

One of the only Indian families in Lima are Patel people (the father married a Peruvian lady he met on an airplane, I think, and I apologize for the wording if it's not exactly right). They started a really nice restaurant named Mantra. So we have good other foods too. In fact, Lima's food is HOT now. They call it Andean-nouveau, and it's rather healthy, with quinoa, kiwicha, and other super high-protein grains, along with causa, tacu tacu, loma saltado, and my favorite, ceviche. You can Google these, but I'm putting a recipe up for ceviche, Lia-style.

My big question right now involves ethnic stratification, both perceived, and spatial. While I'm pretty well versed in the history of Limeño slavery (essentially), I can't figure out how the Japanese population (significant) and the Chinese population (allegedly small, but judging by the number of chifas, which are Chinese restaurants, and the ChinaTown, it's not), fit in to modern society. Also I can't find their neighborhoods. I'd love to interview them for my study. I guess I'll ... GO TO A CHIFA! Ding! 

Now I want to refer you to my friend Diego's website, which is at diegoarbulu.wordpress.com. The guy is freaking talented. He's studying to become an international delegate (I think - something very impressive, representing Peru), and he's only 25 (one month shy of 26). He's helped me a lot, but the test is so rigorous that he's run out of time. He's cramming-with-a-capital-C. But check it out. You'll like it.

Chau for now.

Amazon Princess Warrior

This Amazon Princess Warrior is currently a sad one. She deleted her photos from her camera before she copied them over to her computer. Yep. She must rely on her friend L., with whom she traveled to the Amazon Jungle this week, and the photos on L's trusty digital Canon. When L. returns from the center of Lima today, we will upload photos, and I (switching verb tenses now) will share with you some lovely shots of the pink dolphins (Yes! Freshwater dolphins! They did tricks for us!) and the baby anaconda, the strange fruit, the bungalow, our cool guide May, and the city of Iquitos itself.

Our lodge was about 200 kilometers from Iquitos, a 1.5-hour car ride and a 1.5-hour boat ride away. We drove down this road:

http://www.cresc.ac.uk/peru/roads/iquitosnata.html

and we launched the boat from Nauta, this trippy little river city that kind of haunts me. I really hope that's not an omen. I hate when I get the haunts from a place, or a person, and it means it's going to follow me around like a fly-bitten dog for like 10 years, and then I'm going to end up living with it or in it or what have you, and feel like I'm in prison. Just a glimmer of a horrible future ... but I digress. Again.

Nauta

We peed in Nauta before the long boat ride. They charged un sol (about 33 cents) for the privilege, and in their tiny dank bathroom, a cricket fell on my head while I was in mid-pee. It scared the piss out of me.

In the jungle, L. got more mosquito bites than anyone I have ever seen, while I got away with a couple horsefly bites (they call them cowflies there) and a mild parasitic infection (I think). Regardless, I feel slightly better now, but I'm taking a really strong anti-everything pill for 5 days, and I can't have my beloved wine for 6 days in total. Yogurt is the new wine anyway.

As an aside, I do love that we can get antibiotics, et cetera, in Peru and other countries without having to see a doctor first. There comes a point in our lives when we know a yeast infection from a non-yeast infection (not that I have a yeast infection - I don't - it's an example), and you know which damned pill you need.

However, I'm not so keen on the drug tourism. Ayahuasca is the hip hallucinogen to which new-agers (young and aging both) trek for "visions" and "healing" with the guidance of a shaman. I believe the shaman is real and maybe even wants to help people heal themselves via age-old wisdom and plant knowledge. But I also think it's tacky, to say the least, for gringos to rush the jungle with their clumsy too-big sandals on, and om their heads away after drinking a tea they don't understand, with people they don't understand, eroticizing and exoticizing a place they'll never get. How else to say it: it's not cool to go to a place and hang out with people just to do the cool new drug. It's their heritage. They'll feed it to you. They'll help you do it, they'll show you their way. They have good hearts, and they know their plant can help you with your demons. But you're not really going there for that, are you? You're going because you want to feel like you're getting away with doing mushrooms or acid, because it's legal here. You want a story to tell your friends. You did ayahuasca in the jungle with a shaman. It's a good story. But it's lame. Because it's sacred to them. And you're just using them.

One of the best parts of the trip, aside from the dolphins, butterflies, rain and parrot sounds, monkeys, and bright stars at night in formations unavailable in the Northern Hemisphere, was to be away from electricity for so long. That is why we saw Mars, Pleiades, and other constellations I hadn't seen since I lived in Huaraz.

Pleiades

We were unplugged for a total of 4 days and 3 nights. A lot of my friends believe I'm "addicted" to the Internet, but I'm not. It's just that I get about 70 non-junk emails each day, about 1/3 of which need a response. If I don't answer quickly, they really do accumulate fast. That causes me stress. I digress.

The jungle was pretty damned amazing. Worth every penny and every parasite. Our tour was, I guess, pretty similar to all the other tours, but I really liked our guide and the general vibe of the place. Here's the link for when you go:

http://www.fuentedelamazonas.com/S_Programs_1.htm

Iquitos. Rocks. But. It's. So. Freaking. Humid. That. I. Could. Never. Ever. Live. There. The thing that stands out most is that there are no cars. Well, maybe one car per 100 motos (motorcycles, mopeds, and motorized rickshaws). It's super cool, considering how much it rains there. I made friends (me?) and went to one of the coolest bars EVER:

www.camiri.pe

and it has rooms to rent (brilliant?).

I apologize that this blog reads something like a travelogue, but I just can't muster the strength to be political/editorial/sexy/witty/whathaveyou, but I'm doing my best! Be well. In the interim, I shall kill the wormies.

La Casa de Panchita and a Brief Discussion about Semantics

Last night I learned to make ceviche and it was a really wonderful experience. I thank Lia (23) and Liz (32) for traveling to my home to teach me the art, and I will pass the skills on to those of you who would like to learn to "cook" what is arguably Peru's most famous dish. Usually Peruvians don't eat ceviche at night, and Lia and Liz were "devirginized" (we kept joking), for it really is totally nontraditional to eat the spicy marinated raw fish so late, but it was the only time they could come together. We went out afterward to some really fun clubs.

I am honored to have had the experience I had today, though I had to rise uncomfortably early to do so. I observed a wonderful, wonderful training session at La Casa de Panchita today. 

Here is the organization's web site:

http://www.gruporedes.org/contenido.php?menu=2&idioma=I

And here is the mission statement/history I clipped from the Internet:

La Casa de Panchita (LCP) is a meeting place for domestic workers of all ages. They can visit whenever they want and stay as long as they want to. LCP is open every Sunday and from Monday to Thursday from 10am to 7pm. LCP promotes the strengthening of the domestic workers' self-esteem, the realization of their rights and the fulfillment of their responsibilities. It promotes their empowerment and fuels their independence to help them make good decisions in all aspects of their life.

Most activities are free of charge: we offer tutoring in schoolwork, access to our library, English classes, employment and placement in domestic services, legal advise in labor problems and in formalities to obtain personal documents, consultation in sexual and reproductive health, guidance in emotional problems, workshops (self-esteem, duties and rights, dance, dynamic theatres, manual work, cooking and etc), karaoke, movies, cultural and recreational outings and, in some cases, contact with family members in rural areas.

We charge a small fee for computing classes, excursion transportation and lunch. Domestic workers are encouraged to support each other, to make friends, help each other in their homework, and teach each other to use public transport and inform each other about the resources Lima has to offer.

I won't relay to you all my field notes, but suffice it to say that the facility trains domestic workers to stand up for their derechos, and not just what their derechos ARE (Artículo 10 of the Peruvian constitution describes workers' rights), but also the self esteem to stand up for them. 

Today, as a participant observing and learning from six domestic employees (students at the C de P) and two Casa de Panchita experts/teachers, I did silent meditation, danced and otherwise moved as a way to facilitate name-memory,and ball-throwing to maintain attention (it was particlarly fun when we added an additional ball!). That is how the three-hour workshop started out.

THEN the ladies role-played their rights, using common real-life examples (dueños who won't grant seguros or vacations, for example, or who ask for foot massages), and THEN we went over what to do if the employee made a mistake (such as if she burned a silk shirt with an iron or was babysitting when a kid fell and hit her head). 

Finally, I observed as they paired up and held silent eye contact for a full minute. I don't think I could do that. The goal was to help improve self-esteem. Most of these ladies had been taught that they were so worthless that they couldn't hold eye contact with anyone, even their peers, for more than a second or two. I watched this, and their posture, and their vocalizations, change, over the course of a couple hours.

It is so cool to watch women and people in general remember their power. I don't like the term "empower," because it seems to imply that WE are "granting" them the power that they didn't already have, that we outsiders are superhuman, "First" Worlders while they are mere short brown Third Worlders. I don't find these to be unimportant semantics and I never have. Words creep in to our hearts and souls; they, with objects, bodies, and spaces, are the way we construct our realities.

"Doing" Cultural Anthropology, Round 2

I feel like crying. The point of cultural anthropology is to better understand other cultures, right? I mean, howsoever we define "other cultures." Well, getting Limeños to participate in my study is freaking hard. They are from another culture, one that does not like to participate in other people's doctoral dissertations, nor sign ethical waivers.

I feel like crying. Did I mention that? Sure could use some suggestions. Contacts. Whatnot.

Roommate S says I should hand out fliers. I think that might be a nice idea, but it appears that a meaningful face-to-face interaction and eye contact improves my meager chances at success. Hell, then again, it might work.

Acclimated friend C says to hang a nice flier in public places. Pues ... another nice idea, but ... would a Peruvian respond to it? I guess it worked for my predecessors in the UCLA study. Sort of. They were working with inherently exhibitionist Angelenos who enjoy being on stage, or putting other people on stage. (Joni Mitchell said it best of her free Angeleno man in Paris who was indeed free until he returned to his job "stoking the starmaker machinery behind the popular song." That free man was David Geffen, by the way - THANKS, DNA.) Anyway, Angelenos dig that shit: publicity. Limeños don't.

In order to seduce them, I have ... spent time at grocery stores, asking women how to cook strange squashes. Then I segue into my project pitch, which I believe is eloquent. 

I have ... gone to design/furniture stores, museums, toy stores, anywhere "middle class" people with kids hang out and/or buy stuff for the interiors of their homes.

Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat. 

I say that this is very important work that will eventually turn into a book.

People seem intrigued. 

They say they will participate and then they don't return my calls. 

My new tactic: make them sign up for a time that I am available, with their address, so that I can appear at their house. 

I never wanted to go into sales. It is not my calling. I have known this for years, since I had my first (and last) retail position at a pet store, during which I "accidentally" set free several cockatiels into the non-conducive environment of my hometown.

            Prescott, AZ

I don't regret it. I like birds.

Aver, urban anthropology presents challenges of its own, for sure. People never smile in Lima, except the (male) security guards in front of (extremely pricey) restaurants and stores. They say, "buenos tardes" or "día," as the case may be, and I think they think norteamericanos are nice, which they are, compared to rich Limeños, and I apologize for the stereotype, but goddamn it's true. 

I get jealous sometimes of my peers working in small villages where residents are curious and eventually approach THEM, instead of me feeling like a damned cookie-selling Girl Scout (another painful flashback).

I'd rather just put up pictures of the Gloria cows. 

 

There are only 80 Gloria cows. I know, because I asked the man on the right as he was putting it up in Miraflores, and he said this was the 80th and final one.