The favourite part of our home right now is the fridge

And that's not just because of the tostitos bag on top either.

Starting a new decade

Today, we wish goodbye to not only a year, but also the decade. And a pretty crappy decade too, as decades go. Frankly - (and I guess I may be frank, it is my blog after all) - good riddance, I say. Stinky, crappy, lousy decade, get otta here already.

I wonder if people said that when the clock turned to 1920, after the first world war. Or 1930, after the wall street crash. Or 1940, after the great depression. Or 1950, after the second world war. I guess decades just don't come in shades of good.

I was feeling pretty glum as I started to write this blog (incase you missed that), but even as I continued, the snow started blustering down all over the city, blanketing my micro-world in a pristine white. So peaceful. So quiet. So scintillatingly beautiful. Just when everything seemed so pointeless, something so small can tug at your heartstrings and make you just happy to be right here, right now (even if the rest of the decade was shitty), and fill you with love for life anew.

And we must fight for hope, and change we can believe in, (so says that guy who's on tv all the time). So here's wishing for a much better bunch of years coming up (or, if the Mayans were right, then at least a much better remaining two years coming up).

And, of course, wishing you all the happiest new year.

Turning times

Tomorrow, Doobie, Ilajna and Bobbis move into a new apartment.

Of course I'm happy for them; they're upgrading to a far nicer apartment, complete with balcony, doorman and a smattering of posh. Although I have to admit I don't envy them having to move. Who likes moving? It's a pain in the hiney. On the other hand infinitely better, of course, since gawd invented movers.

Although of course I'm happy for them, their moving brings me a not-so-slight pang of nostalgia. After all, it was the apartment I lived in too, for a couple years. When we were all roommates. Even after I moved out, there was always the 'room that used to be mine'. Now their new apartment will be all their's, with nothing to connect me to it. Nothing to make me feel like it was a little bit mine too. I'll even have to ask the way to the bathroom the first time I visit.

Typical me, for personalising their move. Yes, it's all about me.

So woe be me, that the old apartment, my old home, will just become another address I write in my list of historical addresses. I see you blinking in disbelief that I keep a list of historical addresses. Yes. Ridiculous isn't it? I thought so too, I couldn't believe my own stupidity. And then the other day I completed my application for US citizenship, and they asked me to list all addresses going back fifteen years. Yes, fifteen years. Which is NOT easy, mind you, if you go back through your twenties and teens. And then, all of a sudden, I was immensely proud of my insightful forethought and meticulous keeping of ridiculous lists.

That was just luck though, that the address list came in handy. On balance, I'd still say that my stupidity outweighs my insight and forethought. But then again, balance is an overrated concept (unless you're a tightrope walker, in which case it's a rather fundamental basis of your existence).

Anyways, back to the apartment. Goodbye, ol' apartment. Thank you for all the memories. You've been such an integral part of my life in New York. So goodbye, and fare thee well.

Home again

We stared at the desk agent dumbfounded.

We'd come to spend Christmas with Delta's family in Rochester, and here we we were at Rochester airport, waiting to take our flight back home, and the desk agent had just told us "sorry, but there were no seats available." (At least he was sympathetic, because they're actually nice like that, outside the city.)

No seats available? So what if we had stupidly chosen to travel standby during Christmas weekend. So what if we were too cheap to actually pay for a ticket to visit the fam for Christmas.

I mean, so what. Didn't he realise that this is the new age of generation Y, the Age of Entitlement?

I couldn't believe our crap luck. With unhidden resentment, I watched as all fifty paying passengers boarded the flights and they closed the doors. Why should they get on and not us (I mean, other than the fact that they'd paid for their tickets)?! And for a moment, I felt a sinking feeling in the vortex of my stomach, sucking me in. As though we might just be held in Rochester forever. What a ruinous ending to such a perfect weekend.

But then Delta suddenly exclaimed, "I know! Let's just rent a car and drive down!".

I looked at him dubiously. It was already past 6. Starting the drive now would likely not bring us into the city until 1am. And I had a whole day of work staring me in the face on Monday.

"You think?" I asked, doubtfully.

"Of course. Let's go! No time to lose."

And with that, he was off, striding across the airport to the Avis counter, where the lovely desk agent gave us a Hyundai Elantra to speed us back to the city (much to my excitement, because just before, they'd given us a Chevy HHR for the week, and if you've ever been in an HHR, then you know exactly why I was so excited to be in a Hyundai.)

And so started our little road trip. Got in the car, kicked off our shoes, turned on the radio, and motored across New York state through the late hours of nightfall. Even grabbed a meal in Wendy's, something we hadn't done in more than ten years. Singing along to the radio, we whizzed past Syracuse and Binghamton and the Catskills and Harriman, and suddenly, rather faster than we'd expected, we were back in the city.

As it turned out, not bad at all. As it turned out, through no credit of our own, quite the perfect ending to our Christmas weekend.

A winner week

Yikes, geez. The comments box suddenly got quite a-ruffle, while I was out frolicking. I wouldn't've thunk anything I wrote could have evoked strong emotions akin to love or hate. Maybe a mild giggle or an aversion, at the most. But hatred? Of seahorses? Isn't that like hating unicorns? Eh, it takes all types. In any case, definitely an enjoyable few minutes googling Schrodinger's cat, so all in all quite an educational set of inputs. So thank you *curtsy*.


The past week, Rohinton and Jeet dropped into town for a few days, much to our excitement. Delta and I were a bit nervous about the aerobed holding up, after we had to hold it together with a bike tire patch earlier this summer. But somehow, it pulled through, and I felt a rush of warm love for the faithful old thing. Even Queen Jaffa was on best behaviour, and refrained from trying to sharpen her talons on the inflatable.


The weekend that Rohinton and Jeet spent in town, a snowstorm blew into the city. Typical. A surprisingly warm run-up to winter, and then suddenly, 12" of snow. I would have felt terrible for them, except that they were on their way to that cruise in Antartica, and if you're willing to go to Antarctica, then you have to embrace all such trials and tribulations of weather as a training experience. So snow angels it was, then.


Also quite a constructive week in other manners. Delta and I finally summoned the inner motivation to haul our ever-growing collection of change (which had taken up a life of its own in recent weeks) over to the nearby coinstar and convert it into something usable. Each of us had a chance to hold it in our hands, and bet on a value based on the weight.


I was the first to pick up the bag of coins, and it very nearly dislocated my shoulder. Which doesnt say much of course, because frankly I could dislocate my shoulder with a 3lb weight. But still, this bag was a big'un.

"$87", I wagered.
Delta went next. "$91!" he said confidently.
Rohinton and Jeet each took their turns after that, and turned it into a 'Price is right' kind of deal. "Anything less than 87," they called.
Now that's what I would call risk averse. But you can't hold that against him, Rohinton's an insurance guy.


So with all our bets in place, we wandered down to the coinstar in TD Bank, where the cute little cartoon girl on the ATM screen told us she'd count our coins for us. For a couple minutes, as we poured coins through the slot, numbers whirred past the screen like a Vegas slot machine. And then suddenly, kerplunk!!, it stopped. $122!!!


We couldn't believe our luck. This was the highest we'd ever accumulated in coins. It felt like winning the jackpot. So after converting this to cash, Delta and I, buoyed by the optimism of our winnings, rushed into the camera store next door and bought the new D90 we'd been coveting for months.


Yes, you heard it right. We won $122 and spent $973, all in the span of a couple minutes, for a net earning of -$851. This, right here, is the story of our life.

Sorry, dear friend

"Hey, look," Delta pointed out the other day. "Someone's commented on your blog."
I peered over in curiosity. No one, but no one, comments on my blog. It's my little monologue into cyber-space. Me thinking about me, me writing about me. For no reason at all that I could fathom, except that I quite enjoy writing, and if I didn't have myself to write about, I'd be stumped at a loss for topics.

So you can imagine, I was a bit surprised to find a question posted on my blog.
"Do you twitter?" someone asked.

And I'd hate to disappoint my one lone commenter, but I don't twitter. I don't, I can't, I couldn't fathom being a-twitterized. My thoughts simply cannot synthesize themselves into little nugget-sized phrases. It doesn't sit well with me to to spell "great" as "gr8", or "later" as "l8r". It creates some queasiness in the cockles to drop all the conjunctions and prepositions. Come to think of it, even if I could wrap my head around those insurmountable challenges, the sad truth is, I have to concede, I don't actually have new thoughts often enough to uphold the mantle of a Tweetmeister.

In short, sorry, dear friend, but I have no twoots to tweet, no twots to twit.

The cause of the downtrodden

When you're walking with strangers for several hours a day, as we did when we were hiking in Peru, you end up ruminating over a lot of inane topics. And one such topic of much discussion was undervalued punctuation.
"The poor semi-colon," one chap had said, "no one ever seems to use it. No one ever even seems to know how to use it. It's the unloved step-child of punctuation."

And since then, since I heard someone put it like that, I've harboured a secret soft spot for the semi-colon.

So the other day, when I was drafting a long newsletter email for the company, I insidiously inserted a smattering of semi-colons. I mean, what's an HR bod to do in life if not to protect the downtrodden puncts, right?

Three semi-colons, nestled snugly in the email. If Richie Rich notices, I hope he doesn't mind (too much).

In any case, I suppose they should just be happy I hadn't taken up the cause of the colon or the ellipses.

An encounter with (modern) gawd

It was a horrible rainy, grey and freezing day outside, which meant an indoors day for me. Move over, Queen Jaffa, and get used to my company for the day.

I pottered about all morning, constantly doing things, but the kind of little things that you have nothing to show for at the end of your time. Soon enough however, the doorbell rang - the delivery guys were here with the new bed. The new bed! I was beside myself with excitement.

Of course, QJ, lapped up all the petting the two delivery guys were willing to bestow upon her, but then decided she didn't actually like the bed. It didn't have the corner that she used to always scratch, and no amount of me explaining about the wood and colour and other fun features was improving the situation. She wasn't having any of it with this new bed. A bit ironic because she's the reason we bought the thing in the first place. But oh well, there's cats for you.

By afternoon, the steady rain had turned into snow. The yucky, sleety, psuedo-snow that instantly melts as soon as it touches anything. But snow all the same, and after all it was the first snow of the year, so I decided to emerge from my hibernation and give the world outside a peek. Strategically accoutered in all kinds of protective gear, I headed downstairs to take a tentative step outside the building (Derek the doorman looked at me like I was mad, and although he's too polite to say anything, his eyes popping out of his head said it all).

I walked around the neighbourhood for a bit, savouring the first snowfall of the year, and then dropped in to the supermarket on my way back. QJ was running low on catfood, so I needed to pick up a can or two. Ungrateful cat though she be, didn't seem reason enough to starve her.

I had just picked up the catfood when I heard a loud voice booming right behind me.
"WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ADVICE?"
I jumped out of my skin and almost dropped all the catfood on the floor (I'm the kind of person that doesn't take a basket because I think I'm only picking up one thing, but then one thing leads to another and before I know it my arms are precariously juggling cans and bottles and packets and vegetables of all sorts).

So when the voice startled me, I nearly dropped everything to the floor. I spun around in alarm, but there was nobody there. Looked up and down the aisle, but I was all alone. But the voice had been real. Very, disturbingly, real.

G-g-gawd?

I thought stammeringly, looking upwards.

But (as usual) it wasn't gawd. It was a hidden microphone with a motion sensor, that activated when I passed. Yet another triumph of modernisation. So I walked back to the spot where I'd been before I jumped out of my skin (there was my skin, still lying on the floor where it fell off. Felt pretty good to put it back on).

"WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ADVICE?" the voice boomed again. Curious, I listened on. Turned out to be an add for some drug or another (probably to cure depression or ED, if I'd stayed to listen).

Man, I'm ok (kind of) with advertising and all, but do we have to scare the bejeezus out of me?

My lot in life

Two months ago, Delta and I bought a new bed from the DoorStore. Our current full-size bed, while quite snuggly and comfy, just wasn't enough for Delta, me and Queen Jaffa. Especially when QJ started dominating the space.
"Look at that!" Delta used to exclaim. "QJ has half the bed and you and I are squashed in the other half. Why are you letting her push you around?!"
"She does it when I'm asleep," I was forced to explain sheepishly. "She waits till I'm at my most vulnerable, and then keeps prodding me so I keep moving over in my sleep. I can't help it!"

And so, because of QJ's dominating ways, we were forced upgrade our bed.

And when I say we bought a new bed, I mean we went into the store and paid for it, only to be told it would be delivered in three weeks.
But three weeks came and went with no bed. When we called the store to find out, we were glibly informed, "oh it's been delayed by a week, you'll have it next week."
But the next week came and went with no sign of any sleep support system.

And the same the next week. And the same the week after.

My tether is only yay-long, and very quickly, I was at the end of it. So last week, I marched into the store in a bit of a harrumph.
"Oy, mister, you sold us a bed and you haven't delivered it." That's me and my tough talk. No beating around the bush. No time for games.
But the fella behind the desk was so nice, and so apologetic, and promised me it would come this weekend, and ... so I relented and accepted his word.
"It better come next weekend," I told him, insinuating that I wielded warnings and threats which I couldn't quite articulate.

So imagine my absolute irritation when I woke up this morning and there was still no call from the delivery guys about the bed. A whole week later, nothing. The more I thought about it, the more irritated I got. This guy had given me his word. Didn't that mean anything anymore?

And I mulled over it more and more until I'd worked myself into a tizzy of boiling blood. Finally, having waited till past noon, I decided to head over to the store myself and give the sales guy a serious talking to. That's it. I had had enough of this nonsense and I would give him a piece of my mind. I'd share my thoughts on how badly we'd been treated. I'd demand recompense. I'd -

And just as I was about to enter the store, all riled up, my phone rang.
"Hello. It's the doorstore delivery team, we're calling to schedule your bed delivery for tomorrow."
The timing was just typical. I would normally have been elated, except I'd worked myself up into such a huff that this quite took the wind out of my sails. Suddenly there I was, a deflated balloon.
I wasn't built to switch gear so quickly. My emotional radar didn't quite know how to jump from irate to ecstatic, so it ended up somewhere in between in a heap of emotional confusion.

Slunk back home, and there was QJ curled up on the couch, demure as ever. Emotional as I was at the moment, I couldn't help myself, I rushed over to her and smothered her little head with kisses.

Roused from her sleep, she slowly roused her head. Looked me in the eye. And emitted a loud cat burp of emotional satisfaction.

Yes, folks, that's what I get for my effusive kisses. A catburp.

But one has to be appreciative of the hand life deals. And if my lot in life is a deflated balloon and a catburp, who am I to complain.

A dangerous accessory

I'd been thinking to myself that what with the upcoming holidays and all, we should probably invest in a new speedlight for our camera. One never knows when one will want to whip the thing out to take some pics - and in today's world of HD, if you're in a pic, you want it to be with flattering lighting. Ask the movie stars, they'll tell ya.

So on the way home from work the other day, I found my legs wandering me into a camera store. Now, the people who work in the camera stores in New York are a creature unto their own. They are so passionate about photography, that any perversions or dilutions of the sport are considered outright offensive, and worthy of only derisive responses. Passion like that is to be both respected and feared. Especially feared.

There was a guy in front of me, speaking to the sales agent, so I waited patiently behind him.
"I'm looking for the kind of camera that's a point and shoot, but also takes HD video and is tiny and light."
Sounds reasonable, right? Too gimmicky for the sales guy, apparently.
"Kid, you shouldn't be in a serious photography store like this. For that kind of sh*t, you need to go to Circuit City or Best Buy. Don't waste my time."
"But... but...."stammered the poor fella, taken aback.
"When you're ready to take some serious pictures, and you aren't focused on video and being tiny and light, come back to me."
And that was that.

So you can imagine the trepidation which siezed me when it was my turn to go up. Coweringly, with much hesitation, I approached the counter.
"Excuse me, sir, I'm looking for a new Nikon speedlight. I was thinking the SB-600..." I let my voice trail off.
I flinched (inwardly) and cringed (outwardly), waiting for his response in the deafening silence that followed.
But he surprised me (again).
"That's a great speedlight! You'll love it," he said, taking it off the shelf and handing it over to me. "Works best with the Nikon D-90, you should think about it if you don't have one already."
And he gave me a radiant smile.

I was so relieved I almost peed myself right there and then.

Somehow, I had made it through the camera store sans major mishap. And now, just in time for Turkey Dinner, we have a brand new speedlight to make all our subjects look like movie stars.

The tryptophan exculpation

In typical McDelta Thanksgiving fashion, we have committed the fraudulent act of ordering our Thanksgiving meal online. Yes - that's what city people do. An online Thanksgiving. Because the oven's too small, the apartment would smell of brussel sprouts, and we just don't have time. And the Fresh Direct guys, they deliver with a smile.

On the other hand - before you mock - I can assure you that all our guests will be a eating a considerably tastier meal than if I'd cooked it by hand. So there. It's a win-win, no need to turn in your graves, original pilgrims.

As we did last year, Delta and I are cuccooning together all our "orphaned" friends who have no family nearby to visit. It will be a merry affair, resplendent with decadence and tryptophan - our little group of friends who have become our family at home - and both of us await it excitedly.

Of course, the mention of tryptophan had me googling where else one might find it, and per Wikipedia:
It is particularly found in chocolates, oats, durians, mangoes, dried dates, milk, yoghurt, cottage cheese, red meat, eggs, fish, poultry, sesame, chickpeas, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds and peanuts.

Basically, tryptophan, which makes me drowsy, is found in everything I eat!

I ask you, Gawd, how am I supposed to make it in life, when tryptophan stands against me? No wonder I can only bring myself to wake up at 8 each morning. I thought it was me being a lazy b*tt. But no, it's the tryptophan in my diet.

From here on out, I am exculpated of all crimes that result from sloth. Just so you know.

The DNA test

I was on my way to meet Nooj for dinner this evening, when I got temporarily distracted by the conversation between the two women walking in front of me.
"You know what I did," one woman stated to her friend proudly, "you know that guy I went on a date with the other day? I got his DNA tested."
"WHAT?!" exclaimed her friend, (rightfully) surprised. "How?! Why?!"
"I got a brother-in-law who knows someone who can do it. And it's so easy to get someone's DNA, you know how it works."

There was a pause in the conversation, I can only assume her friend was as shocked as I was. But also, apparently, wondering the same question. Luckily, she asked it, before I inserted myself right into that conversation.
"But... why?!"
"Because you never know. If he's got something wierd-like, I'd rather know right now after the first date, right?"
I was horrified. Go on, friend, tell her off, I thought to myself, silently urging the friend to set this woman straight.
"Wow. You're the smartest person I know. I wish I could do the same."

That's actually what her friend said.

I did what, sadly, we have to do far too often in life. Just shook my head sadly and moved on.

The cost of toned abs

Two years ago, the fitness ball I used to use in place of a chair burst, and I hadn't quite got around to replacing it yet. But in a little spurt of inspiration yesterday, I headed over to the local sports store and picked myself up a new one. Of course, there was (as there always is), a snag in the plan. I hadn't thought to measure the height of my desk. So when I found myself staring at a wall full of fitness balls (35 cms, 45 cms, 55 cms, 65 cms), I was admittedly floored.


My first hurdle of course, is trying to conceptionalise what a number like 45 cms high actually means in real life. Up to my knee? Up to my hip? And then to try and imagine how this guestimated height would compare to my best guess of my desk height. As you can see, there was a lot of ballparking going on in my mind.


Which might explain, perchance, why I happen to be sitting on a ball today, that's, erm, somewhat shorter than I would have ideally gone for.

Bill the tech guy popped his head into my office yesterday afternoon. Once glance at me, and he shook his head in disbelief. "You're crazy," he said, hastily moving on.


Well, Bill, let's see who has the last laugh when I get my toned abs, eh.

I suppose the Developers, they must have their fun

I was quite excited about going to the gym today. So excited infact that I might have over-decked myself for the event. "Nice headband!" Eddie the doorman smiled appreciatively as I left the building.
"Thanks! Helps me bike faster," I rejoined, but mostly I was just a bit embarrassed that he had noticed I'd actually put effort into dressing for the gym. For the gym.

Why all this excitement, you ask?

They've introduced these new bike machines which, instead of the standard TV screens, are attached to video game portals. So you can choose your difficulty, choose your racetrack, and suddenly you're part of a bike race. Nothing like a bit of competition to give me the kick in the posterior that I need.

As soon as the race started, I surreptitiously glanced at the others on the bikes beside me. I wanted to make sure it wasn't one of those networked gaming systems that allowed me to compete with the guy next to me. I mean, losing to a computer might be ok. But losing to the eighty year old guy sitting next to me - less easy to deal with. So I started my bike race. I can't begin to tell you how much of a difference it makes to your effort level, the minute you know it's a race. So there I was pumping away furiously at the pedals, heart beating wildly, mind intent on beating the other virtual chappies I was competing with.

Also - the fancy scenery wasn't lost on me; I was intrigued by all the detail in the cliff sides and meadows I was biking by. And then I suddenly noticed a horse galloping through the meadow, parallel to the road. Running along, right beside me.

Oh. Faster than me. Overtaking me. I was just wondering about it, when suddenly the horse veered sharply onto the road and bumped right into me. What the ... ?!!

I might have been going a bit slow, and maybe a bit distracted by all the exciting scenery, but seriously? A horse ran right into me? And - judging from the "WORKOUT OVER" message that flashed onto my screen - apparently the horse ran me over and killed me.

Eh. I'm all for video game workouts and all, but do I have to die?

Well, I suppose the developers, they must have their fun.

A whole new world, right next door

Last weekend, we were at a loss for a defined plan, and the weather was just so beautiful it beckoned for us to be outdoors, and we still had hiking on our minds... - and it suddenly occured to us - hmm wonder what hiking might be accessible on public transport from NYC!

Thanks to that internet thing; all it took was a bit of nifty googling to find what we were looking for - hiking trails and public transport. So Delta and I, caught up in a burst of impulsive excitement, donned our hiking attire and jumped quickly onto the train.

We were there in less than an hour. I'm not sure what I expected in terms of hiking trails close to the city. Exercise and fresh air, certainly. Woods, definitely. But I was totally - entirely - unprepared for the huge mountains that loomed before us. Or how quickly the people dispersed, and suddenly there we were, just Delta and me, by ourselves.

Roaming through forest and wood. Glen and glade. Holler and berm. Just Delta and me, as though we were the only people in the world.

As though we had just stumbled, entirely unprepared, through a closet into our own little narnia. And all this, so close to home.

Garfield

Every once in a while, we try and put Queen Jaffa in a new place she hasn't visited before - like the top of a bookshelf, or a walk in the corridor outside our apartment, etc. You know - just to give her a new perspective and expand her horizons, dutiful parents that we are.

So yesterday was QJ's turn to explore the bar counter. She quite enjoyed being on it, spent some time sniffing at the fruitbasket (distainfully, for there was no meat there), and explored our cache of cellphone chargers (all things wire-like are strings to be played with. But soon enough, it was time for her to get off. And I was appalled to see, QJ couldn't figure out how to get off.

Where have her catlike instincts gone? Isn't she supposed to navigate the leaps and falls of life with grace and panache, relying only on her feline instincts?

"She's a city cat," Delta mused, as QJ miaowed at us pitifully to pick her off the counter and carry her to the floor.
"No way, QJ!" I admonished. "The counter's only four feet high! No cat of mine is going to be too scared to jump that."

QJ peered fearfully over the ledge at the floor below, full of trepidation of the feat she was going to have to accomplish. In a show of tough love, Delta and I pretended to be watching telly, so that she harboured no hopes of getting rescued by us. Ultimately, after much pitiful mewing and some general pathetically helpless looks in our direction, she took the plunge and jumped onto the barstool, a foot or so lower than the counter. There she stood for a few minutes, heart thumping in exhilaration, plotting her next jump to the floor. Finally, mustering all her mustard, she did the final leap as if it would be the last jump of her life.

I think she rather surprised herself, once she discovered herself safely on the ground, to realise how easy it was. And then she was embarrassed of the drama she had just created, so she strutted disdainfull to the rug, and stretched herself out with a bored yawn. QJ is all about appearances.

I, for one, was mortified at the extent of her inabilities. Like the kind of parent who is too embarrassed to watch their nerdy child participate in school sports.

I looked at her asleep on the rug, spreadeagled on her back, belly exposed to the world. Fat (I mean heavy), complacent, self-satisfied. OMG, we've got the real live Garfield.

A great mayor for a great city

I noticed Mike Bloomberg in the baseball audience, which reminded me, of course, that it would be remiss of me to end the day without a little cheer and hurrah for the man. Couldn't say the election results came as a surprise, but that doesn't reduce the elation all the same.

It's rare to come across a politician that actually makes you dizzy with their vision and promise of all to come. The Obama's took the world by swing last year, but this year, in his own microcosm of the universe, it's Bloomberg's turn.

So, Mike, a couple of requests, if you please:

- Can we please try and finish up on the Second Avenue Subway? I know it's one of those legacy projects that has been going on since 1920 and all, and it would seem a disrespect to history to get it completed all of a sudden, but, well, could we please try? Especially now that the MTA has started digging the station in our building and all.


- More bike lanes, please. The one's you've put so far are great. But, like everything good in life, they've only made us greedy for more.

I hope that wasn't too forwward of me. I'm just excited, that's all. Here's to yet to another great term, MB.

A local World Series

In an surprising twist of Americanisation that I would have never foreseen for myself, Delta has successfully got me watching baseball. After many, many years (I've been told how many, but the details slip my mind like water off a ducks back), the Yankees are in the world series. And Delta, like half of New York, is duly hooked.

With the baseball being broadcast in our living room in truer-than-life-50-inch HD, there's really nothing to do but watch it. And so, without even trying, I've gotten somewhat acquainted with the cast of characters over the past week. The guys who can pretty much usually be counted on to hit the ball. The guys who pretty much always strike out, but then make up by pulling some rather eye-popping catches in the field. And those that fumble, and have me yelling, "I could do that for 20 million dollars too, you nugget!!"

"Why's it called the World Series," I asked Delta pointedly, "when it's really just the US?"
"Well there's Canada too, sometimes," he pointed out laughingly.
But I'm not convinced. Not when the "World Series" is being played out between New York and Philadelphia, I'm just not buying it.
Then on the other hand, teenagers all over the world are obsessed with getting to first base or second base. And once the teenagers adopt you, you've reached world class status. Just look what they did with Facebook and Twitter.

Besides, it has to be the sport with the guy who has the coolest name in the world. Melky Cabrera. Wow, I'd love to hear someone beat that.
"If we were planning to have a son, we'd name him Melky Cabrera," I told Delta.
"Even the last name?"
I tried to separate them out in my mind, but just Melky didn't sound quite as cool as the whole name together. It just has flow to it.
"Yep, the whole thing. The kid's name would have to be MelkyCabrera."

Now no one can argue with that. One of the best things that baseball brought to the world is the name MelkyCabrera.

Of course, maybe I'm not the best person to judge the sport. I still don't know whether it's a referee or an umpire, and I sometimes confuse bowling with pitching.

But at least, all in all, at least I've learnt to root for the guys with the stripes.

Peru Days 10-14: A little of everything

After the hike, we spent a day in Cusco doing a bunch of necessary recoup. We had a whole bunch of the dirtiest laundry I'd ever given anyone. I was mortified.
"This is all very urgent," we told the laundry woman. "Very sorry, but we need it all back by this evening. And especially really sorry it's all so dirty." When we opened the bag out in the laundrette, there was actually a foul smell of festering mountain dirt that filled the little room. And when I say laundrette, I really mean a woman who was going to wash everything by hand, under the tap.

But as it turned out, she was a hardy old soul, and had probably seen hikers in far worse condition than us. Or at least with laundry in far worse condition than ours.
"No problem, I'll deliver it to your hostal this evening," she said, cheerfully charging us double for the efforts. Best money by far that we ever spent though.

Later that day, we went to Sacsayhuaman, the second-most sacred Incan ruins after Machu Picchu. It was a pretty steep climb up the hill, which would have probably defeated us pre-Salkantay, but this time, strengthened by our experiences, we positively skipped up the hill. The temple of Sacsayhuaman (pronounced 'sexy woman' much to everyone's snickering delight), is built up of some of the hugest rocks found in any Incan ruins still remaining.

The Incans had somehow mined these rocks in quarries miles away, hauled them intact up the mountains, and chiseled them to perfection so they fit tightly against eachother without as much as a centimeter between them. And then managed to buid every temple so that the sun's first rays would enter the windows specifically on the dates of summer and winter solstices (their way of tracking the vernal calendar). As you stand there, gazing at the walls, the immensity of what they accomplished hits you like a ton of bricks (rocks?). I can't believe some of them didn't just say '"forget that, I'm going to start a new religion where the gods live in little pebble houses down on the plains". People cite aliens and magic and cosmic energies and all sorts of ideas typical of when we just can't figure out how they did it, but the Incans were a remarkably scientific people, so those theories are probably making them turn in their graves.

After Cusco, we headed down to the Amazon for a few days, and stayed in a remote lodge on the edge of an oxbow lake in the Amazon basin. To get there, we had to take a 45 minute flight to Puerto Moldonado, a 45 minute boat ride up the river, a 2 hour walk through the jungle, and another 45 minute boatride to the other side of a lake. You get the idea. Once you're there, you're there to stay.

Based on Rohinton and Jeet's experience in the rainforest, I had entered the Amazon with two primary fears:
- that after dark there would be large toads the size of dinner plates that would jump onto our feet if we left the room
- that swarms of mosquitoes would attack my posterior when I lowered my pants to pee, and I would need to get steroid shots in the hiney before I could sit again

But as it turned out (fortunately), neither of those fears transpired. Ultimately, the worst creature we faced was those evil vampire chiggers in the hotsprings. And I say this with deliberate consideration, I haven't forgotten the giant tarantula (bigger than my palm) that lived in the front garden of the lodge. Or the time our guide told us, "there's a dedicated swimming area in the lake, that's safer than the other parts. But only go in at your own risk, it still has piranhas, electric eels and sting rays." Or the time a moth the size of a saucer flew into our room (our strategy would be to put out our lights before everyone else, so the insects would fly elsewhere. Sick, I know. But it's all about self-preservation in the jungle).

After our time in the rainforest, once we'd made it back into the civilization of Lima, and checked into our little B&B, Harry, the owner, came to find us. "Hey guys, while you were out, someone came and delivered some plates for you. They're beautiful."
We couldn't believe it! The waiter from our restaurant had actually ordered and delivered the plates! We rushed to take a look. Yep, and there they were, four of the most beautiful, hand-painted, wooden plates we could have ever asked for. So that afternoon, apt for our last day in Peru, Delta and I headed over back to the restaurant where we'd had our first dinner, thanked the waiter and paid him the rest of our share of the bargain.

Peru Day 9: Machu Picchu!

The morning when we woke up to head to Machu Picchu, it was raining. Not just raining. Pouring. Sheets and sheets of water. We were hoping the weather would clear up by the time we actually reached the site, but it wasn’t to be. Rather, it was still raining hard, and the entire mountain was fogged over. It was hard to hide our disappointment. Wouldn’t you know it. After planning this adventure for about six months, and hiking twelve hours a day for the last week, all to get to Machu Picchu, the disappointment was so crushing, none of us even mentioned it. We just slouched around in an oppressive silence.

The fog was so thick around us, we could barely see more than a few feet away. No Incan ruins, and certainly no surrounding mountains.

“Don’t worry,” Marco said, looking around at our crushed faces. “Sometimes the rain clears if you wait long enough.” And with that, he thanked us all for a great hike, and was gone.

Unsure quite what to do, and more than slightly numbed by the freezing rain, we headed over the little café to try and out-last the weather. Our plan had been to climb Huayna Picchu, the neighbouring mountain peak that towers over Machu Picchu and therefore offers a top-down perspective of the ruins, and despite the weather, we decided to go ahead with the climb. As it turned out, Huayna Picchu was some of the most difficult hiking we had encountered yet. Painstakingly, and not without difficulty, we made our way up the narrow, steep path towards the top of the mountain. And then, all of a sudden, just as we approached the top, the rain suddenly stopped. And a few minutes later, the clouds started clearing, and glimmers of sun peeked through the sky. Just when we’d resigned ourselves to perhaps having no views of Machu Picchu at all, there it was, spread out on the mountain side below us, glistening like a jewel in a hypnotic, post-rain haze. We couldn’t take our eyes of it.

When at last we reached the top of Huayna Picchu, I couldn’t believe what we had before us. The top of Huayna Picchu consists of a few large boulders balancing precariously on the mountain top. Everyone who climbs the mountain has to somehow secure themselves a perch on one of the boulders. There just isn’t any other space at the very top. Off the boulders, on all sides, is sheer cliff face. The whole situation was so risky, and so precarious, I couldn’t believe they actually let people up here. I couldn’t believe there weren’t more injuries, or even deaths. And yet, it’s the thing to do. Everyone climbs Huayna Picchu. We certainly did too, and I have to say, we loved every moment of it.

We spent a long time at the top of Huayna Picchu, absorbing the peaceful calm that had settled over the mountains. When we finally descended from the peak later that afternoon, we decided to walk to the Sun Gate – which used to be the official entrance of Machu Picchu for the Incas. The trail to the Sun Gate was more than two miles long, and had been cut into the mountain face the entire way. All along the walk, we were offered stunning views of Machu Picchu and the surrounding mountains and valleys. Words could not describe how encompassingly beautiful the entire scene was.

If you ever do make it to Machu Picchu, you must climb Huayna Picchu (despite what I just said above) and walk to the Sun Gate. We sat there for a long time, until we watched the sun set over Machu Picchu. Easily one of the most beautiful scenes I have seen in my life.

Peru Day 8: Aguas Calientes

The last day before Machu Picchu was designed to be a relatively easy one. We spent the last few hours of our hike following the train tracks in to Aguas Calientes, the town at the base of Machu Picchu.

I had thought, after all the beautiful terrain we had passed, that walking along the train tracks would be boring. Instead, I discovered a newfound fetish for old, crumbling tracks. Something about the large iron bolts and the cracked wooden sleepers simply grabbed my fascination.

And, of course, there was the old abandoned cars that were just screaming to be climbed.

Luckily, the boys took it upon themselves to listen for approaching trains.

The sun was already setting when we finally reached Aguas Calientes. We gathered our luggage, and made our way into our hotel rooms. Oh, for a hot shower and clean clothes and fresh sheets! In a moment of proactive enthusiasm, I even washed myself a clean shirt for the next day. Of course, I failed to calculate that in the damp, cold weather of Aguas Calientes, there was no way it would dry overnight. Infact, it probably wouldn't have dried if we'd been there all week.

All the same, we were finally, finally going to see Machu Picchu the next day, and nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm. Not even a wet t-shirt. We all had an early dinner together, and retired to our individual rooms. The next day, we were due to meet at 3.30am to start our hike to Machu Picchu, and all of us wanted to get a good night's rest before our big day.

Peru Day 7: Choosing the lazy way out

Everyone woke up this morning complaining of various ailments. Most had some kind of stomach bug or another. Apparently, you can't leave Peru without at least one incident of wobbly belly. But even those with stomachs of steel were enfeebled elsewhere - sore thighs, sore calves, or just fatigue.

"Guys, we have two options today," Marco told us. "We can either climb Llactapata, another mountain from which we can get our first view of Machu Picchu, or we could take the easy way out and camp near some hot springs and just have a slightly more relaxing day. What do you think?"
Without hesitation and in unison, the entire group said "hot springs!"

And so started our relatively "easy" day.
"It's flat today," Marco told us cheerfully, "Nothing like the climbing we did the past two days."
But as we learnt, when they say 'flat', they refer to the Peruvian flat. It consists of a series of constant ups and downs, which even out into an average flat altitude by the end of the day. But until that end, it's a lot of hard work. Up and down. Up and down.

On the other hand, the entire way, the path followed the edge of a valley, overlooking a river. Now how could you fault that.

That evening when we finally arrived at the hot springs, the only possible feeling I could compare it to was reaching heaven. It was the first time we could bathe in days, and water had never felt so welcoming on the skin.

But no sooner had a slipped into my swimsuit, when I felt a sudden sharp nip at my ankle.
Ow!
I glanced down, and saw a little red dot. I'd been bitten by something! And then suddenly, again. Ow! This one on my elbow. And another one. And another one.

I looked about - Bobbis, Ilajna and Delta were all being attacked too. And then we noticed it. The air was filled with swarms of tiny, tiny, flies. Vicious, biting flies. Without a moment to loose, we all fled for the cover of water, and dove into the pools. The hot springs, of course, were fantastic. But more than slightly overshadowed by our panic of the biting flies outside.

"I'm going to spend the night in here, with only my eyeballs popping out of the water!" Delta gasped.

Only after we got back home to New York did we learn that we had been attacked by chiggers. I researched them, and what was the first thing I read?

"Probably no creature on earth can cause as much torment for its size than the tiny chigger."

That, my friends, is the creature that bit us. En masse. All over. Torment like no other creature on earth.

That's the karma you get, I suppose, for opting to spend a lazy evening at the hot springs when you could be climbing yet another mountain.

Peru Day 6: The Mighty Salkantay

I have never been as cold as we were that night, camping there at the base of the glacier. I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night; I needed to pee. I thought perhaps I could lull myself to sleep and wait it out till dawn, but when I glanced at my watch, it was just barely midnight. That's what you get when you go to sleep at 8pm, I suppose. With resignation, I got out to pee. I was kind of worried - can pee freeze while you're peeing? - but then I glanced at the sky, and it distracted me completely from my fears.

I had never seen the sky as it was that night. Crystal clear, cloudless, millions of stars, all jostling each other for space. It momentarily (quite literally) took my breath away. But then a moment later, the cold started seeping in again, and I quickly crawled back into the tent. Sleeplessness is one of the basic symptoms of altitude sickness. But that night (other than the peeing incident), Delta and I both "slept like baby llamas", as Marco would have said.

We woke up early the next morning, but the sun was already dawning. Our solitary tents there in the deserted valley, there was a quiet calm hanging in the air. Without realising it, all of us were whispering, unconsciously hesitant to disturb the surrounding peace.

After a hearty breakfast, we headed straight out ("We're late, team!" Marco hurried us on). The trail started immediately with a steep uphill. Barely a minute into the hike, all of us were gasping for air. Less than a minute into the hike, and my lungs were screaming for oxygen, my legs were screaming for a rest, my back was screaming to get the pack off. And in that manner, we continued for the next six hours.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Gasp, gasp. Shuffle, shuffle.

The good part as it turned out, everyone in the group was roughly the same level. Gradually, painfully, inchingly, we all made it up the mountain side together. Every ten steps, I had to stop to catch my breath. I'd suck in large gasps of air, trying to fill my lungs. But the air just had no oxygen in it. No matter how much you inhaled, you just couldn't catch your breath. "Keeping moving on," Marco advised. "It doesn't get better until we do down the other side."

And so I continued up the mountain, lungless, legless, backless. I mean, who needs to breathe anyway. You can breathe all you want when you're dead. At 16,000 ft, that's just what you get.

Just as I felt like I wouldn't be able to do anymore, Marco gestured to us excitedly. "We're almost there! It's the final push!" We looked up, and we could see it before us. There it were, we were almost at the top! Amazing how inspirational it can be to know you're almost there. We skidaddled to the top.

I've never been at the top of a mountain before. It looked like the moon. I wonder if Armstrong got off on the moon, and thought, hell, it looks like a mountain top.

Somehow, reaching the top of Salkantay had blown itself into such a big deal in my head, that somehow I'd assumed that it would almost be the end of our day. But it wasn't. At all. Far from it. As it turned out, reaching the summit was only one of the milestones in the day. And then it was downhill. For hours and hours and hours.

Downhill might be marginally better than uphill, but only by a hair. My old knees had a thing or two to say about the rugged steep downhill. And none of it was positive. But lower and lower we went, descending towards where the vegetation line started again, heading towards the forests. When we broke for lunch, I turned around to catch one of our last glimpses of Salkantay.

And there it was, unapproachable in its mightiness, the mountain we had traversed only earlier that day. Already, it seemed like a lifetime away.

That evening, we ended up walking well into the darkness. Of course, we ended up getting separated from those in the group who had flashlights. So the last hour was spent tentatively, gingerly, feeling our way down the rocks with almost no visibility.

But when at last we did reach camp, there was a woman outside running a little stall. Selling cerveza. Needless to say, sitting there squashed together on a tiny cracked bench in the mountains, exhausted after 12 hours of hiking, it was the best beer any of us had tasted in our lives.

Peru Day 5: Our first view of Salkantay

We all met early in the morning, considerably before the sun had risen. As it turned out, that was a pattern that would repeat itself over the next five days. Groggily, we all piled in the bus that was to take us to the trailhead. I of course promptly fell asleep as soon as we were cosily nestled into our seat. There's something about moving vehicles which just knocks me out cold. Delta, of course, stayed awake as usual, absorbing breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside.

I awoke three hours later, when the bus jolted to a halt. We had stopped for breakfast at a tiny restaurant in a little village, Mollepata. I piled the food in as much as possible. The eggs, the toast, the juice, the coffee, and anything else on offer, as though it was my last meal. Who knew what the food would be like on the hike. But all the same, breakfast was a hurried affair. All of us was trilling with anticipation, and were excited to get started.

At this point, we finally broke down and stopped looking eachother up and down suspiciously, and introduced ourselves instead. For the next five days, we were family. The group had two guides, Marco (head guide) and Edison (co-guide).
"All right, guys," Marco said firmly, gathering us all together after breakfast. "For the next day and a half, it's pretty much uphill. Until we reach Salkantay pass, it's pretty much all uphill. I won't lie, it's going to be hard. But we can do it."

A surge of panic went through me. We were already at 11,000 ft. My breathing came out in little gasps. How much further uphill could we go? But the thought had time to fester, we were off.

It was freezing cold, and the wind added an additional chill. We all huddled as far as we could into our jackets, as we trudged solemnly on.

For hours, and hours, and hours.

And then suddenly, we turned a corner, and saw a tent set up randomly, in the middle of the deserted hillside. "Well done, guys. Lunch time!" said Marco.

Exhausted, we all piled numbly into the tent. And were greeted by the most unbelievable lunch I could describe. A complete three course meal, with soup, starters and dessert. A complete three course meal for fifteen people, made on a little gas stove in the mountains. Just unbelievable. As it turned out, the chef was just a genius. Each day, for each meal, he surpassed our expectations, again and again.

And then, just a moment too soon, we were on our feet again. For mile after mile after mile. As dusk was settling over the mountainside, I started to get a bit worried. The group had spread out over the path, and just Delta and I were together. "We're almost there," Delta encouraged. We were exhausted, dehydrated, and our feet were dragging.

And then, just as we reached the end of our tether, we rounded a corner, and both of us stopped short. Right there, towering over our campsite, was our first close view of Salkantay.

Peru Day 4: Cusco

We woke up to a rainy day, and had to abandon plans for the hike to Sacsayhuaman, the nearby Incan ruins in Cusco. The last thing we needed was to get soaked and fall ill the day before our hike. Instead, we inquired in our hostal for directions to the local marketplace, and decided to give Cusco a deeper exploration.

The directions to the market took us into an entirely non-touristy part of Cusco. Infact, it's safe to say with our cameras and our periodic squeals of excitement, we stood out in the crowd like a sore thumb.

The market itself was the central point of daily commerce in the town. Rows of stalls hawked all kinds of fruit, vegetables, groceries and local eats. I was dying to try the tamales, but eating them here on the road would have been sure ventral suicide. Instead, I absorbed in the surrounding bustle at every stall. All around us, people were variously browsing, bartering and bargaining. Somehow, amongst the hundreds of stalls in the market, Delta and I managed to locate the one which had plastic garbage bags, in which we could pack our clothes for water-proofing during the hike.

Three of our group had come down with severe cases of Delhi belly. Luckily, it seemed I was still okay. Then on the other hand, as it turned out, my stomach was only saving my turn for when we were actually on the hike. Typical.

Later that evening, we headed over the LlamaPath office for our briefing. All fifteen people who would be in our group were present, and as subtly as possible, we were all trying to suss eachother out. Instantly I panicked. Everyone looked fit and healthy. A couple of them looked like avid hikers. There was no one who looked like they might have difficulty hauling up the mountain.

On the other hand, everyone looked pretty friendly, and if you're going to be with a group of peeps day and night for five days, they might as well be a group ready for a laugh.

As it turned out, our first impressions turned out to be prophetic. We turned out to be hiking with the best group we could have asked for.

Peru Day 3: Sacred Valley

We did a day trip to the Sacred Valley. I guess it didn't quite help in our acclimatization, since the Sacred Valley is at a considerably lower altitude than Cusco, but it was definitely worth the trip all the same. Our guide, Roger (Ro-yare), gave us the Incan history 101, taught us little Quechua phrases, and laughed obligingly at our silly jokes.

Ultimately, guide or no guide, the sites of the Sacred Valley simply speak for themselves. Each site, each viewpoint, each glance of ancient ruins, simply took our breath away. The sheer scale and sophistication far surpassed anything we'd been expecting. And sitting there on the mountain tops, watching the ruins drift in and out of view through the clouds, it was easy to see how the Incans had considered the valley to be sacred.

On the adventurous food front, Croc has been dying to try cuy (guinea pig) for two days now, but has somewhat lost some of his bravado since none of us are willing to share in the adventure with him. I was open to trying the cuy in concept, but it only comes in one form, roasted whole, complete with head, feet and tail. There's no way I can behead the little fella on my plate, even if he is already toast and all. I don't get why they haven't progressed to roast shredded cuy sandwishes. Now that, I'd give it a shot.

Both Bobbis and Croc tried alpaca, but both their alpacas tasted so significantly different from each other, I was kind of wondering what meat they were actually serving up anyway. Needless to say, I wasn't going to be in a hurry to try that one either.

On a separate subject, everyone in the group was still feeling alarmingly breathless every time we climbed even the slightest incline. I was beginning to get my doubts about this altitude thing, but then we went to the local Irish Pub (Paddy's), where it boasted the sign: "The highest Irish Pub in the World". And suddenly the whole altitude thing seemed rather cool all over again.

Peru Day 2: Cusco

Arriving in Cusco is a dramatic event. Your plane swoops low between the mountains, alarmingly close to the mountain faces on all sides, and you still can't see hte runway. Your face is glued to the window, looking for reassuring signs of a safe landing. But all you see are jagged mountain faces. And then suddenly, a sharp turn around a steep mountain edge, you think you might just fall out the plane, and suddenly there you are, right at the foot of the runway. The plane screeches to the ground and grinds to a halt. There's no room for error in this manoever. And you breathe a sigh of relief, you are alive after all.

Or you try to breathe a sigh of relief. Except you realise, all of a sudden, that you can't breathe at all. There's just not much oxgen in the air. Welcome to Cusco.

We jumped in a cab, told the cabbie where our hotel was, and sat back to take in the sights. Not much rest for the weary though. For suddenly, the cab rumbled to a halt in the middle of an unimaginably thin lane. "Here you go!" Said the cabbie cheerfully, opening the door to usher us out.

"Where? Where?!" Delta and I asked in puzzlement. There was no hostel in sight. "Just at the top of those stairs," he indicated with a pleasant nod of his head. We turned to look where he had pointed, and our jaws dropped in unison. As far as our eyes could see, there were stairs. Before we could gather our wits, our driver gave us the spanish equivalent of "toodle-oo!" and off he was, just a disappearing cloud of dust in our yearning. So with no option before us, Delta and I hauled our 40-lb bags onto our backs, and slowly, slowly, started clambering up the stairs. Try doing that when the air offers you no oxygen.

Needless to say, I thought I might just die. Or dry-heave, at the very least. But just in time, we reached the top, and were greeted by the most lovely little hostal we had ever stayed in. Almost, just almost, worth the battle.

After we'd settled in, it didn't take long at all to meet up with the rest of the gang. And with the unbridled excitement of vacations just beginning, we ventured out to explore the town. Cusco is a charming combination of Incan and colonial architecture. With its tiny cafes and cobbled streets, it was the perfect place to make our base.

The first meal we had in Cusco, I learnt that Peruvian corn is huge. Just huge. The first time I saw one of the kernels, I thought it might be a tooth I'd lost. But no, it just happens that Peruvian corn has kernels the size of gumballs. In time, I learnt that it brings with it an economy of effort. More corn in less bites. But right then, before I'd put it in my mouth and learnt how delish it was, all I could think was how it rather gave me the jeebies.

Peru Day 1: Lima

Ultimately, Lima's a loud and bustling city, throbbing with the pulse of activity. Not quite the vacationer's dream, when you're coming from New York. But all the same, it certainly offered it's share of eye openers.

Doing the typical tourist circle in the morning, we stopped at one of the city's main churches. "Underground catacombs inside" advertised a sign. Neither Delta nor I had ever seen catacombs before, so we decided the day warranted a visit. As soon as we stepped underground, we were transported into an entirely different world, of centuries ago. A world of deep wells, where hundreds of human bodies had once been left to decompose, when dead. A world where people would be buried crushed up against eachother. And bones. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of skulls and bones.

Morbid, I know. Eye opening. Shocking. But more than anything, just relief that we hadn't been born to that time.

Later that afternoon, we went to the local handicrafts market. Delta and I were intent on finding a piece of Peruvian art with which to adorn our little nest. But look as we might, we couldn't find just the right piece. "Look at these bowls! All hand-carved and painted!" each shop keeper would call as we passed by. But nothing was just right.

And then as we sat down in a beautiful little restaurant for dinner, just between the sea-fresh ceviche and the grilled trout, we exclaimed in sudden surprize. There it was. Our thing. The exact piece of art we'd been looking for. Unfortunately, presented to us in the form of hand-painted plates we were eating from. Immediately, we called the waiter.
"Where do you guys get these plates? We'd like to buy some!"
The waiter was taken aback. "We don't get them from here, ma'am. We order them specifically from our artist in a village outside Lima."
My face must have looked crushed, because he offered, "If you're here for a few days, and yo'ure willing to pay, perhaps I could order some for you. I'll need at least a week."

And so there we had it. The waiter agreed to get us some of those beautiful hand-painted plates, and deliver them to the hotel where we had been staying. We paid him half the agreed money upfront, promising to return to the restaurant and pay him the rest upon our return to Lima in two weeks. A couple of rather fragile promises, buoyed on the optimism of a carafe of smooth-flowing wine.

In the clear light of day, it all seemed rather more dubious. Now that he had half the payment already, what were the chances that he'd actually deliver the plates? And even if he did deliver the plates, what were the chances that we would actually go all the way back to the restaurant, in our one afternoon in Lima? I don't think either of us truly believed the other. But sometimes, for just the right piece of art, those are just the chances you take in life.

The start of our adventure

Delta and I were bursting with excitement when we jumped into a cab for the airport.
"LaGuardia please!" we told the cabbie.
"Eh, good. Going anywhere exciting? I'm going to Ghana myself in a couple months," he added. Delta's ears immediately pricked up, Ghana being one of his frequent work locales.

And immediately, an enthusiastic conversation ensued, giving us a brief glimpse into the cab driver's fascinating life. We found out that he was from a little village in Ghana, about a hundred miles from the capital, Accra. At the tender age of 17, he had immigrated to New York to study civil engineering. And for the next twelve years, he had lived in the YMCA, working as a cabbie full time to get the money to live and put himself through school.

Erm, that's the same age when my only worry was drinks at a pub and my next vacation. I'm mortified.

"For six years," he told us, laughing ruefully, "I ate pizza for every meal, every day. That's all I had money for. If I look at a pizza now, I think I'd throw up!"

Delta and I listened in silenced awe as he told us how he had won a civil engineering contract to build a network of roads back in Ghana. "So I'm going back home, after all these years!" he could barely conceal the elation from his voice. "And I'm going to take some friends back with me to help. Like me, they too are cab drivers from Ghana. Some of them haven't been back in forty years. Such an easy thing for me to do, and it would mean so much to them."

Delta and I had been caught up in our admiration, and hadnt even noticed we'd already pulled up at the airport until the cabbie hopped out and opened the trunk. "Well, good luck to you, guys!" he said, shaking our hands and heading out.
"Same to you, man," we responded.

I was glad he had told us his story. It felt great to start our vacation on such a positive and inspiring note.

A note of anticipation

Tomorrow morning, fairly earlier than I would have liked for a vacation day, we leave for Peru. In some ways, this marks a milestone in our lives. For the last six months, it's all been about Peru. The training, the clothes, the equipment, the travel bookings - all of it. It's kind of like planning a wedding (except we already did that).

And once the event's over, there's a void in your life. No more reason to get up early in the morning for a whole day of PBJs and exercise. No more hours of internet research on the best hiking fleeces and socks. What in the world will we do?!

But why worry about all that now. For now, I'm focused on tomorrow, and the sheer excitement of reaching Peru. Of bandying about ye ol' spanish verbs I've been practising so diligently. Of procuring ourselves alpaca hats with the dangling sides, and other funny knick-knacks (or, as Delta would say, whatnot. That's his new favourite word. Whatnot.). We'll buy ourselves alpaca hats and whatnot.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again. Before I even focus on tomorrow, I really need to focus on the here and now (not as exciting, but pretty compelling). There's a cat to feed, an apartment to clean, and as we pack, everywhere we walk we leave puddles of whatnot in our tornado-like wake.

One day, we'll reverse the tables and train Queen Jaffa to clean up after us. But for today, (sigh) I guess I better get started cleaning her kitty litter as she snores quietly to herself on the rug.

Speak to you in two weeks, my friends.

Drama Queen Jaffa

Since we'll be away for two weeks, Dee very kindly offered to look after Queen Jaffa for us. So we called her over for dinner the other day, so that Dee and the cat could officially get acquainted.

Unfortunately (but how did we not predict this would happen?), Queen Jaffa sensed what was happening, and decided to put on a show of obstreperousness that evening. When Dee bent over to pet her, QJ swiped at Dee with her paw, forcing Dee to leap back in alarm.

"Oh!!" Dee exclaimed, blinking at me in surprize. I had just finished telling her how loving Queen Jaffa was.
I shrugged. There's just no excuse for QJ. "She's just pretending," I tried to explain to Dee, while at the same time surreptitiously glaring at QJ, who now purred up at me calmly, a picture of demure coyness.

Dee, ever-forgiving, tried to pick her up, but QJ let out little loud child like warbling screams, like a baby with colic. I couldn't believe it. What a sneaky little drama queen!

"She's not normally like this, Dee! I promise!" I tried to convince Dee, although I don't think she quite believed me. I don't blame her. QJ really can be a handfull when she wants to.

Speaking of drama, Queen Jaffa has picked up a new habit nowadays which I'm rather appalled by. Lately, whenever we have visitors over, she's taken to suddenly splaying herself on the rug in most ungainly fashion and cleaning herself in places that are absolutely unacceptable to do in public.

The other day we had the whole gang over for a "Machu Picchu kick off dinner", and there she did it again, right in the center of the rug, so everyone could stare on in grotesque fascination.

"Queen Jaffa! How un-lady-like!" I reprimanded with an embarrassed laugh, tapping her lightly on the head to remind her where she was. But the cheeky little cat just scuttled back out of my reach, and continued on unabashed.

I swear, if that cat was a human, she'd be quite the exhibitionist.

Yikes, the time is nigh

You wouldn't believe it. I barely can myself. But after months and months of planning, researching, hype and training, our time to go to Peru is almost here. In typical disparate fashion, all of us have booked ourselves on different flights to Peru - but ultimately, we all end up in Cusco at some point or another on Saturday morning.

The plan looks something like this:
Delta and I will head out this Thursday, so we can spend a couple days in Lima before we head to Cusco. Doobie will join us in Lima on Friday. We'll all meet Ilajna and Bobbis in Lima airport on Saturday, where we'll all fly to Cusco. And Croc and M will join us directly in Cusco whenever their flights roll in. There, we'll all spend a couple days in Cusco together, exploring the Incan ruins and Peruvian handicrafts, before starting (with a fair share of trepidation) our much-hailed hike on the 13th.

Assuming we live to tell the tale, our quivering legs will haul our sorry behinds into Machu Picchu early in the morning of 17th. After the hike, our group will pretty much disband into pairs, where we'll each head to our different adventures separately. Delta and I, for our part, are heading out to a lodge in the Amazon to spend four days trying not to be killed by tarantulas.

Because, you know, that's how we like our vacations.

Penny for my own thoughts

Dear Penny,

Don't you think it might be time to retire?

It's quite obvious that we the people will never be able to reach a consensus on your future (just like healthcare.). It costs more than a penny to make a penny. And when the metals market rises, it costs way more than a penny to make a penny. But then on the other hand, you're a part of history and culture and tradition and that kind of smitherish. So people will always want you around, just for kicks.

But the truth is, Penny, your time is nearing it's end. And here's how I know. Oftentimes, I notice people drop a coin, they look down to find it, then realise it's a penny, and just walk away. Bending to pick up the penny is not worth the effort.

Does that make sense to you? That's not how you'd like to be remembered, is it? So why not quit while you're ahead? Let's gently, and respectfully (but firmly), tuck you into bed.

And likewise I hope, one day when I'm doddering around pointlessly, you'll look out for me and tell me the same.

Death by uphill

This past weekend, Delta and I participated in a 50-mile bikeride in the Jersey Highlands area. I'd meant to put up a picture or two from our glorious and victorious moments, but as it turned out we clean forgot to take any pics at all. Of course, could have had something to do with how we very nearly died trying to make it up those last hills, and let me tell you, when you're so close to death, taking pictures of yourself really doesn't seem like much of a priority.

So you'll just have to make do with my fumbling verbal description of the event.

The day actually turned out to be a beautiful one, cool enough, hot enough, a little bit of sunshine but not too much, basically, perfect conditions for biking. Unlike, of course, the last time we did this in May.

We started the ride with some very steep unhill, and somehow I convinced myself that we'd got the worst over with, and it would only get easier from here on out.

And then, for the next four and a half hours, proceeded to prove myself wrong. Again. And again. And again.

"I've driven out there before," Guster had told us before the ride. "It's really pretty flat out there. Nothing for you to worry about."
We shouldn't have believed him of course. It's quite easy for all the land to look flat and smooth when you're sitting comfortably behind the wheel of a beemer. It's safe to say Delta and I had never done a ride quite this difficult ever before. Every ten miles or so, we stopped for a break, and greedily downed the PBJs so lovingly made by all the bike support volunteers.

It was all ok until about mile 30, and then, all of a sudden, we rounded the corner to find ourselves at the bottom of (yet) another long and steep hill. And I suddenly knew that death was a near and distinct possibility. But somewhere there in the depths of my own misery, I realised I'm a competitive little bugger. Every time I saw another biker dismount and start to walk their bikes up the hill, it filled me with renewed determination.
I'm not going to be like THAT biker, I'd think to myself, and doggedly forge onwards.

And somehow, painfully, slowly, we made it to the end.
"I think I'm going to be quite miserable tomorrow," I said to Delta, grinning through my triumph, but knowing my quads would have a thing or two to say about this the next day.

But at that point, tomorrow was still a whole day away. At that point, all we had to was get back on the ferry and start our return journey home, relaxed and basking in our own personal triumph of what we'd achieved.

A busy September

I guess I should start with an apology for my silence. This blog doesn't have many readers, but for those of you who do read it regularly, I'm sorry for the sudden and complete absence over the last month.

The truth is, for the past few weeks I've been busily running around like a crazy woman. It all started at the end of August, with a trip to Seattle for work. Work trips are always fun anyway, but all the better when you can combine them with meeting the Cos, her hubby, and their pink, asquidgy new squealer.

"Do you want to hold him?" the Cos asked me generously. But I was too scared. I shouldn't even by allowed near anything more fragile than a brick, let alone to hold a baby. Just as well that I declined anyway, because right after that the little critter let out a yowl and a holler, and I'm sure (although they'd never admit it of course) that right then he must have pooped himself.

Of course, as soon as he'd sorted out his own GI tract quibbles, the kiddo started smiling at us beatifically and wiggling his little pink toes, and even me, hardened as my heart is to all things baby-like, I felt myself melting just a little.

And then, when I'd just got back and barely had a chance to catch my breath, began Delta's month of retirement. Yes. A whole month without work. Can you imagine that? It was like a month of heaven, except better because he didn't have to wear white robes or shiny things on his head.

"What are you going to do with all your time?!" I asked him in vicarious excitement, as the month stretched before us like an unending summer vacation. "Imagine! A whole month off!"

"Oh, I have lots of goals," was his peremptory response.

"Like?"

"I want to learn to play the guitar like Bono."

I tried not to visibly fall off my seat, but I couldnt' quite conceal the look of outright surprise.
"Erm. Anything else?"

"And learn to speak Spanish. Fluently."

And I guess I'd say, after the month's over, that he didn't quite master either of those, but we managed to pack in a bundle of goodness anyway.

There was a weekend on the shore at the Cranes', where we got to spend time with the motely crew, the three kids, and their crazy cockerpoodledoodle dogs. And Delta and I got to watch the Labour Day fireworks on the beach, sifting through the silky sand with our toes as the fireworks burst in brilliant splendour across the skies above us.

And then there was a weekend in the Catskills, where Delta and I set up camp for two days, to go hiking through the woods. And every vista, every escarpment (and sometimes just the uphill scramble!) took our breath away.

And of course, there it was a special month for Queen Jaffa too. She learnt that in September, the sun is at exactly the right height for a direct shaft of light to hit a corner of our living room floor, for precisely half an hour each morning - the perfect nap situation for a cat. Only for September though - I wonder if she'll remember it again next year.