Welcome to On Sunday Morning. I’m the voice behind the blog and the person behind the camera. I’m an eager explorer, wannabe writer, capable chef, creative conversationalist, aging athlete, and proficient photographer. Queer in its original meaning is an apt adjective to describe me. I even have a day job working in healthcare. Social media is making us sad; let’s go for a walk somewhere together or trade tales around a campfire.
"I'm a big believer in winging it. I'm a big believer that you're never going to find perfect city travel experience or the perfect meal without a constant willingness to experience a bad one. Letting the happy accident happen is what a lot of vacation itineraries miss, I think, and I'm always trying to push people to allow those things to happen rather than stick to some rigid itinerary."
This is a conversation that occurred in a Colombia bar in August, 2010.
Colombia is a beautiful country. The Andes Mountains, the Amazon jungle, the Cocora valley are all amazing. In addition to the natural beauty, Colombia has beautiful people. Some of them are naturally beautiful and some of them–well, they have a little help. The plastic surgeons in Colombia do a fantastic job. Medellin is my third stop in Colombia. It is kind of like Goldilocks and the 3 bears. The weather in Bogota was too cold. The weather in Leticia was too hot, but the weather in Medellin is just right. The days are warm and the nights are cool. It feels like fall [or spring].
Last night, I went out with some English/Australian guys that were staying in the same hostels [Funny story: We had actually met on the cable car that goes to the top of the city.] So at some point during the evening after an indeterminate number of drinks, in an unidentified bar, a conversation much like the following took place:
Guy 1: “Are those real?” (referring to boobs, but not mine of course) Me: “Nope. No way”. Guy 2: “Yeah. I reckon. You can tell the difference.” Guy 1: “Aha ha. I agree. Definite difference in shape.” Me: “Yeah. But there’s no way that they could be real. Guy 2: Compare hers (Colombian chic) to hers (mine). Definite extra perkiness. No offense” (referring to Colombian chic) Guy 1: “I’m still not convinced. They’re too good to be real.” Me: “Why don’t you just ask her?” Guy 1: “Huh?” Guy 2: “What?” Me: “Just ask her” Guy 1: “That would be funny.” Me: “Yeah. Go on. Or I will.” Guy 2: “I don’t know. That’s pretty random. Imagine if someone came up to you and…” Me: “C’mon’. It’s the only way to settle it. Fuck it. I’ll do it…”
Me and two guys in a bar
So somewhere, in the night, after an indeterminate number of drinks plus a few more, in the same unidentified bar, another conversation, much like the following, took place:
Guy 1: “What the fuck did you touch them for?” Me: “She said I could.” Guy 1: “And so you just grabbed them?” Me: “Yep.” Guy 2: “And?” Me: “Real.” Guy 1: “Definitely? Did she say so?” Me: “Yep.” Guy 2: “What did she say exactly?” Me: “They’re real. Good hmm? Guy 2: “In English?” Me: “In English.” Guy 2: “Fuck off”
Me : You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever touched a pair of boobs other than my own…
Me and two guys in a bar
These are definitely fake
Conversations similar to the one above are, probably, not uncommon in Medellin. It is, apparently, the plastic surgery capital of the world in a country that is probably the most plastic surgerized in the world. Or at least close to. Such a place has a significant reputation to live up to. However, Medellin does it with aplomb, cosmetic surgical intervention striking you anywhere you turn. Seriously, fake boobs are everywhere. They are more normal than natural boobs.
If you don’t have them, you’re the odd one out. Old woman have them. Girls far younger than the legal drinking age have them. Yes, I even saw a cat that had them (this may or may not be true… this may or not have occurred at the bar). I read somewhere, but I now don’t recall where, that the prevalence of silicon in Medellin is largely due to Medellin’s former status as the center of the world cocaine trade. Don’t ask me why that means fake boobs all over the place – I guess drug lords liked them big. In any event, the reality remains, and it is one scary, bouncy and far too perky reality.
The same can be said for the fellas
Fernando Botero
The theory attributing Medellin’s curvaceousness to the drug lords is a popular one. However, my own personal theory is that the female of residents of Medellin are paying homage to the great Colombian artist, Fernando Botero.
Medellin born and Medellin raised, Botero’s sculptures dominate the public artistic landscape of central Medellin, his ludicrously proportioned, voluptuous and humorous bronze figures in the Plaza Botero in particular a highlight. If you are not familiar with Botero’s work, I can probably sum it up for you in a single word – fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just plain old ‘fat’. Like everything being seen through one of those crazy mirrors that makes everything look fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just plain old lazy bastard fat. Having viewed a reasonably large collection of his work in Bogota, it’s clear to me that his work is at its most impressive in sculpture – the central focus of his work, the roundedness aka ‘fat’, most effective and striking when experienced in three dimensions. Fat. Not ‘ph’ fat. Just good old ‘if it sits on you it’s going to hurt’ fat.
[Future Michelle here, this is a recovered post from my previous blog, originally posted early 2010ish]
Blogging beginnings
In my very fist post–way back in 2004, I yapped about how life was getting as stale as a week-old baguette. [ETA: I must confess, that post has taken its final bow and has been deleted. But let’s not dwell on the past, shall we? Because right now, I’m about to spill the beans on that very topic, just above this sentence]. When I first dipped my toes into the mysterious world of blogging in 2004, it was my funky way of figuring out and spilling the tea on all things including life and death, love and loss, endings and beginnings, and all the curveballs that life kept hurling at my face. Back then, I had just flung myself into the real world after college, relocated to a shiny new city, and started my first gig in the healthcare field, where I was moonlighting as a superhero, saving tiny humans and battling monstrous illnesses. I coped with all these seismic shifts in my life by spilling my guts onto these pages. And going on wild adventures. Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore my job, but let’s be real, if I were to keep at it for the next 35 years, I’d probably go banana-pants bonkers. So here I am, conducting a full-blown examination of my life’s fancy blueprint. And guess what? Brace yourself, folks, because I’m mapping out my most epic escapade to date.
Life updates–part 1
Since my return from Italy, my travel and exploration game has been rather lackluster. I’ve been stuck in middle of North Carolina working and trying to figure out my next life steps. I’ve taken a few trips along the Carolina Coast and ventured up to the mountains a few times, but let’s be honest, nothing that could be labeled as epic. Oh, and to add some chaos to the mix, I decided to dive back into the academic abyss and pursue a degree in microbiology. As if that wasn’t enough, I joined the fencing team as a grad student, attempting to keep up with those energetic 18-20 year olds.
Lefty magic for the win!
Fast forward to 2008, I found myself back in South Carolina, where I unintentionally stumbled into a romantic entanglement with a guy from my old workplace. You know, just your average, run-of-the-mill routine stuff. But deep down, something felt off. Could it be that I never received the contentment gene that makes people blissfully happy with a “normal” life? As my thirties loom ahead, it seems I have no real desire to settle down. Not with the frantic pursuit of a medical career, not with the town I’m dwelling in, and if I’m being brutally honest, not even with the guy I’ve somehow landed myself into. What on earth is wrong with me? Ugh, the mysteries of life…
I must confess, I went a bit bonkers with the hair dye and my once-purple locks transformed into a fabulous shade of blue! As if that wasn’t enough, the scorching sun decided to join the party and made it even more vibrant. Who needs a rainbow when my hair can brighten up the whole town?
Life Updates–part 2
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Me–hanging out in the breakroom at work circa 2010? Maybe I’m even planning a trip right there
While opening up the blog to the public is one attempt to stave off the potential mid-life crisis, some may say I’m already in full-blown crisis mode. So, earlier this week, I happened to stumble upon a hidden treasure while surfing the vast ocean called the internet. What, you may ask? an amazing airline deal! Call me impulsive, but without even giving it a second thought, I plunged headfirst into the grand adventure. Lo and behold, I managed to snag a one-way ticket from Charlotte to Caracas, all for the unbelievable price of $99!
Now, let’s address the obvious questions. Have I ever been to Venezuela before? Absolutely not! Did I even have a burning desire to visit Venezuela? Not really. But hey, I studied their history in college and my high school Spanish teacher happened to hail from that very land. So, it’s fair to say that I’m at least equipped with some basic Spanish skills. Plus, I’ve always dreamt of witnessing the majestic Angel Falls with my own eyes. This seems like the perfect opportunity!
Now, you might be wondering: What else will I do in Venezuela? Well, that’s a mystery waiting to be unraveled. Where will I stay? Your guess is as good as mine. And the million-dollar question: Will I be kidnapped by narco-terrorists? Let’s hope not! As for the most pressing question of all—when will I come back? Frankly speaking, I haven’t got a clue. Perhaps I’ll end up hating the place and return within a week. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll fall in love with Venezuela and concoct a plan to stay there forever. Only time will tell!
Not Angel Falls
But follow along and see how this little Venezuela adventure plays out.
Spoiler alert: My Venezuela viaje turned int a trip covering all 13 countries in South America over a period of 16 months August 2010-December 2011
First up in my orgy of medical museums and such is the Semmelweis Museum in Budapest, Hungary. I feel bad for Semmelweis. He made a major medical discovery, yet couldn’t explain it, so all his colleagues mocked him mercilessly, and then he died… a broken man. Only to have his discovery proven right a few short years later. He is one of the reasons we do a 2-minute scrub prior to entering surgical delivery rooms.
Here it is: my ode to Semmelweis and his discovery of germs…
I wrote a poem
It’s a tiny little thing; it’s hardly ever seen.
But once inside, it can turn you green.
Germs are many; treatments are few
For many years no one knew
What they were or their effects
Sickness was caused by air or a hex
Then Semmelweis figured it out
“Wash your hands” he wanted to shout.
But no one listened; no one cared
And no one cared how patients fared
A crusade against the little beasts he undertook
He gave speeches; he wrote a book
When he died he was outcast
But twenty years later, a hero he was–at last
Today entire classes are taught how to wash their hands
To wash away beasts tinier than a grain of sand
Semmelweis is the hero; he’s the man
Except to the microbes; talk of him in banned
Semme;weis’ father’s apothacary shop
a little bit of history
Semmelweis was a Hungarian doctor teaching medicine in Vienna. He noticed that the [male medical] students moved between the dissection room and the delivery room without washing their hands and their patients had a death rate of over 30%. [Oh, the infection control police at the hospital would be horrified] while the midwives’ patients, who didn’t do dissections, had a death rate of only about 2%. On a hunch, he set up a policy. Effective immediately, doctors must wash their hands in a chlorine solution when they leave the cadavers. Mortality from puerperal fever [aka childbirth fever] promptly drops to three percent and further drops to 1% after physicians began cleaning instruments in the same solution they washed their hands.
The museum is also a medical history museum
Now here’s the part of the story where things grow strange. Instead of reporting his success at a meeting, Semmelweis tells his boss, but his boss orders him to ‘stand down’. Semmelweis says nothing. Finally, a friend publishes two papers on the method. By now, Semmelweis has started washing medical instruments as well as hands.
The hospital director feels his leadership has been criticized [by Semmelweis]. He’s furious. Livid. Beyond angry. He blocks Semmelweis’s promotion. The situation gets worse. Viennese doctors turn on this Hungarian immigrant. They run him out of town. Finally, he goes back home to Budapest. He is an outcast among the “civilized” Austrian medical community. He brings his hand washing methods to a far more primitive hospital, and cuts death by puerperal fever to less than one percent. And he systematically isolates causes of death. He autopsies victims. He sets up control groups, and studies statistics. His has it all figured out.
Requisite skull with a hole in it
Finally, in 1861, he writes a book on his methods. The establishment gives it poor reviews. Semmelweis grows angry and polemical. He hurts his own cause with rage and frustration. He calls his colleagues idiots and ignoramuses. Semmelweis bashes their stupidity. He turned every conversation to the topic of child-bed fever.
The beginning of the end
After a number of unfavorable foreign reviews of his 1861 book, Semmelweis lashed out against his critics in a series of Open Letters. They were addressed to various prominent European obstetricians, including Spath, Scanzonia, Siebold, and to “all obstetricians”. They were full of bitterness, desperation, and fury and were “highly polemical and superlatively offensive” at times denouncing his critics as irresponsible murderers. He also called upon Siebold to arrange a meeting of German obstetricians somewhere in Germany to provide a forum for discussions on puerperal fever where he would stay “until all have been converted to his theory.”
By mid-1865, his public behavior became irritating and embarrassing to his associates. He also began to drink heavily; he spent progressively more time away from his family, sometimes in the company of prostitutes. His wife noticed changes in his sexual behavior. On July 13, 1865 the Semmelweis family visited friends, and during the visit Semmelweis’s behavior seemed particularly inappropriate.
Later in 1865 he suffers a mental breakdown. Friends commit him to a mental institution. Semmelweis surmised what was happening and tried to leave. He was severely beaten by several guards. He was put in straitjacket and confined to a darkened cell. Apart from the straitjacket, treatments at the mental institution included dousing with cold water and administering castor oil. He died after two weeks, on August 13, 1865, aged 47, from a gangrenous wound caused by the beating. His autopsy revealed extensive internal injuries, the cause of death pyemia–the very thing he spent his life trying to eradicate.
The end
Semmelweis was buried in Vienna on August 15, 1865. Only a few people attended the service. Brief announcements of his death appeared in a few medical periodicals in Vienna and Budapest. Although the rules of the Hungarian Association of Physicians and Natural Scientists specified that a commemorative address be delivered in honor of a member who had died in the preceding year, there was no address for Semmelweis; his death was never even mentioned.
A memorial to Semmelweis, savior of women and children
That same year Joseph Lister [the person whom Listerine is named after] begins spraying a carbolic acid solution during surgery to kill germs. In the end, it’s Lister who gives our unhappy hero his due. He says, “Without Semmelweis, my achievements would be nothing.”
The anatomical Venus made of wax… see I do see art from time to time
PS: I don’t write poetry often; there is probably a reason for that.
I’d rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on Earth. Steve McQueen
I have always been an independent sort. As I kid, I often ‘ran away from home’. Often. I never went very far –usually exploring the outer reaches of our 25 acres. Many times, I had my school backpack and stuffed it with a sleeping bag, snacks and a book and had a good day. Summers were great as I often set up a tent somewhere on the property and was ‘away’ for a few days at a time. A couple of times, I built a little raft a floated it on the creek pretending to be Tom Sawyer. As a child, my fondest wish to be a boy scout. Our town didn’t have a girl scouts, but that didn’t stop me from checking out books in the library on ‘wilderness survival’. I taught myself cool things like how to build a fire, how to set up a tent, and how not to get attacked by bears.
Up until my mid 20’s I considered myself to be pretty outdoorsy, enjoying to spend as much time outside and under the sun as possible, hiking, biking, communicating with nature and all that crap. But somewhere along the line, things changed. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly when this happen, but I think it had something to do with getting my first big girl job. Working 6 days a week with minimal vacation time sucked the life out of my soul, and after about 2 years, I couldn’t do it anymore. It had been 2 years since I’d had a vacation so just after my two year work-anniversary, I took off to the North Carolina’s Outer Banks.
The Outer Banks is awesome. The northern half where Cape Hatteras Lighthouse is by far the more popular part of the Outer Banks. Ocracoke Lighthouse is gleaming white. It was built in 1823, the second oldest still in use in the nation. It’s not a tall as Hatteras or as famous but nevertheless it is an awesome site!
Ocracoke Island sits 23 miles off the North Carolina coast and a quarter mile south of Hatteras Island. It usually measures 17 miles long and a mile wide. The deserted, windblown beaches of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore make up the northern 90 percent of the island, and a small village of hotels, restaurants, shops, homes makes up the southern 10 percent. It’s a great place to get away from it all.
Going to the Outer Banks helped me re-assess my priorities in life. Did I want a life of relative security and stability? Did I want a life where taking a vacation was more of a headache than a means of relaxation? Hell no. I didn’t want that when I started, and after two years I didn’t like where that life was leading. Subconsciously I guess I realized how unhappy I was with my life, and deep down I was yearning to get back to my childhood roots, and to the last time I was really happy with life. I needed to get dirty, sleep under the stars again, and paddle about around on a body of water on a regular basis.
And where did I have this profound, existential realization? In a tent, under the stars off the coast of North Carolina in an area where the one of the most infamous pirates in history roamed.
I sure know how to pick my moments.
There is something incredibly cliche, but true about laying out under the stars, way out in the middle of nowhere, hearing waves crash on the shore that triggers some scary deep thoughts, right? Right? Please say this is not just me.
Seeing the sun rise over the ocean…
watching dolphins play in the ocean…
observing patterns in the sand…
These were the kinds of moments I had been missing over the past few years. Taking a step back away from all the craziness, all the rush, all of the stress that is involved with chasing the “American Dream” and realizing that simple, peaceful quiet moments abroad are often the most meaningful and profound. I exited the rat race at that moment [even thought it still took a while to start chasing MY American Dream].
It’s been 8 years since I’ve had that revelation. In that time I’ve traveled to more than 40 countries. I’ve had short adventures and long ones. I’ve become a registered nurse. I’m on my way to becoming a nurse practitioner. As I paddled around and explored the barrier islands off South Carolina’s coast, I felt the stress of the last few weeks melt away. I was light years removed from the stress of the last few weeks. With each stroke of my kayak, I felt so far removed from the hustle and bustle of life, I could feel a smile creep on my face for the first time in a while.
I have always kept a record of my travels. It used to be with a pen and paper and 35 mm film. Now it’s all digital. On Flashback Fridays I reflect back on some of my past travels and travel mishaps before I started this blog.
The next few Flashback Fridays focus on Mexico, Guatemala, and other Mayan sites that I visited during my study abroad/independent study on Mayan Art and Architecture.
I have been avoiding Chiapas since I decided to stay in Campeche. [Yes, I do realize that Palenque is in Chiapas,] I have been avoiding it due to the Zapatistas that seems to thrive in the area. Maybe I was overreacting; maybe not, but the Zapatistas scare me. Chiapas is a poor state, and their grass-roots attempts at reform generally appeal to poorer people. Who knows? They may want to kidnap an American as part of their protest of NAFTA. I’m attempting to not appear American. I have my People in Espanol magazine, my Luis Miguel, Cristian Castro, and Thalia CDs. I am more than willing to pass for the Spaniard that everyone seems to think I am.
Somewhere between Tuxtla Gutierrez and San Cristobal the bus was stopped. Scary dudes with big guns boarded the bus. Two people were ‘escorted’ off. I say they were kidnapped, but what do I know. Maybe they wanted to go with the men in black suits with the big guns. The bus left. They were not on it. Why? Who knows, but that’s exactly what I am afraid of… Scary men with big guns taking me off the bus to who knows where.
No need to remind me; I know I am in Zapatista territory.
See, I am in Zapatista territory…. I am probably going to die here… At least I am not in possession of any of the ‘forbidden’ items: Armas [oh the irony], seeds [for planting drugs or I don’t know maybe corn], or alcoholic beverages. And I am not planning to sell wood illegally or destroy nature. Maybe they will leave me alone after all. Hopefully San Cristobal will be a pleasant city to pass a few days in.
I am not usually a tea drinker, but I also don’t like taking medications. However, altitude sickness is no joke. And Diamox was not working. So, I bowed to pressure and tried the local cure for altitude sickness–coca leaves. At first, the idea of buying coca leaves seems almost rebellious. After all, coca leaves are the beginning product cocaine. Drinking coca leaf tea was a novelty for me. It has a bitter taste; it is primarily coca leaves and hot water. But being in the world’s highest city requires some concessions, and for me, that concession was ingesting coca leaf–in my case, by chewing the leaves.
Coca leaves became an integral part of my day; I chewed the leaves multiple times a day, and each time, I got a little mental boost–a bit of alertness to soothe the metal sluggishness that goes along with altitude sickness. In some way, I became addicted to the sticky green masticated leaves–it was the only thing that soothed my altitude sickness and made my stay in Potosi enjoyable.
sticky, masticated coca leaves
Altitude sickness aside, spending two weeks in Potosi, was a great decision. A better decision, perhaps, would have been to come to Potosi from La Paz instead of the relatively flat Cochebamba. At 13,500ft above sea level, Potosi will literally take your breath away, but it’s colonial charms will figuratively leave you breathless.
Potosi is a UNESCO protected city and walking around the flat parts of the city, it’s easy to marvel over the beauty of the buildings or wonder what the area must have been like when the Spanish discovered the silver in the Cerro Rico mountain that looms over the city. However, when walking uphill around the city, which is at least half the time, my will to explore was seriously in question. But my desire to explore won out, and while walking down the well-maintained colonial streets it’s easy to imagine the hustle and bustle of the 16th and 17th century when Potosi was one of the world’s richest and had a population larger than Madrid.
On the darker side of things, it’s also easy to imagine the amount of work that mining the silver for which this town gained famed, and how that work would have been done. When the Spanish discovered the Cerro Rico in 1544 it was the richest source of silver in the known world. Potosi and Spain grew rich from the proceeds, but this wealth came at an tremendous cost in human and animal lives and pain and suffering. The Spanish brought an estimated 30,000 African slaves, enslaved indigenous locals, used untold numbers of horse and llama to get the goods to the Atlantic coast to ship to Spain. Historians claim that the system of slavery that Spain’s Viceroy Toledo created resulted in a massive depopulation of the Andean highlands. The mortality rates in the mines were amazingly high, and over the next three hundred years, the Spanish authorities, in collusion with the mine owners and the Catholic Church, pressed millions of indigenous Andean peoples into slavery to work in the mines.
It’s estimated that the barbaric conditions in the mines caused the deaths of between eight and ten million indigenous and African slaves.
So important was the Cerro Rico, and so entwined was the Catholic Church with the mines, that all the churches in Potosi point not to the east, but to the mountain, and some of the religious art is shaped to represent the pyramid shape of the mountain. If you want to see some Bolivian silver, there’s plenty on display in Potosi’s churches, but you could equally go to any of the major cathedrals in Spain to uncover where all that silver went.
The Spanish brought the Catholic Church’s Inquisition to the Spanish colonies, something dramatically depicted in the painting below. As per usual, it was often women and witches on the receiving end of ingenious methods of torture.
Today is Ampelmann’s birthday. Let’s all start to sing…Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday dear sweet Ampelmann…Happy Birthday to you.
Wait, who/what is Ampelmann, you ask?
This is ‘die Ampelmann’. He is a cult hero, and certainly one of my favorite symbols. EVER. He is Berlin-born and Berlin-bred. Ampelmann is the East German pedestrian traffic light symbols. He was ‘born’ on October 13th 1961 making today his 55th birthday. Ampelmann is the brain child of East German psychologist Karl Peglau when, in response to the growing threat of road traffic accidents, he introduced the first pedestrian traffic signals to the GDR capital.
And so the humble traffic light, which up until this point had only directed car traffic, joined up with the pedestrian traffic light. Peglau designed Ampelmamm to be cute and appealing to drivers because according to the psychologist “road-users react more quickly to appealing symbols”. The cute and adorable traffic light symbols fulfilled their purpose and found widespread acceptance both on the street and in social life.
Ampel Mann’s history
In 1982, after 21 years’ successful use, ampelmann made his film debut. Friedrich Rochow started casting them as guardian angels in his road safety training film for children. The ampel men, in the form of animated figures, were always at hand with valuable tips in hazardous situations. The ampel men were also deployed in other areas of road safety training. EDIT: I would have been enthralled to watch a safety video staring ampelmann as an elementary school kid. All we got were terrifying videos of kids being run over by buses. I still remember those. School children who could demonstrate good road safety knowledge received the ‘Golden One’ badge with the green ampel man or a special ampel man key fob. The two ampel men also adorned the card-game ‘Take care in traffic!’. Kindergarten children made their acquaintance on rubber stamps and in coloring books.
Ampel Mann even has his own store. I had to show utmost restraint in not purchasing every.single.item. in the store. Except the flip-flops. They could keep those.
And this is what the East German school kids got for excelling in traffic safety. But ampelmann was East German in design and only lived on the east side of Berlin. In the original plans, following reunification, ampel men disappeared along with just about everything from every day East German life. The West German authorities, politicians, and traffic engineers were critical of the little green men on the East German traffic lights. Who in their right mind could be critical of these super helpful, super adorable traffic signals. I just want to take one and cuddle with it.
The resistance
In 1994, work started on replacing them with the euro traffic light man. Current arguments tried to argue that only the electronics were antiquated not the symbols, but bureaucrats being bureaucratic did not care. They wanted the symbol removed from current usage. In 1996, industrial designer Markus Heckhausen adopted the discarded little green and red men. [Yay for Markus!] The first Ampelman products arose from the original glass of the traffic lights: as red and green ampel lamps. [I would sell my first born child in order to have one of these lamps.] The media response to the lamps and the story of the symbol’s disposal was huge, and so the extinct ampel men was rescurrected and once again entered the consciousness of the Berlin population.
Oh.my.word. An Ampelmann cafe. How adorable are the two ampelmen holding up the hostesses’ stand.
A resistance movement began. Under the slogan ‘we are the people’, committed citizens strove to prevent the abolition of the last remaining symbol of East German daily life. The people founded the ‘committee for the preservation of ampel men’. With many creative protest actions, it succeeded in drawing greater attention to the comical figures. When the media joined the campaign, politicians and authorities could no longer avoid entering into objective discussions.
The advantages of the ampel man, such as the clear symbolic and his wide-spread acceptance, could no longer be denied. And due to his stocky figure, large head and hat, the illuminated surface of the East ampel man was almost double that of his western competitor. This made him more recognizable which is particularly important for children. In 1997, it became clear that the beloved East German ampel men had been saved and would retain their place on the urban landscape.
Once upon a time I had crazy dreams of being a cultural anthropologist or historical preservationist or something that would allow me to travel and be the #historynerd that I truly am. But then the reality of these jobs set in. 1. They are few and far between 2. Most require a masters to even get started, and even finding a program that’s available and affordable is not so easy. 3 most are funded on the whim of a government and therefore pay is low and sometimes not at all. In spite of all that, I chose to do my senior thesis/project on Mayan Art and Architecture which 1. required a thoroughly researched and well written thesis [in Spanish] and 2. on-site visits to some of the sites. This was back in the Dark Ages when the internet was a baby, digital camera quality was awful, and blogging was a journal and scrapbook [of which I have both]. So with my SLR… that’s right, there’s no D if front of that SLR and copious quantities of film that I carried in a separate bag and polite instruction to ‘inspeccione por mano, por favor’. Thankfully they did and my 50+ rolls of film, both black and white and color, in different ISOs, made it safely through airport security and allowed me to photograph all the little quirks of Mayan architecture to my little heart’s content.
A little history of Uxmal
Chichen Itza is the most well know of the ancient Mayan site, but Uxmal should give Chichen Itza a run for its money –at least in terms of its vastness. It’s not super well known and isn’t directly on a bus route the way Chichen Itza is, but it is relatively well preserved. If the access was easier, my guess is that it would be more popular than Chichen Itza.
Uxmal rising out of the jungle
The area around Uxmal was occupied as early as 800 BC, but the major building period took place when it was the capital of a Late Classic Mayan state around 850-925 AD. Somewhere around or after the year 1000, when Toltec invaders took over the Yucatán peninsula [establishing their capital at Chichen Itza], all major construction ceased at Uxmal. However, it continued to be occupied and participated in the political League of Mayapán. Uxmal later came under the control of the Xiú princes. The site was abandoned around 1450, shortly before the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors.
Mayan legend claims that a dwarf magician, born from a egg, built the city of Uxmal in a single night. In reality, archaeological excavations reveal that the Pyramid of the Magician itself was erected in a series of five successive builds upon existing, lesser pyramids. This was a common Mayan building practice, thought to capture and amplify the power of the underlying structure.
Kabah is situated slightly further along the road from Uxmal, and is famed for the Temple to Chaac, the Rain God of the Maya. The structure is filled with the masks of Chaac. Across the road, there is also a Maya Arch, part of a Maya Road system that used to span the entire Yucatan region.
Sayil has a beautiful multi level palace
At Labna, you can clearly see an example of a Maya Road system, as well as a well-preserved decorative Maya Arch. The palace is also very beautiful.
Labna Arch
OK enough with the technical stuff…
The area where Uxmal, Sayil, and Kabah is collectively known as the Ruta Puuc, and it is for lack of better terms, deserted. There are plenty of small temples to see as well as small villages [<50 inhabitants almost all of Mayan descent and who speak only Mayan and are ecstatic to talk to you, you know if you can actually communicate. In honesty, most do speak some Spanish, but if English is your only language, you may be out of luck. Luckily, everyone I met was really nice], and deserted roads almost covered in vegetation.
The main road down the Ruta Puuc. I saw very, very few cars and lots and lots of lush, green vegetation. It is easy to see how the area could be reclaimed by Mother Nature.
A small Mayan town more or less in the middle of nowhere in the Yucatán peninsula.
Poc chuc, a very traditional Mayan meal. Essentially it’s seasoned pork with peppers, onions, and lime juice, to be wrapped up in tortillas and eaten like tacos. Tomatoes, avocados, and cucumbers on the side.
Labna, and when you are the only one there, it’s both awesome, and a little bit creepy. Yes, I realize I could have been bitten by a snake or some wild animal, and no one would have ever seen or heard from me again.
Some beautiful ruins at Kabah.
Hundreds of masks representing the gods along the front wall, often with long, protruding noses.
If you look very closely, you can see all of the masks etched in this wall.
One last view of Kabah.
Salbutes. It’s a very common meal in the area, and while not my favorite, it is amazingly fresh, so I had this for a couple of my meals.
A South Carolinian stumbles into a quaint bar somewhere in Northern England.
Well, well, isn’t this the set-up for a hilarious punchline!
After braving my initial weeks in Stafford, I suddenly feel an overwhelming itch to flee the town. But as a foreigner, I’m as clueless as a kangaroo in a cricket match when it comes to picking a destination. And, naturally, when you find yourself in England, the ultimate oracle of knowledge is none other than a cozy bar.
For my grand escapade, I embarked on a weekend adventure to the delightful village of Betws-y-coed in North Wales. Population? A whopping 500 souls. Betws-y-coed is nestled right in the heart of Snowdonia, where Wales may not boast the tallest mountain peaks in the world, but boy, does it still offer a good ol’ challenge for hikers. So, off I went, marching uphill and testing the limits of my poor unsuspecting calf muscles.
It also has charming waterfalls.
But seriously, what brought me to Snowdonia National Park was the majestic Mount Snowdon, and boy, did it live up to the hype! You see, I like to consider myself a tough cookie when it comes to hiking. I daydream about conquering the Appalachian Trail or tackling epic treks like Aconcagua and Denali. But let’s face it, in reality, I’ve mostly done some overnight camping and the occasional day hike. Scaling peaks? Not exactly my expertise. However, back when I spent a whole summer in Great Britain, I was a fearless 19-year-old college athlete who believed she could conquer anything. And by anything, I mean attempting to climb mountains with zero preparation and only the bare minimum of supplies. Ah, the good old days!
Well, well, well!
Take a look at those fancy little squiggles! Can you believe that’s the hiking path?
Quite a sight, I must say. It’s a bit on the narrow side, and dare I say, a tad bit spooky the higher up you go. Little did I know that these peaks double as ski paths during the winter. Talk about a dual-purpose destination! Had I known what I was getting myself into, I might have been perfectly happy spending the entire day lounging by the lake. But alas, here I am, conquering the heights with squiggles and all. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?
Tips for Climbing Mount Snowdon
Entrance to the park is a whopping 0 pounds. Yep, it’s 100% free! Yep, you read that right. Zero dollars, nada, zip. But hold on, there’s a catch. It’ll cost you to park your car. Don’t sweat it though. Some fancy schmancy B&Bs offer shuttles to the park. So, if you can manage to snag one of those shuttles, guess what? The total cost is F-R-E-E. Who doesn’t love a sweet deal like that?
Now, let me drop some wisdom on you. When you venture up to the summit, make sure to bring lots and lots of layers. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. Even in late June, it can get quite chilly up there. Picture this: you, shivering on the summit, regretting your life choices because you only packed a light windbreaker, a long-sleeved shirt, and a baseball hat. Yeah, not so smart, huh? Lesson learned: pack a water-resistant parka, some gloves, and a hat to keep yourself snug as a bug.
Pro tip: Go for the climb on a clear day. Your photos will be breathtaking! I got lucky, purely by chance. Turns out, the weather at the bottom of a mountain is not exactly a prophecy for the weather at the top. Who would’ve thought, right? So, save yourself from misty camera shots and go for that clear sky.
Oh, and don’t forget your survival kit. Snacks, water, and for me, ibuprofen are absolutely crucial. I might have learned this the hard way, but hey, at least you can learn from my mistakes. I went up there with just 1 liter of water, a few power bars, and some fruits. And guess what? I had zero painkillers. Needless to say, I regretted it. After stumbling back to my room, I curled up into a pathetic little ball. But thanks to a couple of hot showers and a hefty dose of motrin and paracetamol, I could finally walk like a normal person again.
Last but not least, believe in yourself! Before I embarked on this adventure, I never doubted my abilities. Did I do any research beforehand? Nah, why bother? I just heard about it and thought, “Hey, that sounds pretty cool!” And let me tell you, it WAS cool. But I probably wouldn’t do it again.
This is the tallest peak in Wales. If someone had given me a heads-up that I’d be taking on a precarious ridge, I would have definitely thought twice before embarking on this crazy adventure. You see, graceful balance has never really been my thing. But hey, who needs to be nimble when you can stumble your way to victory, right? Climbing Snowdon is absolutely worth it. This is one of best adventures in Wales, and one that I’ll always remember.
Be prepared for anything when you are hiking in the Welsh mountains. The weather can change in an instant.
The view from the highest peak in Wales–will simply take your breath.
The first time I saw you I was intrigued. There was something there that was definitely missing from the long term relationship I had just ended. We met at the most common of places: my work, not a crowded bar, not at a grocery store, and certainly not anywhere romantic, like a white, sandy beach. You were tall(ish), with black wavy hair, green eyes, and an olive completion. I spoke first–the most banal of opening lines–, ‘Can I help you?’ and on the surface, his reply was just as common– ‘oh, yes ma’am you can’. But it was the way he said it, the glint in his eye, the accented English, that flirty smile. I knew I was in over my head.
Weeks later, after heavy flirting, I finally agreed to go out with him. The LTR had just ended, and you knew this and liked to tease me about this. ‘What would your boyfriend do if he knew you were out to dinner with me?’ you asked. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ I’d reply. “So it’s OK if I kiss you?” as you lean over to do just that. ‘Oh that’s definitely OK’ I replied as I kissed you back. In that moment, I fall in lust. It’s everything I’d hoped it might be and more, and it was so incredibly different than before.
Two days later, we were back together for another hot, sultry summer night. We drove down to the river, and opened the moon roof of the car. I crawl on top of you and we kiss, and occasionally, I stick my head out of the moon roof for a literal breath of fresh air.
“Come home with me” you implore. “I can’t do that. I have work in the morning” I try to explain, but you interrupt. “No, no, my darling Micaela. Come home with me to Cartago.” “To Costa Rica?” I ask. “Yes, mi amor. To Costa Rica. You will love it there.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. It’s as if all the air is sucked out of me. Despite the 80 degree temperature and near 100% humidity, I am shivering. Even the heady combination of tequila, salt, and sweat can’t shake this chill. Although the full moon is nearly as bright as the sun, everything in my world has gone dark. All I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were a breath of fresh air. You came around just in time to save me from a catastrophe. You were supposed to be a short term fling. A summer romance. And now. Now you are asking me to go to Costa Rica with you.
In that moment, I hate you. You know my weakness for far-flung places. Places I’ve never been. You know how I hate monotony and routine. You know that I’ll say yes to Costa Rica even if I’m not exactly saying yes to you. You are a beautiful man. So sexy. So sensual. So what I needed in the moment we met. But I cannot go to Costa Rica with you. I. Can. Not. Leave. The. Country. Again. I haven’t even been back that long.
Three weeks later I quit my job and I arrived in Cartago. I call you, and you seemed surprised to hear from me. A little distracted, perhaps, but you agree to come pick me up. I see it in your face: despite your words, you are not happy to see me. “What’s wrong?” I ask, as I reach over to kiss you. You turn your head and my kiss lands on your cheek. “I did not expect that you would come. Micaela, you said you could not come. You have work. You said you had no vacation available. I have many things going on. I have work…”
“But I did. I came to see you. I want to meet your family and I want to see where this goes.”
“But Micaela, where will you stay?”
“With you, of course”, but I knew as soon as the words we coming out of my mouth that it was not to be.
“Let me make a some calls. You stay here. Micaela, mi amor.” The way the said my name was almost a threat.
A relationship ending just as it’s beginning is never quite what one imagines it will be. One imagines it will be painful, and it is, but it isn’t painful all at once. There is the surface cracking… where all the hopes and dreams one may have had disappear shattering the illusion of perfection, and then there’s the deeper cracks. The things that pop up after the initial injury. The ones no one else can see, like the fracture of a bone. It hurts much worse than imaginable.
Cartago, Costa Rica
The next two days are torturous as we spend time together, each knowing that this–all of this– was a mistake. You show me the volcanoes, and around San Jose.
The volcanoes are beautiful, just like the beginning of the relationship, but there’s hardness here too. A stumble, a fall; it could be the end. And I’m acutely aware that I am in a remote place with a man that seemingly has much to hide. I don’t want to be here anymore. Not with him. I don’t want to look into the green-eyed abyss any more. I used to think that I could stare into those eyes for an eternity. Now those green eyes stare back at me with an emotion I can’t quite place. Not hatred. But certainly not the lust from the summer.
After coming back from the volcanoes, I say “I don’t want to be here anymore. Not with you.” Even though my heart is breaking, I refuse to cry. His jaw tenses, and he put his hand on top of mine.
“Micaela.” Just the sound of my name in his accented voice almost causes the dam to break. “Micaela, I did not want to hurt you.”
I pull away from his hands, look into those green eyes, now heavy with regret, turn around and walk into the city. I do not look back.
As I am walking away, I imagine that you feel sadness. Sadness of what was never meant to be. Sadness for taking a chance. And a sadness for keeping secrets. Whatever those might have been.
I head to the bus station seeking the first bus to the coast. Caribbean? Pacific? It doesn’t matter. I just want–no need– to be surrounded by salt water. I get seated on the bus, my backpack on my lap, and the tears start to fall. Slowly at first, almost as if they are waiting their turn, and then, much more rapidly.
I opt for the Caribbean side of Costa Rica and end up in the sleepy town of Puerto Viejo Limon. It is a hippy, dippy kinda of place where some people come to visit and never leave. It had a small guest house, a bar, beaches as far as the eye can see, and some very interesting neighbors.
Puerto Viejo Limon
The first two days I ate nothing but fresh fish, rice, and a variety of fresh fruit, and drank nothing but passion fruit and vodka. I tried not to think of him. I tried not to remember the way his green eyes sparkled in the morning. How those green eyes faded to black when he saw me at the airport in San Jose.
I tried not to remember how incredibly sexy he was, shirtless, brown skin glistening in the moonlight, down by the river on those hot summer nights. I tried not to remember that I was also shirtless. I tried not to remember how he took ice cubes and melted them on my skin. I tried not to remember how the coldness of the ice melting and the heat of his breath drove me mad with desire. I tried not to remember how time stopped when our lips met.
But remember I did. All these moments and so many more. No amount of passion fruit and vodka could make me forget. But I wanted to forget. I wanted to forget so badly, and so I looked at the bartender and said ‘Uno mas, por favor.’
Somewhere around day 5 I notice you staring at me. You are definitely not Costa Rican or even Caribbean. I look at you and you stare back, our eyes locking.
“I’ve been watching you” you tell me. Your English is good. Definitely not North American, but it doesn’t sound quite British either. I tend to notice things like that.
“Oh? Seen anything interesting?” I reply.
“You’ve been drinking entirely too much vodka.”
“Obviously you haven’t been watching me too closely or you’d know I haven’t been drinking enough vodka because I still remember.
“What do you remember?” you ask.
“Everything. Everything I want to forget.”
“Walk with me” you implore.
“I can’t go with you. I know nothing about you. You could be a serial killer for all I know,” I reply.
“I’m not” you say. I notice that I’ve hurt you. The expression on your face is that of a small child who has just has his favorite toy taken away. “Walk with me.”
I get up. Slowly, partly due to the vodka, and partly because I’m just now noticing how attractive you are.
“But I still don’t know anything about you…” I say as we begin our walk along the white sandy beach. “Why are you in Costa Rica?” I ask, then ponder as to why that’s my first question as opposed to something more useful like ‘what is your name?’
To be honest, I don’t even remember your reply… something about Costa Rica and biodiversity and research. I realize I am drunk, and wonder how long the copious quantity of vodka I’ve consumed will stay down. I also wonder if you will kiss me. And if drunk vomiting is the worst turn-off imaginable.
“I need to sit down” I say, probably slurring my works. I notice you steering me towards another beach-side bar. There seems to be one about every 500 meters or so. “No… no more vodka” I muster. I noticed you talking to the bartender and you come back with water. Nice cold water.
“Why are you drinking yourself into oblivion?
“Because I’m trying to forget”
“Forget what?” you ask.
“The reason I’m in Costa Rica. Everything about Costa Rica. Just everything.” I look at him with sadness. There are no more tears. The sea has swallowed them whole, but there is still sadness inside.
At the random beach-side bar, where the not quite English, yet definitely not North American cute ecological researcher gave me water, I notice a dart board. Suddenly I’m feeling better. “Wanna play?” I ask. He’s not so sure about letting a drunk person throw sharp, pointy objects. “Where are you from, anyway? I ask.
“Wales” he replies “It’s near…”. I cut him off and asked “beth yw dy enw?” His jaw dropped to the floor and said ‘You speak Welsh? Where are YOU from? I just smiled and said ‘I asked you a question?
“My name is Matthew. I grew up in Ceredigion.” “I’ve been there” I reply. You look at me, curious. Curious as to whether I am telling the truth or just trying to impress you.”It’s near Pembrokeshire” I reply. I can tell you are impressed. In that moment, I forget about Costa Rica, the reason I came, and everything that has happened in the last 10 days. I look into your eyes, green with a hint of gray, and kiss you. And finally, I forget.
Two years later on a cold dreary November day, I hear the version of my name that only he used… Micaela.
I turn around and look for you. Two years have aged you a lot. I stare into the familiar green eyes and feel nothing. I always wondered what it would be like if I saw you again, and now I know. There’s no bitterness. No hatred. No feelings of lust. Just you, smiling, searching for something in my expression. You says hello, and I reply in kind. How about a drink, you ask. No thank you, I say for the first time. It was good seeing you. And it was.
I will forever be grateful that he came into my life when he did. Sometimes, even now after all these years, I wonder what he’s doing, and where he is. In my mind, the entire country of Costa Rica will forever be linked to heartbreak, a green-eyed lover, vodka, and the one who made everything be OK.
