Tuesday, September 27, 2016
"Even should you choose to write in the simplest way, a la
Hemingway, the task remains to impart the nuance, to elucidate the
complication, to imply the contradiction. Not to erase the contradiction, not
to deny the contradiction, but to see where, within the contradiction, lies the
tormented human being."
~ Philip Roth, I Married a Communist, 1998
Monday, September 26, 2016
Since we came back from our trip to Vietnam, D and I have started dreaming of our next vacation. We thought of going back to the places
we loved: fly to Nepal to hike the Annapurna Circuit; go back for another month
to South America to explore Chile and Bolivia; return to Morocco and idle the
days away in our favorite auberge in
the mountains. Or why not go somewhere we’ve never been before? Maybe Japan, or
the Basque Country in Spain, or even if it’s a long shot, the Greek Islands or
the Amalfi Coast.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
…the ritual that it takes to write. It may look to
outsiders like the life of freedom—not on a schedule, in command of yourself,
singled out for glory, the choice apparently to write about anything. But once
one’s writing, it’s all limits. Bound to a subject. Bound to make a sense of
it. Bound to make a book of it. If you want to be reminded of your limitations
virtually every moment, there’s no better occupation to choose. Your memory,
your diction your intelligence, your sympathies, your observations, your
sensations, your understanding—never enough. You can find out more about what’s
missing in you than you really want to know. All of you an enclosure to keep
trying to break out of. And all the obligations more ferocious for being
self-imposed. (Philip Roth, The Anatomy Lesson, 1983)
Friday, September 23, 2016
The alarm shrieks. It’s 4:30 am. My mind, resisting and not
yet fully awake, tells me, “You need to run.” It is not easy to wake up that
early in the morning just to be able to squeeze in an hour of exercise before
going to work, but, somehow, I manage to convince myself each time. I run not only to stay fit but also for the joy it brings: the cool morning breeze against my face and the stillness of the
neighborhood when I go out to run; the solitude and ruminative rhythm of measured
steps and breaths; and that feeling of having accomplished a huge feat whenever
I finish a run.
Monday, April 25, 2016
"Dumb hope is what it hurts most to write, occupying the
foolish schemes we pursued for decades, the blind alleys, the cliffs we stepped
off. If you find yourself blocked for a period, maybe goad yourself in the
direction of how you hoped at the time. Ask yourself if you aren’t strapping
yourself across the past to hide the real story."
~ Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir, 2015
Thursday, April 21, 2016
During our last week in Ecuador we remained in the
capital city of Quito. We could have gone to Otavalo, to BaƱos, or to any of
those magnificent sites the country is known for but we didn’t. Weary of three
weeks of long bus rides, delayed flights, and bags constantly packed, unpacked,
and repacked, we opted to while away the remaining week of our vacation doing
nothing. In those days there were no extraordinary
experiences, no awe-inspiring places. There
were simply small but meaningful moments.
 |
Quito, Ecuador |
No Te Metas Con
Zohan
What could be more surreal than watching You Don’t Mess with the Zohan dubbed in
Spanish while eating chaulafan (fried
rice) in a Chinese restaurant in the middle of Quito? With my rudimentary Spanish,
I could hardly grasp the dialogue in the movie, yet I had the most wonderful
time. We stayed in the restaurant, our eyes glued to the small television hanging
on the wall, until they had to throw us out.
Running After a Guayasamin
There's this guy walking around the
Mariscal District with an armload of Oswaldo Guayasamin prints that he is peddling
for five dollars apiece. The first time I saw him he was holding up a copy of Guayasamin's El
Grito III. That’s
beautiful, I thought to myself then walked passed him. After a couple of
minutes, I realized that I have to buy that print because it's too magnificent
to pass up. But when I turned around, he was nowhere in sight. I looked
all around for him but he’s simply gone. As luck would have it, I saw him again after a
few days and that time around I made sure to grab that Guayasamin that almost got
away.
Christmas Day
I consider that Christmas morning one of the best moments
of our trip: the muted hum of the city as it slowly came to life; the radiant
sunshine glinting cheerily as we strolled around Parque La Carolina; the faint whiff of grass and dried leaves, the contrasting
textures and harmonious flavors of the cevichochos
we bought from one of the food stalls in the park; the gladness palpable in the
faces of the people around us. Seated on a bench with the man I love beside me,
I closed my eyes momentarily and felt unbounded joy and contentment.
 |
Cevichochos is a vegetarian ceviche of Ecuadorian chocho beans, tomatoes, onions, and coriander mixed with, aji pepper, mustard, salt, lime, and hot sauce
and topped with roasted corn and plantain chips. |
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
"Poverty does not necessarily lead to extremism,’ I said.
In my head, images of the proud Imams defending their traditions against the
murderous corruptions; of the determined youth leader Tawane, risking his life
to provide services for the refugees when the aid agencies withdrew for fear of
being kidnapped; of Kheyro, working to educate the children of the camp for a
pittance; of Professor White Eyes broadcasting his reports on the camp radio.
How could I convey their towering dignity, their courage and independence of
spirit when they only featured in the official mind as potential terrorists?"
~ Ben Rawlence, City of Thorns: Nine Lives in the World’s Largest Refugee Camp, 2016
Thursday, March 17, 2016
As we trudged ankle deep into the jungle, through a dense
labyrinth of branches, brambles, creepers, and vines, the rain receded and
shafts of sunlight spilled into the forest, streaming past the leafy crowns of
trees overhead. We heard nothing else but the sound of the wild--the synchronous
whine of a hundred cicadas punctuated by the trill of birds and the chatter of monkeys
scattering into the treetops. Surrounded by the magnificence of the Amazon, I
knew right then that I was doing exactly what I should be doing in life at that
moment.
 |
Amazon Rainforest, Ecuador |
Friday, February 26, 2016
Imagine this: In front of a
magnificently lit 11th century church where a mass is being held, a throng of
people --tourists of all ages and nationalities, locals, vendors, couples,
entire families—are dancing cumbia
and eating arepas, chatting with each
other and wandering around. On the very
steps of the church sits a group of people drinking Aguila beer who look as though they do the same thing every single night. Kids are running around holding onto the
strings of vividly colored balloons floating behind them. Spread out on the ground beside some benches is
an assortment of handmade accessories being sold by young people wearing
dreadlocks and bohemian clothes. Surrounding
the area are food stalls selling meat and vegetable platters, grilled chorizos, burgers, hotdogs, and
beverages.
 |
A street party in Getsemani, Cartagena, Colombia |
It was by chance that we discovered
this astonishing street party a couple of blocks from our hostel on a warm
Tuesday night. The church is called Iglesia
de la Santisima Trinidad located at Plaza
de La Trinidad in Getsemani, a neighborhood within the walls of the historic
center of Cartagena. During daytime, the
square was a pretty quiet place where we enjoyed eating mangoes while figuring out
how to use the free public wifi. We didn’t know that that sleepy plaza comes
alive every night and transforms into something that feels festive, open, and
free-spirited—the very same atmosphere that permeates the entire city.
Monday, February 22, 2016
…there are more and more people in the world who have had to
leave, been driven from, a country, the valley, the city they call home,
because of war, plague, earthquake, famine. At last they return, but these
places may not be there, they have been destroyed or eroded; for if at first
glance, like a child’s recognition of its mother’s face when she has been
absent too long, everything is as it was, then slowly it has to be seen that
things are not the same, there are gaps and holes or a thinning of the
substance, as if a light that suffused the loved street or valley has drained
away. Quite soon the people who have known one valley or town all their lives
will be the rare ones, and there are even those who speculate how humanity will
have to leave the planet with plans to return after an interval to allow it to
regenerate itself, like a sick or poisoned organism…
~ Doris Lessing, African Laughter: Four Visits to Zimbabwe, 1992
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
The midmorning heat at the Simon Bolivar International
Airport in Santa Marta was almost unbearable. Pico, the guy who was supposed to
pick us up from the airport, arrived in his beat up Toyota an hour late. With a
big, lazy grin on his face, he was holding up a crumpled paper with my name on
it. That set the tone for our entire trip to South America: Being late is the
norm and being laid-back is the way of life.
We
then drove an hour and a half to our ecolodge along Colombia’s Caribbean coast.
Upon arrival we were told by the manager
that there won’t be any electricity from 5 am to 5 pm for the length of our
stay due to some “technical issues” in the solar panels they’re using. I knew
that the lodge doesn’t have wifi, but the lack of electricity is something I
did not expect.

At first we balked at the idea of spending several days in a
Thoreauvian fashion, but we got used to it and later on even embraced it. In
Santa Marta, we were stripped to the bare essentials: no phones, no television,
no hot showers, no Internet connection, no air conditioning, and no room
service. All we had—and all we needed—was the placidity and stillness of that
palm tree covered beach away from the ceaseless tumult of city life and each
other. Except for that day hike to the marvelous Tayrona National Park, our
days were wrapped in uneventful simplicity. Lying on those plastic lounge
chairs facing the shore, we slept the afternoons away. We talked, read books,
played cards, and walked along the beach.
Divested of modern luxuries, we saw beauty in the mundane. The
things that we usually take for granted beckoned our prolonged attention: The smell of fresh coffee wafting through the
window screen early in the morning; the sight of damp swimsuits left to dry
over the back of a chair looking as if they haven’t recovered from the fun they
had the past day; the sound of conversations in Spanish, half of which I did not understand; the taste of freshly
cooked patacones (twice fried
plantain slices) served with ever meal; the texture of sand and crushed shells
under my feet and the coolness of the waves washing over my legs. We were content simply to be in that place at
that time.
Monday, February 15, 2016
There was a time when I wanted to see only wild places,
and was reluctant to go to a place that had been written about extensively. But
then—it is so funny about travel—I would go to a place that everyone had been
written about and it was as though I was seeing something entirely new…. It
made the going good because I was unprepared for what I saw. That was always
the best part of travel, the sense of discovery. When there was none and it was
all predictable I wanted to go home.
~ Paul Theroux, The Pillars of Hercules: A Grand Tour of
the Mediterranean, 1995
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
That first night in Bogota, I was terrified to step out
of the hostel. Who wouldn’t be if a
poker-faced hostel staff gives you instructions like “Please do not carry your passport or debit/credit cards on you. Carry a
copy of your passport with Colombia visa! Please do not receive food or drinks
from strangers. Do not leave your drink unattended! Please do not carry
jewelry, expensive cameras, electronic devices, etc. with you! Carry only as
much cash as you need. Please do not use your phone or any other expensive
objects on public streets or public buses! Inform yourself about the security;
to know where you’re going, ask at the Reception or the Police! Only visit
Monserrate on peak hours and come back before 3 pm! In emergency cases, you
will hear a whistle. You must follow the instructions of the hostel’s staff.”? The
many stay-away-this-place-is-dangerous horror stories I read from travel
websites and guide books about La
Candelaria in Bogota didn’t frighten me but the sheer number of exclamation
points in those directions did.
 |
Along Carrera 7 in La Candelaria Centro, Bogota, Colombia |
Propelled by an excitement stronger than fear, we did go out that first night, yet nothing untoward disrupted our walk. The faint streetlamps illuminating the pavements below where people nonchalantly sauntered past made us feel anything but unsafe. And it was the nippy December air, not muggers, which assaulted us, leaving us shivering with exhilaration. We walked on several blocks away from the hostel until we found a small cafe, which later became a favorite of ours. In that tiny piece of heaven, I can't help but wonder, "are we, indeed, in one of the “world’s most dangerous cities?"
We continued to explore the area on foot: southwest from
the hostel toward the Botero Museum
that houses Fernando Botero’s paintings and sculptures; then northwest to the
library and art gallery in the Centro
Cultural Gabriel Garcia Marquez and straight to the magnificent Plaza de Bolivar; then northeast to the
supermarket Exito along the pedestrian
zone Carrera 7 lined with shops, offices,
restaurants, and street performers; onward to the university district teeming
with students and cafes; then back to the hostel, passing 300-year old
homes and buildings along narrow cobblestoned streets. Like devotees going on a pilgrimage, we
followed the same route several times each day for the next several days.
La
Candelaria, BogotĆ”'s historic center, became our base as we
traveled across the country. It was the place we called home in Colombia.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
After spending two weeks in Ecuador, I must agree that
there is truth to the country’s slogan All
You Need is Ecuador. With its vibrant
colonial centers, indigenous villages, awe-inspiring peaks, tropical
rainforests, and diverse wildlife, the country, indeed, has it all. We spent time in Quito, a UNESCO World
Heritage site that sits in the foothills of the Andes, in the verdant Amazon
rainforest, and along the majestic Avenue of the Volcanoes.
Here are my favorite experiences:
Hiking to Volcan Quilotoa
Straddling the northern and
southern hemispheres
at La Mitad del Mundo
Riding a tandem bike with my travel partner at Parque
El Ejido in Quito
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Some people—and I am one of them—hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically. Had I been reading about this mild old man, instead of writing about him, I would have preferred him to discover, upon his arrival to Cremona, that his lecture was not this Friday but the next. Actually, however, he not only arrived safely but was in time for dinner - a fruit cocktail, to begin with, mint jelly with the anonymous meat course, chocolate syrup with the vanilla ice cream.
~ Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin, 1957
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Before the memories fade and the reality of the mundane wholly
supplants the enchantment of the foreign, I should recount the lovely time I
had traveling in Colombia. I’ll start with a list of my favorite experiences.
Tasting my first bandeja paisa
Seeing a 10-storey tall image
of Gabriel Garcia Marquez painted on a building in Bogota
Listening to street musicians
in Salento