Thanksgiving

I love Thanksgiving. Really I love any activity that encourages the consumption of delicious food and adult beverages, but I particularly love Thanksgiving. It's a lazy day, nothing significant or exciting ever happens at our house, but my memories are always pleasant ones. I mean, really, what's not to love? Family and friends, a massive home-made meal, giving thanks for all the blessings in your life, delicious leftovers for a week, and football.

At the end of September, I was talking to my friend Danny about how weird it's going to be not eating turkey on Thanksgiving. Danny, a professional cook from Staten Island, said he was planning on finding and cooking a turkey for the holiday, even if he had to eat it by himself. Meredith and I immediately suggested a big Thanksgiving meal at our place. If Danny could find the bird and cook the meal, we would get a bunch of people together to eat and help fund the feast.

True to his word, Danny found a 27-pound turkey and all of the supplies he needed for stuffing, gravy, yams, etc. As he was preparing the meal, Meredith and I invited friends from all over Latin America and, of course, our American friends. For most people it was either their first Thanksgiving ever or their first away from home. Per tradition, we went around the room and said what we were thankful for this year. As I looked around the room, I couldn't help but think of how we'd all come from such different parts of the world, each person with their own story of how they came to be in Buenos Aires and/or how they'd met Meredith or myself. And yet, there we all were in a little apartment on Montevideo street celebrating an American holiday together. This year I was thankful for the amazing family I've found in Buenos Aires; thankful that, through chance or fate, each of these people had found their way into my life.

The 27-pound beast

Danny preparing the bird with one of his magical recipes

Spring time!

After a cold and seemingly endless winter - my first full one, in fact - Buenos Aires finally started to warm up in the beginning of November. We celebrated the beginning of Spring by having a picnic with friends in our favorite Palermo park. Beautiful weather, wonderful friends, great food, live music, and cold beer. It was, by definition, a perfect day.

Buenos Aires

Falcutad de Derecha, or the Law School

Our 'hood

Flor

They really like ham here

MALBA, the museum of Latin American art

Working Gator game days at the Alamo

Cafe Tortoni, the first cafe in Buenos Aires

Recoleta Park and Cemetery

Oktoberfest

The Argentine Oktoberfest takes place in Villa General Belgrano, a small German town outside the city of Cordoba. We drank a lot of beer. Other than that there isn't much about the weekend you need to know. Some pictures...

Oktoberfest ladies
L-R: Flor, Meredith, me, and Megan

The Wrist Fiasco

Things that are difficult to do with a cast: everything. It took a solid week for me to adjust to having a heavy, 70’s-style plaster cast on my arm. Even the simplest tasks became daunting chores. Getting dressed, riding the bus, opening doors, washing my hair – everything took longer. I kept all my shifts at the Alamo, and actually enjoyed working there more with a broken arm than I did without. All my coworkers were amazing about helping me with every aspect of the job, and the customers were nicer and less careless in their drunken stumbling around the bar. Though I hated wearing that God awful thing, I considered myself lucky. It happened to my left hand, it happened in the winter when I didn’t have to deal with the summer heat, and I was alive.

After six weeks, it was time for my now-flimsy cast to be changed. My friend Pachu agreed to take me to a free clinic at 5 in the morning to wait with me and translate anything I might not understand. After two different clinics and seven hours of waiting, we still hadn’t seen a doctor and I couldn’t take the wait anymore. Two days later, my friend Freddy went with me to a different free clinic. Once again, hours of waiting without success. Later the that week, I went to a different hospital and, for a small fee, saw a doctor within a few hours. According to my incredibly handsome doctor, the new x-rays showed that the Bolivian doctor hadn’t quite set my arm right and I would need surgery immediately. He sent me to buy a Velcro, removable cast to wear until I could find a surgeon.

As both a drama queen and a hypochondriac, saying the word “surgery” to me in a hospital is similar to screaming the word “bomb” in an airport. After convincing myself that they weren’t going to have to cut off my arm and that in no way would the end result to this be death, I bought my new cast and went home to call my parents. They always know how help me gain perspective on injuries that I’ve managed to drastically blow out of proportion.

Over the next month I visited – no exaggeration – six different doctors. Naturally, every one had a different opinion. One thought my arm still needed some time to heal followed immediately by physical therapy, while another thought surgery was not only necessary but should be done immediately, while most of the others had opinions somewhere in the middle. Every doctor gave their own little twist to make their opinion different from all the others.

My wonderful friend Paco was borderline restless in his efforts to convince me to go to his doctor. After five doctors and five opinions I was worn out. I still couldn’t turn my left hand face-up and knew that I had to get a final answer somewhere. So Paco and I went to see the man he believes to be the best hand and wrist specialist in the country. One last x-ray and the doctor said I was fine. I could get surgery if I wanted, but with physical therapy I would have full movement in my wrist within a few months. Perhaps it was because I wanted to believe him, but something about the way this doctor spoke made me feel like this was the final verdict. As I’d been racked with fear that I was going to have to leave Argentina due to surgery bills, I was relieved to the point of tears.

I have almost complete movement back in my wrist, though certain movements are still difficult. I haven’t been doing my physical therapy nearly as much as I should, so I write that lack of movement off as that. A physical therapist who comes into the Alamo every Saturday has taught me new stretches and says that my wrist is healing fine, just slowly.

This was, once again, an experience that helped me realize how lucky I am to have such amazing friends down here. Pachu woke up at dawn and sat in a dirty clinic for seven hours with me, without complaint, and we never even got to see a doctor. Freddy also took me a free clinic at 5 a.m., after a long shift at work, without success. As soon as Megan heard I might need surgery, she told her office about my situation. She and several of her co-workers spent roughly two hours setting up most of my doctor appointments, most of them free because the doctors were friends or family members of her co-workers. Paco was insistent that I get advice from someone he trusted and knew would give me an accurate diagnosis. He went with me and helped me stay calm when I started talking about going home. And, as always, Meredith was a saint. She helped me with the little day-to-day things that I couldn’t do on my own and tried to help me keep my dramatics to a minimum.

The wrist fiasco was long, expensive and miserable. But it made me realize how lucky I am… for more reasons than one.

Bolivia, pt. 4: Prison, Sucre & Home

Standing outside the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, it was hard to believe the stories about what is really going on inside. Unlike other prisons, the inmates of San Pedro have almost complete freedom with the exception that they cannot leave the grounds. They live in apartment-style cells with their wives and children, have restaurants, stores, and gaming areas. Eighty percent of the prisoners inside San Pedro prison were arrest for drug-related crimes, and the prison itself is a makeshift cocaine plant. We met several people along the way who had actually been inside the prison. Though illegal, tours are a huge source of income for many of the inmates and guards. Marching Powder is a novel by Rusty Young and former prisoner Thomas McFadden about the laws, community and workings of San Pedro Prison. We stood on the sidewalk, staring back at the menacing faces of the guards, and watched as women, holding the hands of small children clad in school uniforms, casually walked inside.

From there it was straight to the bus station. I slept through most of the overnight bus ride to Sucre. Meredith and I wanted to see as much of Bolivia as we could, so after dropping our bags at the hostel we started walking back toward the bus station to catch a bus to Potosi.

Ever the gentleman, Kevin carried his backpack and mine due to my handicap

Before I left for Buenos Aires my Mom gave me a piece of advice that I have taken with me every time I leave my house, be it in the direction of the grocery store or Bolivia. She said something to along the lines of, “You walk around that place with the bitchiest attitude you can muster. People don’t bother those who walk around with confidence.” Well, it’s kind of hard to walk around with a don’t-eff-with-me attitude when you’re in a cast and sling. Walking around Sucre looking for the bus station was one of the most unnerving experiences of the trip. Every person we asked for directions seemed to think it was in a different part of town. Sucre was smaller than La Paz, making the poverty somehow seem more conspicuous and drastic. Not somewhere I was keen on walking around.

We did find the bus station eventually and were about to hand over the money for our tickets when we noticed a big poster of Potosi. The town looked shabby, dirty and terrifying to me. I’m typically not one to turn down an opportunity to see or experience something new out of fear, but I knew that in the off chance that something should happen there would be very little I could do to defend myself. My gut was telling me that Potosi, as much as I wanted to see it, was a bad idea. Meredith agreed. We said our apologies to the women at the desk, put our money in our purses, and walked back outside to explore Sucre.

We found Kevin at the hostel and met up with Agata in the main plaza shortly thereafter. Sucre is nicknamed “the white city” and after spending a few minutes in town it’s not hard to see why: the majority of the buildings are white. Sucre stood in stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of La Paz. It was a nice change and suited our moods for the day. We walked around a few parks, had a small lunch on a European-style balcony in the main plaza, and saw as much as would could in the last afternoon we had left together.

Rocking my sling under a fake Eiffel Tower in Sucre

Kevin and Agata had to catch the early bus down to Uyuni, so Meredith and I said out goodbyes that night. On the way down to Uyuni the next day, they stopped in Potosi for a few hours and were almost robbed by a cab driver, a fake tourist and someone posing as a police officer. Luckily, both Agata and Kevin had heard about this kind of tactic to rob tourists and didn’t go for the bait. Turns out Meredith and I’s instincts were right on the money about Potosi, though.

Our flight to Santa Cruz didn’t leave until the late afternoon so we did the only thing we know how to do when in a beautiful city with time to kill: buy a couple liters of beer and head to the nearest park. This is one of our favorite Buenos Aires past times and, now, one of our favorite Bolivian ones as well. We sat on a bench in the main plaza for several hours passing beers back and forth, reminiscing on the trip and what was to come. Sitting there, donning my cast and sling, sipping on beer, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to go home. And it took me a few seconds to realize as this feeling washed over me that for one of the first times I wasn’t thinking about Florida. For now, Buenos Aires is home and I couldn’t wait to get back here.

Bolivia, pt. 3: Meeting Death Road... Face First

After our snack break we got back on our bikes and started with the real deal. The road was rugged and narrow. Our first stop was “Death’s Corner,” where a dip in the mountain takes several feet off the already limited path. Standing on the edge of the cliff, looking across at all the mountains and down the edge of the cliff I felt so small. I was just one little person taking up an insignificant amount of space on this big and daunting mountain.

“There’s no coming back from that,” the person next to me said, also peering over the side. I nodded in reply, taking one last look down at the treetops. As I walked away I made a mental note to remember that I’m not invincible and to stay away from the edge.

Death Corner

During the next leg I started to feel the Bolivian sun’s intense heat, so at the next stop I shed my layers. As soon as we started riding again on the bumpy road I knew I had a problem. My elbow pads were now too loose and kept sliding down. I saw a turn a few feet ahead followed by a wider, straight bit of road. After the turn, going at a speed too fast for what I was about to attempt, I took my left hand and yanked up my right elbow pad. The force of the pull, in addition to the rattling from the gravel, caused me to lose control. In a panic I slammed my left hand back down, but instead of grabbing onto the handle I yanked the left brake – the front brake. Cue Kelly flipping headfirst over her handlebars and doing a somersault with the bike.

My first thought was, “Am I alive?” Once I realized I was okay and that nothing seemed to be seriously injured, I sat up to look for Meredith. I knew if she turned around and saw me on the ground she’d have a heart attack. People were stopping around me now and I kept repeating, “I’m okay, I’m okay.” The guide helped me stand up and Meredith was right in front of me saying things I can’t remember now. I had stood up too fast. My head felt light and everything was really bright. The guide started moving my hands and as soon as he grabbed my left wrist I felt the pain. Apparently, I’d instinctively put my left hand down to break my fall and had injured my wrist. He asked if I could hold the bike. I couldn’t. That’s when my worst nightmare became a reality: they put me in the van.

Meredith, Kevin and Agata stood outside the van as the other guide wrapped my wrist in gauze. I cracked a few jokes with her about my chronic clumsiness and downplayed the throbbing in my hand. I sent my friends away to catch up with the rest of the bikers, flashing a huge smile and reiterating a statement from earlier that if this was going to happen to anyone, it was going to be me. As soon as the guide was finished, she took off on her own bicycle leaving me alone with the van, the road, and a Bolivian driver that I begged to go as slowly as possible.

The van started moving. My chest felt heavy, my throat tight. The humor in the situation had completely evaporated and had been replaced with a fear so overpowering that it felt like it was choking me. Through my tears, I trained my eyes on a white plastic rosary dangling from the rear view mirror. I was literally sitting inside one of my worst fears, in the most extreme circumstances. When I ride the buses to work in Buenos Aires and there’s a sharp turn I hold onto the pole a little tighter. And here I was, in a van next to a cliff notorious for gobbling up vehicles on the regular.

An exact replica of the van I was in

It took the driver about five minutes and 20 requests to slow down for him to realize that my tears had nothing to do with my hand. He was compliant, going slower than I was on my bike, and tried his best to soothe me when I actually started whimpering as we came face-to-face with a truck. He veered toward the mountainside and stopped the van, letting the truck inch by on the cliffside. When we finally made it to the next stop, Agata took one look at my tear-stained face and asked if they’d given me medication for the pain. I shook my head and said, “I’m not getting back in that f---ing van.”

I tried to hold the bike, but couldn’t make a grip with my left hand. I told everyone it was probably just sprained. I believed it was sprained. It didn’t hurt that bad. Looking back, I know that my mind was too overwhelmed with the emotional aspect of what was going on to send the message to my body that it was injured. The guide said I had to ride in the van. I asked if I could walk. He said no. With a sick feeling in my stomach I climbed back into my personal hell chamber.

Not happy

Within moments we were driving through a town away from the cliffs and I immediately felt more at ease. That’s when the disappointment set in. I had been enjoying the bike ride. It was exhilarating, gorgeous, and one of those exclusive experiences that not many can claim. And I didn’t finish. The night before I’d been thinking about fate and how it’s amazing the way things always seem to work out. Everything happens for a reason and it could have been way worse for me. I’m alive. One of my friends put it into perspective by pointing out, “Not many people get to say they’ve done Death Road, but even fewer people get to say they’ve fallen off their bikes on Death Road and lived to tell the tale.”

Enjoying the scenery

When the ride was over, we sat beside a poolside oasis, taking in the beautiful views and sun. Meredith, my savior through the entire wrist debacle, helped me fix my plate and cut my food as we sat down to lunch. With my sugar and adrenaline levels back to normal the pain in my wrist hit me hard and fast. It wasn’t sprained. My hand was swollen, fingers already bruising. The guides gave me some more ibuprofen and recommended I see a doctor as soon as we got back to La Paz.

Something they don’t tell you on the brochure when you sign up for the ride – even if you don’t injure yourself you will endure Death Road in a vehicle. Everyone piled back in the vans and we headed back to La Paz via the North Yungas Road. Though still scary, this ride was less terrifying as I had people and conversation to distract me from reality. About 15 minutes into the ride, Meredith started feeling sick. She tried to hold it together, but had to ask the van to pull over a couple of times.

The ride back was long, quiet and miserable. With every bump, both Meredith and I let out a little groan. Agata and Kevin sat in front of us and tried to keep the mood light. After one particularly rough bump through which I couldn’t stifle a full-blown whimper, Kevin told me that I should be proud of myself. Apparently he’d been riding behind me and said it was “really quite a spectacular fall.” I had no response for that other than laughter. I didn’t need to come all the way to Bolivia to find out I was really good at falling. Just then the CD started playing a “spanglish” version of “Stand By Me” by Prince Royce. With Kevin starting us out by humming the baritone, we all started singing along. It seemed like a cheesy ending to a Lifetime movie, which is why I find the humor in it, but it was the perfect song at the most appropriate time.

When we got back to our hostel, Meredith helped me shower, dress, medicate, eat, and get into bed. I honestly don’t know how I ever would have made it through that day without her. The true measure of friendship is not how long you’ve known each other, how much time you spend together, or how many places you travel together. A true friend is there for you when you are at your worst, most pathetic, and most helpless points in your life. Meredith has always been there for me without question. Always. But even knowing that, I still felt overwhelmingly grateful and blessed to have a friend like her when she pulled my pajama shirt over my head, gently re-wrapped my bandages and tucked me into bed.

The next morning we found out about an English-speaking doctor a few blocks away. Meredith and I went there as soon as we were up, fed and ready. The x-rays showed a fracture in my wrist. The hand and wrist specialist showed me the fracture and explained that they were going to numb the area, reset it and give me a cast. This man, who looked more like one of the Lollipop Kids than a doctor, was going to be responsible for the future of my wrist. Super. Took him about 5 times to get the anesthesia in the right place. Even then I could feel the shooting pain when one nurse held my elbow and the other pulled my fingers, while a Bolivian Danny DeVito poked and prodded at my injury.

Waiting in the clinic with Mer

The cast

Within three hours we were outside, cast on, prescriptions in hand. We met up with Kevin and Agata at the hostel and all took an immediate trip to the pharmacy to stock up on some much needed pain meds. Despite the fact that I didn’t get to finish the Death Road ride, that I had to visit a Bolivian clinic, that I had to spend money I don’t really have, and that the hour after the clinic was - without question - the most excruciating pain I’ve ever been in, I would do the ride all over again in a second. It was that beautiful, that fun, and that amazing. I would recommend it to anyone. Just make sure your elbow pads fit.