The árbolita gordita

It never fails. I’m walking down the roads of my quiet Huancavelica town when all the sudden I’m greeted by one of the neighbors: “Heeeeey, Lyndsey! Lookin’ good! I can tell you’re really fitting in around here!”

Why thank you! Tell me, is it because after months of toil I speak Spanish like a guru? Is it because I can dance huaino like the best of them? Maybe it’s because I ate that sheep intestine soup like a native and even asked for seconds?

“Yea, look how gordita you are! You sure must be comfortable here with all that weight you’ve put on!”

Welcome to my life. Every. Single. Day.

Within the first week in Peru, I was introduced to that verbal brazenness that is so integral to Peruvian culture. In America, we tend to tiptoe around certain topics, trying with all our might to be sensitive and “politically correct.” Although we are often labeled for being direct in our conversations, Americans will jump through extraordinary linguistic hoops in order to avoid even the smallest possibility of offending someone (“What?! Of course that dress doesn’t make your butt look big. But have you considered this one over here? Now this one would make you look like a bombshell…”). That just doesn’t seem to exist here. Sometimes the frank dialog that often finds its way into my conversations with Peruvians can be immensely funny and useful (“Don’t believe anything he says. He’s a terrible mayor.”), to mind-numbingly dull (“It’s raining. The sky is overcast. There sure is a lot of mud!”), to, at least from my perspective, offensive (“Hey, chinita, you’re fat!”). On a good day, it takes every ounce of strength to remember that I’m interpreting these words from the lenses of American culture. The words are hurtful because I insert an extra meaning taken from my own experiences and background; the hurt does not lie in the speaker’s intent. So, when someone yells, “¡Hola, gordita! ¡Ven acá!” I instead choose to hear:

“Hey there, girl-I-feel-so-comfortable-with-and-like-so-much-that-I’m-going-to-use-this-cute-diminuitive-nickname-to-call-you-by! Come over here so we can talk and be best friends!”

On a bad day, though, it just sounds like this:

“Hey, fat ass, get over here!”

It doesn’t help that I come from a culture that has an incredibly shallow, two-dimensional definition of beauty. In American society, both men and women have an image of what a perfect body is. We’re absolutely bombarded with it. Through creative uses of Photoshop and the power of the media, we’re constantly presented with the impossible gold standard of beauty: that slim, toned, Barbie doll body that, literally, embodies success. What did you say? You’re body doesn’t look even remotely like that? Well then! Better go out and buy that gym membership, subject yourself to a completely unhealthy weight-loss program, and start measuring your self-worth by the size of your jeans because you just GOTTA HAVE IT! I used to see it all the time: women standing in line at the local café clad head to toe in overly-tight Nike sports wear, even though they hadn’t so much as jogged out their front door, swapping juice cleanse plans and beauty tips given in the latest Hollywood magazine. Clicking their perfectly manicured nails on the counter to signal their impatience for caffeine, they’d go on and on and on about themselves, too narcissistic and vanity-driven to give a hoot about the poor barista slaving away on their extra light, extra hot, no foam sugar-free soy latte. In their drive for perfection, they’d completely renounced all the glorious little imperfections that make humanity so beautiful.

It’s not within Peace Corps’ nature to attract people like these to be volunteers. We’re made of different material. We’re tough, strong, adventurous people who are beautiful by a different standard. However, we come from a culture where narcissism and depreciation are part of the every day norm. It’s ingrained, and even when we’re in a foreign country we still hold ourselves up to that American ideal. Worse still, we PCVs can be highly envious, comparative creatures. We compare our work, we compare our likability, and we compare our bodies. Worse still, we compare in an extremely self-depreciating manner. Often times during regional meetings, I will witness volunteers engage in body bashing; sometimes I even engage in it myself.

“Oh my God, I have gotten so fat since coming to Peru. Just look at how big my thighs are.”

“You’re thighs are big? Just look at mine. If yours are big, mine are huge!”

Sound familiar? According to the New York Times, this kind of body-denigrating dialog is called “fat talk” and is seen as a norm in American conversation. Unfortunately, it’s also a custom for PCVs. When we look in the mirror or talk to each other, we often times play a vicious game of comparison and focus on what we’d like to change; rarely do we ever focus on our strengths and see them as beautiful. Examine the following conversation:

PCV #1: “Oh my God, I have gotten so fat since coming to Peru. Just look at how big my thighs are.”

PCV #2: “You’re thighs are big? Just look at mine. If yours are big, mine are huge!”

PCV #3: “Really? I think your legs look just fine. I happen to think my own legs are quite stunning.”

Who’s going to be honest and admit that if you were PCV #1 or #2 in that conversation, you’d immediately think PCV #3 was a sniveling, smug asshole? I would. And isn’t that sad? It is more acceptable and comforting for us to depreciate ourselves. Being positive and empowering runs the risk of you being judged, ostracized, and disliked.

I know that our culture pressures us to have a body that resembles a skinny twig. I know that we PCVs aren’t immune to that. I also know we have this nasty habit of basing our ideas of success and worth on how we’re doing compared to the PCV next to us. I also know that Peruvians’ tendency to remark frankly on our bodies can, at least in our minds, make things even worse. We’re told by our home, our peers, and even ourselves that we need to be a twig and that those extra pounds we gain due to stress, different diets and lifestyles, or just by enjoying life is a mark of failure. But here’s the thing – why the hell would you want to be a twig, anyway?

Twigs are fragile little cast-offs. They are shed, stepped on, forgotten, and incredibly fragile. No one notices a twig, and few find them beautiful. They’re too distracted by the immense tree towering over them. Trees soak up everything life has to throw at them. They reach their limbs into the sun and bathe in its light and they plunge their roots deep, deep into the soil to grab hold of the richness that lies below. They’re firmly tied to the ground, yet they never stop reaching upward. They know how to bend, even to the point of breaking, and weather a storm. Even still, nine times out of ten when the storm passes they’re still standing. They change with the seasons, yet what makes them truly beautiful and unique never disappears. They provide comfort to those around them – a literal breath of fresh air, shade for escaping the heat, and innumerable crooks and crannies ideal for making a home or just for playing.

Twigs are those shallow, frail people who don’t find joy in their imperfections, who don’t cultivate their inner strength, and can only see worth when they’re better than others and striving towards an impossibly fake ideal. Trees are just the opposite.

Narcissism is the antithesis of why we become PCVs. Joining the Peace Corps is not about building strength, showing off, and wearing it like a fashion statement. It’s about finding that strength you never new existed, cultivating it into an unstoppable force, and measuring yourself against yourself every single day. We join the Peace Corps to feel good and to do good, not to look good. I am a PCV because I am not, nor shall I ever be a twig.

I’m going to be one hell of a tree, and so are you. 

My zombie, myself

As anyone who knows be back home can attest, I LOVE Halloween. It is, by far, my absolute favorite holiday of the year. Every year, I always plan some sort of ornate Halloween party or road trip with friends and family. And therein lies the main reason why I am such a Halloween fan: it has always involved all of those who I love most dearly. I have so many fun memories of my parents loading up a car full of kids to take us to some remote haunted house or corn maze. Better still, all age distinctions were lost as children, teens, and adults alike would scream, cling to each other, and run for what seemed like our very lives. Being a baker, Halloween is like a goldmine. There are so many cute, themed cookies, cupcakes, and other tasty treats to be made with fall ingredients. It is not uncommon for me to have 22-hour baking sprees to prepare for a Halloween party or event. Also, being from Indiana I can also attest that there is truly no better place to experience Halloween than in the Midwest. In general, autumn is always beautiful where I live. After all, what could be more picturesque than to go trick-or-treating beneath the red, gold, and orange-colored leaves of the neighbors’ trees? The sky becomes bright and clear; the air turns crisp and almost always smells like burning leaves. Cornfields get turned into haunted mazes and the local, run down farmhouse suddenly becomes the best haunted house you can imagine. Bonfires are lit, apple cider and donuts are passed around, and everyone gets bundled up for the next hayride. What’s not to love?

Unfortunately, Halloween seemed like it was going to be pretty dismal and humdrum this year. I was stuck in Lima recovering from a surgery on my toe. After all of my wonderful Midwest memories, being stuck in a big, urban city in Peru seemed like the last place I wanted to be for my favorite time of the year. Resigned to have yet another ordinary day, I packed up some work and headed to the Peace Corps office, determined to make the most of my situation and try to be productive if I couldn’t be festive. No sooner had I sat down and opened up my laptop, I saw Jennifer, our financial director, walk in the room.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were here in Lima.”

“Yea, well, to be honest neither did I.”

“Well, do you want to be a zombie?” Seeing my stunned face, Jennifer then turned and pointed at my foot. “I mean, with bandaging like that, you must already have the walk down…”

A piece of advice to all: when someone asks you if you want to be a zombie, the answer is always, under every circumstance, “yes.” Halloween was suddenly starting to look more promising.

Within the office grounds, there are a series of bins full of used clothes. Many Peace Corps Volunteers are eager to shed themselves of unwanted or unnecessary possessions when they close their service. Determined to be a passable zombie, I raided the bins for unloved, ratty clothes. I managed to find a rather worn-looking marathon shirt and yoga pants with holes in the legs. Perfect! Holding up my findings, I already had my back story planned…

She’s running through the woods, determined to take advantage of the solitude and fall weather and prepare for her next race. She’s jogging – alone – along the path when suddenly she’s surrounded. ZOMBIES ON ALL SIDES! She tries to run…but NOT FAST ENOUGH! *COMP!*

I have an overactive imagination.

Another nice surprise was the arrival of Jennifer’s husband, Kevin, who ended up being a secret makeup artist in disguise. Arriving with a whole plethora of face paints, fake blood, and prosthetics made of latex and painted toilet paper, Kevin was ready to turn us all into the undead. We painted our visible skin green, added some bruises, bite marks, open sores, and other mortal wounds, and covered our hair and clothes in potting soil and fake blood. It was FANTASTIC!

So we all piled into a van and were practically bouncing in our seats as we headed to the US Embassy. Getting into character, we growled and pawed at the windows whenever a car full of people would pass by. Thankfully, no traffic accidents occurred.

The US Embassy in Peru has an absolutely wonderful Halloween party every year. Organizations that work through the embassy, such as Peace Corps and the US Marines, and the departments within the embassy are allocated various sections of the basement and first two floors of the building. Each group chooses a theme and then decks out their area as much as possible. Peace Corps decided to do a zombie-themed haunted house, but others decided to create a mini version of Neverland, Alice in Wonderland’s tea party, a circus, etc. In this way, families of embassy workers could come and have fun and their kids could trick-or-treat in a secure way. Needless to say, it was the first time I had to have security clearance to enter a haunted house.

Patrolling the haunted house was a ton of fun. I got to amble after screaming adults and children alike and scare the pants off of them. In the end, I was told that four children cried. In all honesty, though, the biggest screamers were the middle-aged women. Once the crowd had passed through, I had a great time laughing with my fellow zombie-clad volunteers and prepping for the next round of victims. I did, unfortunately, spend a lot of time on my feet and received a good tongue lashing by my doctor, who unfortunately recognized me when she brought her own children to the haunted house. Thankfully, my toe was fine and no one stepped on me the whole night. Actually, several people thought my bandaged foot was part of my costume.

Once the embassy’s festivities wound down, we all hopped back in our van and headed to our country director’s house, who was holding his own Halloween party. Still dressed as a zombie, I got to socialize with the Peru 22-ers, who are still undergoing their own training in Lima. Seeing the doctors glare at me across the lawn, I refrained from dancing but still got to enjoy the cookout and talk with staff members who I hadn’t seen in months.

So, all in all, a most unexpected and highly enjoyable Halloween. I most certainly will not forget it. 

A little fear, a bit mistake, and a fantastic (mis)adventure

One of the many self-discoveries I’ve made during the time in the Peace Corps is that I have small, irrational fears that are deeply buried in my psyche. For instance, I have an irrational fear of skydiving. I have always sworn to kingdom come that I would never, ever skydive because a) I’m mildly petrified of heights and b) I don’t like the idea of trusting my life to another person or object. Since heights make me extremely uncomfortable, I tell myself that there is no way I could enjoy skydiving, even though I’ve never tried it. Because I don’t want to trust myself to others, I speculate on insanely improbable things-that-could-go-wrong: the faulty parachute that doesn’t open, the string that breaks and prevents you from launching said faulty parachute, the drunk guide who condemns me to plunge to my death due to his inebriated judgment, and so on and so forth. As anyone can tell you, though, skydiving is a perfectly safe, exhilarating experience 99.99999% of the time that usually results in an unforgettable adventure. And yet, I rationalize my illogical and ridiculous trepidations and convert them into seemingly viable excuses, thus barring me from ever giving my small fears, such as skydiving, a chance to be resolved. I have many such tiny fears, all of which would be so very easy to ignore. In all honesty, I know I could live a perfectly happy and fulfilled life if I just simply let them be. However, by doing so I would be inviting missed opportunities and experiences, both the good and the bad, to enter my life. Perhaps I’d enjoy 99.9% of what life has to offer me, but there would always be that 0.1% that I’d miss. And, maybe that 0.1% would make all the difference. Do I really want to risk that possibility? As a result, I’ve vowed that whenever I discover one of my irrational fears, no matter how small and insignificant it may seem, I have to root it out. When I hear myself thinking, “Oh no, there’s no way I could do that because…” I have to immediately stop and say, “Why yes, I’d love to.” However, as I learned this past month, sometimes saying that “yes” can have rather unfortunate and, in this case, hilarious consequences.

*********

“Well, you’re most definitely going to need surgery.”

Cursing my bad luck, I slunk down into the doctor’s chair and sulked. How could I have been such a stupid klutz and caused this to happen? Now I needed surgery? These are not words you want to hear when you’re living in a foreign country.

*********

It’s always sad when PCVs return back to the States. In this particular case, all those who arrived in the Peru 18 group were getting ready to close their service, finish their two-year long projects, and return back to the US. Saying goodbye is always difficult, but for those like me from the Peru 20 group, losing the 18-ers was especially hard. The 18-ers were like our mentors when we first arrived. They helped us get past our starry-eyed wonder and set realistic expectations for ourselves and our Peace Corps experience; they gave us the encouragement and pep talks necessary to make it through our first rainy season, our first holidays away from our families, our first disappointments and failures; they kept us excited when we wanted to be apathetic, positive when we wanted to blast everyone with frustrated negativity, and optimistic when it would be so much easier to lower our hopes and dreams. And now they were leaving. As much as we wanted them to stay, how could we not be happy and proud of those who did so much not just for us, but for Peru as well? So, we were determined to throw them an amazing goodbye party and send them off in style.

Fortunately for us, we were able to have an incredible event for our beloved 18-ers. In a Peru 19-er’s site, a family was converting a rural hacienda-like mansion into a hotel. Since it was still under renovation and had yet to get a lot of business, they agreed to let us rent out the entire facility for free. The hotel was in the middle of nowhere, so we didn’t have to worry about disturbing the local town with too much music and noise. It also came with a swimming pool, a huge tree full of hammocks, a dancing pavilion with lights and speakers, and a place nearby to horseback ride. Who could ask for more? The party ended up being very bittersweet. We all had an amazing time dancing in improv Halloween costumes, rocking out to pop music, launching fireworks, and enjoying a photo slideshow and a roast and toast. Still, it was hard to forget that, despite all the festivities, we were still saying goodbye.

In the midst of all of this, I did something incredibly stupid.

My family is notorious for being klutzes. Seriously, I don’t know how we do it. Somehow we always manage to injure ourselves in the most awkward and idiotic manners. So, I guess it’s only fair that it was finally my turn to join the list of ridiculous injuries.

So there I was at 1:00 AM Saturday, October 19^th taking a break from dancing when all the sudden my site mate runs past me yelling, “Lyndsey! We’re going skinny dipping! Come and join us!”

“Oh no, thanks guys but I don’t really…”

Damn it all. There it was. I had just found an irrational fear. Looking behind me I, I realized that all of the Peace Corps Volunteers in my region were dancing less than 15 meters away from the pool. It was dark out, but not nearly dark enough to give me the modesty I would have preferred. So what was my fear? That someone would judge me for jumping naked into the pool? That I was ashamed of my body? That I would be childish by skinny dipping? Probably a little bit of all the above. But here’s the thing – for whatever reason, I realized that I was afraid of shame, whether it be from myself or from peers, and I was going to let the possibility of shame prohibit me from having fun and from enriching my life experience with a potentially funny memory. I had just unearthed an irrational fear and, regardless if I really wanted to or not, I now had to take my clothes off and get in the pool.

So trying to be as quick as possible, I stripped and jumped in. Now note: I did not swan dive. I did not even do an epic cannonball. I just jumped like a normal person into the shallow end of the pool. Yes, the shallow end. Now, it was a wee bit shallower than expected, but not by a lot. This was not like jumping into a kiddy pool. It was just, perhaps, 1-1½ ft. shallower than you would expect an American swimming pool to be. Well, that 1-1½ ft. made all the difference. Before I knew what was happening, my left foot struck the bottom of the pool. Four of my toes bent naturally in one direction, but unfortunately my pinkie toe didn’t get the memo and bent somewhere between 45-90º in the opposite direction.

I immediately knew I had just done something very, very stupid.

Fortunately, my site mate is also an EMT. After hobbling my way out of the cursed pool and pulling on some clothes, I called her over to see if I had just broken my toe.

“Well, can you feel me poking it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you bend it?”

“Yes.”

“If I pull it gently like this, does it really hurt?”

“It’s uncomfortable, but not really.”

“Well, you still have circulation, too, so it doesn’t seem broken to me. At worst, it’s fractured, which you can’t do anything about. Most likely you’ve just jammed the hell out of it. All we can do is dry it off and tape it.”

Unfortunately, my toe was a lot worse off than either one of us expected. To complicate matters even more, there was no cell phone service where we were. As a result, I couldn’t have called the Peace Corps emergency medical hotline even if I wanted to. So what could I do? I taped it, stayed off my foot as much as possible, and waited.

            Time: 24 hrs. after the accident

The next day I left the hotel in the afternoon and went to Ica. As soon as I was back in a cell phone service area, I called the Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) on duty and explained what happened. Not surprisingly, they immediately wanted and x-ray and scheduled an appointment in a clinic for the following day.

            Time: 48 hrs. after the accident

I arrived at the clinic relatively pain free. My toe was swollen and a little crooked, but I attributed its bruising and eggplant-like shape to uneven swelling. Plus, there wasn’t any searing pain, so I saw no cause for alarm. When the technician threw my x-ray up on the board, we observed four normal toes, but the culprit, my disobedient pinkie toe, was...well, different. The technician, hiding a smirk, turned around to me and said, “Well, that toe’s not even close to being where it’s supposed to be, is it?” I stared in horror at the x-ray. My toe was completely shifted over and askew. It was like having a mini version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in my foot. Knowing things were only going to go downhill from here, I reluctantly called the PCMO again and, after explaining everything, was told that I had to go to Lima. I limped my way out of the clinic, grabbed my stuff from the hotel, and got on a bus.

            Time: 72 hrs. after the accident

It was Tuesday morning and I was sitting in a different clinic waiting for my appointment with Dr. Rojas, a trauma specialist. When I finally got into his office, I explained the entire unfortunate story to Dr. Rojas, whose face gradually darkened and looked more and more concerned as I talked. Frowning, the doctor asked me to lie down on the table and said he was going to try to relocate my toe. Cringing my teeth and trying not to yelp in pain, I waited as the doctor pulled, pushed, and jiggled my toe, trying to put it back in it’s normal spot. In his defense, he did it as gently as he could. Finally, I heard him sigh and say, “Well, this isn’t good.”

You never, ever want to hear those words leave a doctor’s mouth.

“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, you’re most definitely going to need surgery.”

I listened in dismay as Dr. Rojas explained that since the bone wasn’t immediately put back into place and it took me so long to see a doctor, a tendon had now shifted over and squeezed into the space between the dislocated joints. Now, no amount of pulling and pushing could put the toe back in because the stupid tendon was in the way. Instead, they would have to cut my toe open, put the tendon back in its normal spot, shift the bone back over, and stick in a metal pin to secure everything in place while I healed.

Fantastic.

            Time: 6 days after the accident

Friday morning I arrived at the clinic again with Dr. Carmen, one of the PCMOs. Together we checked in, settled into my hospital room, and answered various questions as nurses and doctors came in and out. I had my blood drawn, blood pressure taken, heart listened to, etc. Finally, in came the anesthesiologist, just the man I wanted to see.

Immediately I said I didn’t want to have full anesthesia. You can call me a wimp, but I don’t like going fully under unless it’s completely necessary. When I went under to get my wisdom teeth taken out several years ago, I was bedridden by vomiting and nausea for a full day afterwards. Thankfully, the anesthesiologist agreed with me, saying that full anesthesia was definitely overkill for a simple toe operation. Satisfied, I said I’d like local anesthesia instead.

“…I don’t recommend that.”

Stunned, I asked why not. Didn’t he just say this was going to be a simple operation?

“You’re going to have a pin inserted through your bone. While your toe might be numb, that pain is going to reverberate up you leg. I don’t think local anesthesia is going to be enough. I think we should choose something in the middle, something stronger than local anesthesia but not as strong as full anesthesia.”

“Well, what do you recommend, then?”

“An epidural.”

“…as in what they use for childbirth?”

“Yes, exactly. We’ll numb everything from the waist down. You won’t feel a thing.”

Good grief.

As the anesthesiologist left the room, I turned to Carmen and asked, with all seriousness, “Can’t we just amputate the damn thing?”

“…you want to amputate your toe?”

“Why not? Besides gymnasts and ballerinas, who really needs a pinkie toe? Honestly, this is waaaaaay too much trouble for what the damn thing is worth. Let’s just chop it.”

“Lyndsey, we are not amputating your toe.”

“Hear me out-”

“NO!!!!”

So there I was an hour later, staring at the ceiling of an operating room, hearing the beeping of my own heart on a heart rate monitor, trying to ignore the IV being put in my arm while watching my leg being swabbed in iodine. As a warning to any readers who might be undergoing a similar experience in the future, it is not wise to binge on seasons of House before undergoing surgery. It just freaks you out unnecessarily. As I tried my best to not dwell on the various, horrific surgical procedures House had to salvage on seasons 1-3, I felt myself being pulled forward by the nurses and having my spine and sides poked at.

“Ok, now DON’T MOVE.”

Don’t move? That has got to be one of the cruelest jokes on the planet. You’re sticking a needle directly into my central nervous system and you expect me to not move? So of course, I twitch like crazy. I wish I could say the process was more or less painless, but that would be a lie. As the needle was being inserted, it felt like every nerve between my skin and my spine was being poked along the way. Despite my best intentions, I spasmed uncontrollably as various nerves fired all along my back and sides. Then, just when I thought it was over with, I was informed we were halfway done. I forgot the catheter. So, next an even bigger needle was inserted and, I kid you not, I could feel the lidocaine being fed into my body and trailing towards my hips. Ladies, childbirth must truly suck to be worth an epidural.

As I laid back and felt the ceiling spin, I noticed something odd. My right leg and hip were completely numb; I couldn’t so much as bend my toes. However, my left side still retained a bit of feeling. Guess what side my operation was on? The left side, of course.

Even when your leg is 80-90% numb, having your toe splayed open is highly painful. Likewise, having a pin drilled through your bone is mildly excruciating. Now granted, I’m sure it would have hurt a lot worse if I had no anesthesia whatsoever. But still, it hurt. Thankfully, the procedure was short and simple. My suffering ended after about 30 minutes. However, I still had to spend the night in the hospital with an aching back and a throbbing foot.

            Time: 14 days after the accident

So here I am, still in Lima. My stitches have come out, but I still have the pin and the left side of my foot is covered in bandages. Since I can’t put a closed-toed shoe on, everyone in the clinic and the Peace Corps office agreed that I should stay in Lima until the pin is removed. If I were to return to my site in Huancavelica, the risk of further injury and infection would be extremely high. Since I am required to walk all the time in site, healing would be jeopardized. I could accidentally pull the pin out or jam it further into my foot, for example. In that scenario, I’d have to trek all the way back to Lima, which would be 10-11 hours away. I also imagine that I’d be in excruciating pain all the while, making that perhaps the longest and worst journey in my life. In addition, all the roads are dirt roads and there are farm animals everywhere. Since I can only wear flip-flops, keeping my bandaging clean would be a nearly impossible task. I really do not wish for my toe to become infected, especially since that pin goes through my bone. On the other hand, if I were to stay in Lima, I could reduce the risk of infection and only be a 15-20 minute cab ride away from the clinic if anything bad were to happen. Although I really, really didn’t want to spend my recovery in the city, it was obvious which option was the best solution for my health. As a result, I will be in Lima until November 18^th, a full month after when my accident occurred.

Despite the high degrees of unpleasantness, I want to make it clear that the Peace Corps was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal. The only time Dr. Carmen left my side was when I was in the operating room; she was right there waiting for me as soon as I was wheeled out. My Country Director also called me when he heard the news and even invited me to his house to make my time in Lima more eventful. I also received a lot of warm wishes from volunteers as well as staff, plus lots of condolences and hugs. I haven’t been lonely since volunteers are coming up all the time for various trainings, meetings, and appointments. Although this will most certainly affect the schedule I had planned for myself in terms of my in-site projects, I still have work to do, too. So, all in all it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

In addition, in spite of all the complications, hassle, and frustration that have resulted from my skinny dipping misadventure, if I could travel back in time I would still jump in the pool. A misadventure is still a kind of adventure, after all, and now we all have something to look back on, shake our heads at, and laugh about. So perhaps I look the fool, but it makes me and those around me smile and remember a time of fondness. Call me crazy, but I see worth in that.

So, here’s a little lesson from me to you: whenever you hear that little voice that says, “Oh no, I can’t” never, ever hesitate to jump. 

Forgive my negligence

First of all, I apologize for the obscene amount of time I have been away from my blog. These past couple of months have been kind of a roller-coaster kind of experience for me, and getting myself to sit down and write has been difficult because:

1. I’ve been swamped with work (YAY!)
2.   I had to change host families, and the moving process has been very taxing
3.  I did some significant amount of traveling and have been away from the computer
4. I’ve just been lazy (sorry)

Hopefully, things will be returning to a state of normalcy soon. In any case, as you’ll see from my next blog post, I now have an overabundance of both downtime and internet. Expect several posts in the very near future.

Cheers!