How Would You Like Your Salad?

Chopped. Is apparently the right answer. Or at least, so I learned today when ordering a salad at a deli and being faced with the question, "Would you like it chopped?" Now, let me explain that the salad and all of its ingredients were already chopped to (what I think of as) the regular bite size. You can imagine my confusion when the man behind the counter asked me whether I would like my salad chopped ... further ... using a chopping machine. After a second's pause, I responded with a "No." He obviously recognized I was a newbie at this and persisted, "Are you sure?" "Yes." I almost felt the urge to tell him, "My salad is normally sized, and I don't need it shredded to bits, thank you very much." Apparently, however, other people did. Two women ahead of me in the line as well as one behind me had theirs chopped. Why? I'm not really sure. It looked so unappealing. But apparently you can then eat it with a spoon. Oh, and the deli can probably charge you more for it.

Door-Hoggers & Solo Cafe-Goers

Slowly,  I am getting used to the sirens at all hours of the day and the go-with-the-rush-or-you-will-be-run-over attitude. Do as the natives or... One thing I am definitely never going to understand (and probably my number one NY pet peeve as of now) is the door-hogger. This is just a random term I have started using to refer to people who enter the subway by taking one step inside and then just standing by the door, while a crowd is gathered to board outside and the inside of the train is empty. Seriously, I haven't seen that anywhere else. Not in DC and definitely not on any of the European subways I have ridden. No-one else really seems to notice or mind from what I can tell, so perhaps over time I won't either.

But I think the phenomenon that has struck me the most this time around is the solo cafe-goer (and this is not something particular to New York, but to the U.S. as a whole). While grabbing coffee is a social experience in most countries, or at least the countries that I am familiar with, in the U.S. it is often a solitary experience. In the rest of the world, most people would not be caught dead sitting alone in a cafe. You go to a cafe to meet up with friends, to spend time with others, to socialize. Perhaps Starbucks is not the best comparison, but I find that even at other "alternative" or European-style coffee shops most of the tables are occupied by one person, who is more often than not typing away on a laptop. It fascinates me. Perhaps Europeans or Latin Americans are afraid of being spotted alone at what is considered a social venue. Or what I think is more likely (at least if I base this judgment on myself) is that the cafe is merely a vehicle for a social experience. It is not the coffee or the wi-fi availability per se, the functionality so to speak, that I am interested in. It's the way in which the setting makes it possible for me to spend time with people I care about. If I just want coffee, then I'll make it at home. So why this difference? Perhaps it's just a difference in socializing vehicles. Here people seem to prefer to socialize over brunch, dinner or drinks. Can't say that the same is not true in Europe or Latin America, so I'm not sure that quite answers my question. Perhaps others will have better ideas.

Goodbye Bolivia, Hello New York

I had the good intention to write this before I left Bolivia (which was actually 2 months ago at this point). But moving across three continents, planning a wedding celebration and then ultimately trying to settle in my new city (New York) somehow got in the way. (Excuses, excuses.) I miss Bolivia. I miss the crazy landscapes of La Paz and actually writing this post now is helping me feel closer to my Latin American home. (For anyone wondering why I refer to Bolivia as home, this may be helpful.)

Highlights of my last month in Bolivia (some of them involving neighboring countries):

1. The first glimpse of Machu Picchu before sunrise (and getting up at 2 am to hike to the entrance). Machu Picchu (and Peru in general) has been on my destination list for a long time. Vaguely since I first started learning Spanish in 2000 and more definitively since I sat next to a Peruvian woman, who told me all about Peru's sights and wonders, on a bus in Costa Rica in 2005. It helped significantly that La Paz is not that far away from Cusco and Machu Picchu. Long story short, I was excited to finally get so close. Milos and I had thought about hiking the Inca Trail, but in the end opted not to, since it gets very crowded in June-August and is quite expensive. We figured we had hiked similar trails in Bolivia with only our guides as companions and this would not be able to compare. So, we decided to take the train (finally running after the landslides of last February). There are then two options to get to the site itself. Take a bus or hike. There is no daily limit on the number of people let into the site but there is a limit on the number of people allowed to hike Huayna Picchu - the peak that rises behind the ruins in all classic postcard pictures of Machu Picchu (400 people per day). We had been told that climbing to the top of Huayna Picchu is a must, so we were determined to be among the first 400 in line the day of our visit. This meant hiking up to the site, since the first bus would not get us up there early enough. (We had been told that aiming to be there around 5 am should be fine.)

We arrived by train to the village of Aguas Calientes (or Machu Picchu Pueblo as it is now known) and decided to do some recon on the trail up to the site.  It was pretty much a walk on flat ground for 30 mins to a bridge and beyond that the trail started going up an endless set of steps. Some guards stood by the bridge; out of curiosity I asked them at what time people start coming by this way in the mornings. "3 am and if you want to climb Huayna Picchu you shouldn't be much later than that." So, we quickly changed our wake-up time from 4 to 2 am. Very few things can make me get up in the middle of the night, but I figured that the climb to Huayna Picchu would be worth it.

So, at 2 am we woke up and at 2:30 am we we off. We got to the bridge in 20 minutes. There was already a group of 20 or so people gathered there, waiting for the bridge to open (which wasn't until 3 am, it turned out). As they opened the bridge at 3 am, I almost felt like a contestant on the Amazing Race, rushing off from the starting point. Steps and more steps. People would huff and puff, stop to rest, as did we, but apparently less than the others (which we didn't even realize at the time), because by the time we got up to the entrance (an hour or so later), there were only 2 people in front of us! (Yeah, we overshot it a bit.) We were actually not sure at first whether we were in the right place, since there was no-one around. But soon enough, more people started coming and 30 minutes later the line had really started forming. Every newcomer (who, disoriented at first about where the line actually begins and where it ends, would usually head towards the front) was greeted by angry shouts of "Fila, fila!" (Queue, Queue!) and headlamps being shined on him/her, until s/he got his/her bearings and headed towards the back of the line. We had almost 2 hours of that to bear until opening time.

At 6 am, we were let in, stamps for Huayna Picchu in hand. Although quite a few people had been waiting in line, somehow the crowd dissipated as it entered the site. No photos do Machu Picchu real justice. It covers a huge area, which you only realize after you start climbing up and down the various terraces and trying to get from one end of the ruins to the other. In the onset of dawn and surrounded by silence, I had the feeling that I was seeing it as its earliest visitors must have seen it. There are no tell-tale signs of modernity or time more generally. Just the signs of an ancient civilization hidden among green mountain peaks. I stared at the ruins and it was like time stood still. There are very few places where I have experienced this feeling. The sun's rays began to illuminate the ruins, more people started entering the site, and then that quiet moment passed. I was back amongst photo-takers, backpackers, and women sporting crystal skulls. For anyone headed to Machu Picchu, I strongly recommend either getting to the ruins really early the morning of, or staying until the site closes. For me, those were the most magical moments.

2. Playing with a bunch of cute Peruvian kids in Ollantaytambo. Ollantaytambo lies in the Sacred Valley. Apart from being a departure point for the train to Machu Picchu, it also boasts its own ruins. (Although no Machu Picchu, the ruins are definitely worth a visit, and the village itself was one of the highlights of the trip for me - with its narrow, cobblestone streets and mountain-water canals.) While exploring its streets, we passed by a group of kids (5-8 yrs old). One of them started saying something to me. I didn't quite understand at first, but then figured out that he was asking me to take a photo. I told him to get all his friends together and I would take one of all of them. They gathered very excitedly and hugged each other, ready for the shot. As soon as the picture was taken, they ran up to me to see it (oh yes, they know digital cameras). "Again!" they cried. So I took another one, and then another one, and another one. I think I ended up taking 5 or 6. I had to tell them that was the last one. At which point, one of the smaller kids came up to me and said, "Cárgame" (Carry me). I thought this was an odd request, but he was so cute I couldn't refuse. It was hard to get him to let go afterwards. In the meantime, the older kids started getting water from the canal and splashing us. It turned into a bit of a water fight, with the younger kids still pleading "Cárgame, cárgame." In the end, I had to literally extricate myself, as one little girl hugged my leg with both hands and would not let go. It was comical and endearing at the same time.

3. Seeing a pink river dolphin. When I first read in the Lonely Planet Bolivia that you could spot pink river dolphins in some of the rivers in the Amazon, I was intrigued. I had no idea such a dolphin existed. When we finally made it to the Bolivian Amazon in July, I couldn't wait to get on the river. Then we were told that they were actually pretty difficult and rare to spot. Well, I guess we were very lucky because we saw one on two different occasions during our 3-day tour. Perhaps it helped that there were only the two of us and a guide in the boat; we were a lot quieter than some of the bigger groups, who had no such luck. For anyone curious as to what a pink river dolphin looks like, it would be better to consult google images. We only saw its back for a few seconds before it disappeared again underwater. But, no, it is actually not pink in color.   

On another note, the difference in the level of tourism between Peru and Bolivia is staggering. Peru's tourism is very well run and organized. We saw tourists of all age groups in Cusco. Of course, this has its pros and cons. Pros mostly for the country itself, because the revenues from tourism can be substantial (and unfortunately Bolivia has not really tapped into them yet). And cons to some extent for the tourists - everything may run pretty smoothly, but you will always be surrounded by hundreds of other tourists and don't get to enjoy nature and the sights quite like we did in Bolivia. There is something to be said for untouched and remote locations.

Of course, now I am in New York and this is as far removed from remote as one can get. Despite having been here for a month now, I am still adjusting. There are many aspects about this city that I love - the diversity, the ability to find anything you could possibly be looking for, the international feel. But the hustle and bustle, the noise, and the pushing on the subway definitely don't make that list. We debated with a friend the other day, "Why do New Yorkers have so much patience to wait in line to get ethnic food at some food fair, but when it comes to waiting 2 minutes for the next subway train, that patience is non-existent?"

Well, I am sure I will be asking myself a lot more questions and gathering a lot more impressions as I get to know my new city. And I have made a decision to document all this here in a new series, New York Stories. After all, it's not healthy that looking for a job take up all of my time.

A Nomad's Journey Never Ends

My first memories of life abroad (i.e. outside of Bulgaria) involve feeding squirrels and birds in the park and watching the daily outings of two rabbits on the lawn outside our apartment building. I was 3 or 4 years old. Later, I also remember getting lost a few times and crying while searching desperately for my parents. I remember getting bitten (or should I say pecked) by a swan. I remember eating french fries with mayonnaise and not being allowed to own a helium Mickey-Mouse-shaped balloon (which I wanted so badly since we didn't have those in Bulgaria at the time). I remember trying to stay awake to meet Santa Claus and getting angry at my parents for letting me fall asleep and then not waking me up when he did come by. Of course, these things could have happened anywhere. There is nothing about the place that defined these moments. But they were my first explorations outside my home country's borders (this first time, in Amsterdam) and little did I know at that time that these explorations would more or less turn into my way of life.

I have not always considered travel and exploration to be a blessing. At 15 and back in Bulgaria after five years in Zimbabwe and travels to other countries during that time, I almost felt ashamed for having seen "so much" of the world outside my own country. I tried to downplay the fact that I spoke fluent English and wanted the ground to swallow me whole any time an English teacher would allude to this fact in front of the entire class. I used to hide the fact that I had lived abroad for fear of seeming stuck-up, too privileged or different. (I had simply been lucky that my father worked for the Bulgarian Airlines.) At a time, when many people at home had very little and had barely ventured outside Bulgaria's borders, it felt wrong for a 15-year old to have done so and not only to have ventured, but to actually have lived abroad. I had missed the fall of Communism and the hunger years of the early 90s. I was behind on the grunge and heavy-metal phases that many of my classmates were in. Many people reminded me of this. So instead of opening other people's eyes to what I had experienced, I shut my own and tried to mask these differences.

I am not sure what exactly made me apply to colleges in the U.S. I just remember feeling that if I had the chance to study somewhere else and experience something different, then I should go for it. At that point, I hadn't even been thinking about better opportunities after university or a higher-quality education. Neither had my parents tried to convince me to do it. It had been my idea. I had just wanted to see a new world. Landing in the U.S. in a college with many other international students, many of whom had lived outside their home countries or at least yearned to (which was their reason for ending up in the U.S.), made me open up about my experiences for the first time. I stood on even ground with many of these girls. I was no longer "different".

Since then, I have ventured near and far, both literally and metaphorically. At the beginning, I would constantly ask myself the question of which side of the ocean I actually belonged on, until I realized that question was irrelevant. I have felt at home in many places. And it is part of human nature to adapt no matter what. Frequently, I have followed my wanderlust and packed up and moved more times than many people (especially my parents) would probably have liked me to. But over time I have also learned to stay put when it mattered. I guess I can't really imagine my life any other way. It's not easy starting from zero (or close to zero) but when a new place starts feeling like home, the feeling is indescribable. And when you leave and return to that place years later, the familiarity of it is extremely heart-warming. It's like coming home over and over again, in different locations.

Many people claim that it is hard to build a life if you are constantly moving. Well, I guess my response to that would be that it is not always about building a life, but about living it. And I am not ashamed to say that now.

Is There Such a Thing as a Perfect Market?

I had always thought that the ubiquitous Economics-class phrase perfect markets was just that: a phrase that did not reflect reality. After all, for perfect markets to exist we need perfect information, in real time, immediate; no participant with the power to set prices; no barriers to entry or exit. Well, I think I found the closest thing to a perfect market that I will probably ever find: minibus fares in La Paz. Perfect information? The "sidekick" of every minibus driver yells the fare out for everyone to know before they board (that includes other minibuses running the same route). As soon as one starts reducing or increasing fares, the others follow suit. This happens in a matter of minutes. No participant with the power to set prices? The only thing that exists is a ceiling on the fare set by the government (2.30 Bolivianos); other than that each driver and his sidekick decide the fare independently. No barriers to entry or exit? This I am not so sure about. Most minibus drivers belong to a syndicate, but I know for a fact that some do not. How easy is it to do this without belonging to a syndicate? I don't know. Perhaps I should chat with one of the drivers one of these days to find out.

Evo, Chicken and Gays

Some things the Bolivian president says linger long after he has stopped speaking. You may have read in the news last month about Morales's comment about chicken and gay men. It basically went something like this, "the chicken that we eat is full of female hormones. Because of this, when men eat chicken, they experience deviations from being men." (El pollo que comemos está cargado de hormonas femeninas. Por eso, cuando los hombres comen esos pollos, tienen desviaciones en su ser como hombres.) Of course, there was outrage from the gay community, and he has since had to apologize publicly for his comments several times. However, the more interesting thing is how this faux-pas has been adopted in the Bolivian vernacular. "Oh, I don't think you should eat that chicken," say my male colleagues to each other at work. "I think you may have had too much chicken lately," if you want to really annoy a macho Bolivian. "I'm going to stick to beef, thank you." And so forth.

The more shocking (but I guess not really surprising) reaction came from my colleagues one day. We were celebrating someone's birthday at work with the habitual mid-morning salteñas* and everyone was gathered around the table. The chicken joke came up as some people reached for the chicken salteñas. One of the directors (a woman) said to the guy making the joke, "Well, what about if someone among us is homosexual? How do you think these jokes would make him or her feel?" There was a very brief silence, and then people burst out laughing. The thoughts behind the laughter: Someone among us, homosexual? What is this, a joke? And so it goes. Instead of discussing such topics openly, people just hide their insecurity on the issue behind their laughter. 

Evo sure knows how to stir things up.

* Bolivian stuffed pastry, similar to empanadas, but better.