Happy Thanksgiving, World. Allahu Akbar.

They stole it. A few crazy fucks, bathed in twisted interpretations of millennia old text, marinated in hate, trained in violence.

Billions of times a day, a billion Muslims in the world say "Allahu Akbar" when they get married, have a baby, go to sleep, wake up, eat a meal. They say "Allahu Akbar" because "God is great" and once you've said that, how much more can you really say? But every now and again, some dipshit yells it when creating a random act of violence, and to our Western ears "Allahu Akbar" sounds ominous, it sounds like a threat.

We can't let them have it. If some random Christian dude yelled "God is great" while mowing down innocents, we would reclaim the phrase faster than you can say "The Lord is with thee". It would be trending on Google and the most popular hashtag on Twitter would be #GodIsGreat, billboards, full page ads in the New York Times. "Take back 'God is Great'" would be Time's Person of the Year.

God does not belong to the crazy fucks. He or She is all of ours. They must not have it. Any any language.

*********

Writing on the steering wheel of the Jeep, waiting to get into Melrose--chairing the 10:00. A great way to give back--and give thanks--on this Thanksgiving Day.

The Jeep sits at just over 170,000 miles, a symbol of longevity and forced thrift. I love it.

The weather is cool. It is sunny. A few leaves still cling to the trees, resisting hard that final push to the ground. (But global warming is just a Chinese hoax). It is all I could ask for, and more.

There is so much here, surrounding me, and there, off, far away, that words can't do it justice. That's why we invoke simple phrases evoking God in as many languages as I, as a sort-of-kind-of linguist, am aware of.

God, indeed, is great.

Dios, por cierto, es grande.

Deus, por certo, é ótimo.

Dumnezeu este minunat.

Бог велик.

Allahu Akbar, world. Allahu Akbar.

The Great Bypass - 1990

It feels odd, turning thirteen. I'm still real little, physically, and I don't feel any of the rebellion towards authority that teenagers are supposed to be famous for.  Maybe one day I'll think my teachers and parents are super oppressive, but--right now, at least--I think it's all just overblown.

Not that there aren't changes afoot. Junior High starts in two weeks. I'm pretty nervous about it. Luckily, I don't have to change schools--Central High School is a huge, three-story monolith on the corner of 6th and 7th that houses grades 5-8 in Sheldon, and it's only a block from my house on 6th and 6th. Still, Junior High is a whole new ballgame. Instead of two teachers, I'll have at least six, and I don't know anything about any of them. I'm also pretty scared of the eighth graders--there are some big and mean guys in that class. Plus, of course, the G word--girls. I've had exactly one girlfriend so far. We were a couple for 4 months, during which our communication consisted of two notes from her, one asking me to be her boyfriend and another one telling me it was over. As far as I can tell, nothing else is on the horizon, either--it's hard for me to imagine many girls going for a short, skinny, freckled kid with glasses.

But I'm putting that all out of my mind, at least for tonight. Me and two friends, John Reilly and Bradley Chalkers, are heading out to Putt-a-Round as a way of celebrating my birthday. I know it's not much, but also know my parents both work, and money's usually pretty tight in a family of six. Plus, I'm happy that both John and Bradley are going; they're my two best friends, but they're also sort of enemies; they've agreed to a truce for my birthday outing.

*********

It's a classic Putt-a-Round night. Mom dropped us off around 7:00 and gave me a twenty. "So you can play two rounds," she said. Putt-a-Round is busy but not overly so; Bradley, John and I play 36 rounds of mini-golf, making jokes and gossiping about the 7th and 8th grade females coming our way.

"What's it like kissing a girl?" Bradley and I ask John, the only one of us who has.

"It's awesome, man," he answers.

After we finish, we pool our money and buy a bunch of junk food and continue talking in the parking lot while we wait for my mom. Bradley and John have discovered that they're both Mets fans, and proceed to razz me mercilessly about the fate of the hapless Cubs just one year after they won the NL East. I counter with the cocaine habits of Daryl Strawberry and Doc Gooden. The lights pop on above us.

Not too much later Mom pulls in in our old green Plymouth station wagon. We pile in, cradling our junk food, and continue the baseball debate.

At a lull in the conversation, Mom turns around and asks us, "Did you guys have fun?"

"Yeah," we all say. "Thank you so much, Connie," Bradley and John say. I turn around in the seat and look at the lights of Putt-a-Round, fading in the distance as we drive into Sheldon proper.

"Yeah," I say to myself. "Thank you so much."

EL CORAZÓN DELATADOR

Traducido de la versión reducida del cuento original en inglés. Versión completa publicada en 1843 por Edgar Allan Poe. 

¡Es cierto! Sí, he estado enfermo, bien enfermo. Pero, ¿por qué dices que ya no tengo control, que estoy loco? ¿Qué? ¿No puedes ver que tengo dominio total de mi mente? ¿No es claro que no soy loco? Así es: la enfermedad sólo hizo que mi mente, mis sentimientos, fueran más fuertes, más poderosos. Mi sentido del oído, especialmente, se hizo más fuerte. Pude oír sonidos que jamás oía. ¡Oí sonidos del cielo; oí sonidos del infierno!

¡Escucha! Escucha, y te digo cómo ocurrió. Verás, oirás, lo bien que está mi mente.

Me es imposible decir cómo primero me llegó la idea. No hubo razón por lo que hice. No odié al viejo; es más, lo quise. Nunca me lastimó. No quise su dinero. Se me hace que era su ojo. Su ojo era como el ojo de un buitre, el ojo de una de esas aves terribles que miran y esperan mientras un animal se muere, y luego descienden en el cadáver y lo destrozan para comérselo. Cuando el viejo me veía con su ojo de buitre un escalofrío se me daba por la espalda; hasta mi sangre se me enfriaba. Y así, pues, ¡acabé por decidir que tuve que matar al viejo y cerrar ese ojo para siempre!

¿Así que crees que soy loco? Un loco no puede hacer planes. Pero era que me vieras. Durante toda esa semana fui tan amable como pude ser, y tierno, y cariñoso.

Cada noche, a eso de las doce, abría despacito su puerta. Y cuando la puerta estaba abierta lo suficiente metí la mano, y de ahí la cabeza. En la mano tenía una luz tapada con una tela para que nada de luz se viera. Y allí me paraba en silencio. Luego, cuidadosamente, recogía la tela, un poquito nada más, para que una lucecita, delgada, pequeña, caía en aquel ojo. Para siete noches hice esto, siete noches largas, cada noche por la medianoche. Siempre estaba el ojo cerrado, así que me era imposible hacer el trabajo. Pues, no era al viejo a quién tenía que matar; era el ojo, su Ojo Malo.

Y cada mañana iba a su cuarto, y con una voz amable y amigable le preguntaba cómo había dormido. No podía haber sabido que cada noche, justo a las doce, lo veía mientras dormía.

La octava noche tuve aun más cuidado mientras abría la puerta. Las manecillas de un reloj se mueven más rápido de lo que mi mano se movía. Nunca antes había sentido tan fuerte mi propio poder; ahora estuve seguro de ser exitoso.

El viejo estaba acostada allí sin soñar que yo estuviera en su puerta.  De repente se movió en su cama.  Pensarás que me dio miedo. Pero no.  La oscuridad en su cuarto estuvo gruesa y negra.  Sabía que no podía ver la apertura de la puerta.  Seguía empujando la puerta, despacio, suave.  Metí la cabeza.  Metí la mano, con la luz tapada.  De repente el viejo se incorporó y gritó “¿Quién es?”

Me quedé bien quieto.  Por una hora entera no me moví.  Tampoco escuché que él se acostara de nuevo en su cama.  Se quedó sentado, escuchando.  Luego oí un sonido, un chillido bajo de miedo que se escapaba del viejo.  Ahora supe que estuvo sentado en su cama, lleno de miedo; supe que él supo que estuve allí. No me vio.  No pudo oírme.  Me sintió.  Ahora supo que la Muerte estuvo allí parada.

Despacio, poco a poco, levanté la tela, hasta que una luz pequeña, pequeñita, saliera de debajo y cayera en--¡y cayera en aquel ojo de buitre!  Estuvo abierto--bien, bien abierto, y mi ira se aumentaba mientras me veía directamente.  No podía ver a la cara del viejo.  Sólo ese ojo, ese ojo azul duro, y la sangre en mi cuerpo se hizo hielo.

¿No te había dicho que me sentido del oído se había vuelto demasiado fuerte?  Ahora pude oír un sonido bajo, suave, rápido, como el de un reloj a través de la pared.  Fue el pálpito del viejo. Traté de quedarme quieto.  Pero el sonido se hizo más fuerte.  El miedo del viejo debió haber sido grande, bien grande.  Y mientras el sonido crecía mi ira se hizo más grande y más dolorosa.  Pero fue más que la ira.  En la noche silenciosa, en el silencio oscuro del cuarto, mi ira se convirtió en miedo--porque el corazón palpitaba tan fuerte que estuve seguro que alguién oía. ¡La hora había llegado!  Me metí apresurado en el cuarto, gritando “¡Muérete! ¡Muérete!”  El viejo dio un grito de espanto mientras me echaba en él y apretaba las cobijas fuertemente en su cabeza.  Aún palpitaba su corazón; pero sonreí, pues sentí que ya se acercaba el éxito.  Por varios minutos ese corazón seguía palpitando; pero por fin paró.  El viejo estuvo muerto.  Saqué a las cobijas y puse mi oído en su corazón.  No hubo sonido.  Sí. ¡Estuvo muerto!  Muerto como una piedra.  ¡Su ojo ya no me molestaría!

¿Así que me dices loco?  Era que vieras lo cuidadoso que fui a poner el cadáver donde nadie lo encontrara.  Primero saqué la cabeza, después los brazos y las piernas.  Cuidé a que ni una gota de sangre se cayera en el suelo.  Saqué tres de las tablas que formaban el suelo, y allí puse los pedazos del cadáver.  De ahí puse tablas de nuevo, cuidadosamente, tan cuidadosamente, que ningún ojo humano pudiera ver que alguien las había movido.

Mientras terminaba esta labor, oí que alguien estuvo en la puerta.  Ahora eran las cuatro de la madrugada, aún oscuro.  Pero no tuve miedo cuando bajé a abrir la puerta.  Allí habían tres hombres, tres oficiales de la policía.  Un vecino había oído el grito del viejo y había llamado a la policía; estos tres habían venido a hacer preguntas y registrar a la casa.

Pedí a los policías que entraran.  El grito, les dije, fue mío, en un sueño.  El viejo, les dije, no estaba; había ido a visitar a un amigo en el campo.  Los acompañé por toda la casa, diciéndoles que la registraran, que la registraran bien.  Los acompañé por fin al cuarto del viejo.  Como si jugara con ellos, les pedí que se sentaran y que platicaran un rato.

Mi manera tranquila y amigable hizo que los policías me creyeran.  Así que se sentaron conmigo, hablando de una forma amable.  Pero aunque les contestaba de la misma forma, pronto quise que se fueran.  La cabeza me dolía y había un sonido raro en mis oídos.  Hablé más, y más rápido.  El sonido se hizo más claro.  Y aún así se sentaban y hablaban.

De repente supe que el sonido no estaba en mis oídos, que no estaba sólo en mi cabeza.  En ese momento me debí haber puesto bien pálido.  Seguí hablando, aun más rápido y fuerte. Y el sonido, igual, se hizo más fuerte.  Era un sonido rápido, suave, bajo, como el de un reloj a través de la pared, un sonido que conocía bien.  Más fuerte se hizo, más fuerte.  ¿Por qué no se iban los señores?  Más fuerte, más fuerte.  Me paré y di una vuelta por el cuarto.  Empujé mi silla por el piso para hacer más ruido, para tapar ese sonido terrible.  Hablé aun más fuerte.  Y todavía los hombres se sentaban y hablaban y sonreían.  ¿Era posible que no podían oír?

¡No!  ¡Sí oían!  Estuve cierto.  ¡Sabían!  Ahora eran ellos quienes jugaban conmigo.  Sufría más de lo que podía aguantar, de sus sonrisas, y de aquel sonido.  Más fuerte, más fuerte, ¡más fuerte!  De repente no pude soportar más.  Señalé a las tablas y grité, “¡Sí!  Sí, lo maté.  ¡Saquen las tablas y verán!  Lo maté.  Pero, ¿¡por qué su corazón no para de palpitar?!  ¿¡Por qué no para?!”

FIN

The Great Bypass - Fall 2000

Fall 2000

The class is called "Human Relations for the Classroom Teacher". We meet once a week, from 6:00 to 8:30, in Lindquist Center. The professor's name is Betsy Anderson. The theme: Multiculturalism and Diversity.

I am skeptical.

A cynic by nature, I am skeptical of any and all buzzwords, whose premise seem to be that whatever we were doing before is useless, and that this new concept, under the banner of this artificial word, will fix everything.

It is not, for the record., that I am against acquiring other cultures. I have spent more of the last two years in Venezuela than in Iowa, and I don't think any Venezuelan would accuse me of an attitude of cultural superiority. Within a month of arriving in Mérida, I deliberately shed all things American: music, food, friends, and, most critically, the English language. Within a couple months, my host family was calling me an "honorary Venezuelan". Now that I'm back in Iowa, I feel more like a foreigner here than I did there.

Our first text does nothing to hearten me. It's called We Can't Teach What We Don't Know: White Teachers, Multiracial Schools, written by a guy named Gary R. Howard. Howard is an upper middle class white guy who went to Yale a couple decades ago and did an internship in a poor, mainly African-American neighborhood in New Haven. He talks about all he learned, which is okay, but the way he talks about it sounds like any teacher that doesn't decide to spend their summer or their "gap year" or whatever working in a minority neighborhood is doomed to failure, or worse, is just being an asshole. He ends the book talking about a trip he took to England and doing dance rituals (I am not making this up) in places like Stonehenge, finally discovering his "true Anglo-Saxon culture". I wonder how his parents, his grandparents, his ancestors that decided to leave England, would feel about claiming their culture was not their "true" culture. But. Whatever.

There is some really good stuff in the class, though. On one of the first nights we use crayons to color our "identity" on paper plates, kinda like a family crest. I use my limited art skills to draw a baseball field, a Catholic church, an Irish flag, covers of favorite books. After we finish we all share. There are no huge variances from mine, although of course all the details are different.

"You see," Betsy says, "this is why I really like having some minority students in here. None of you--all 24--none of you mentioned you were White. I have never done this with an African-American student who didn't put 'Black' as a big part of their identity. Hundreds of times I've done this activity. White kids never put 'White'. Black kids always put 'Black'. We don't even think about being White. But if you're Black, you can't not think about it."

Our next guest speaker is a man by the name of Eddie Moore, Jr., who is a professor at Cornell College in Cedar Rapids. Moore is tall African-American man wearing a nice suit ("would I even notice the suit" I think "if he were White"? The class is starting to infiltrate my thinking). Moore is a dynamic speaker. He tells of a time when he went into a restaurant to eat, wearing the same suit he is currently wearing. He waited to be seated. The hostess took him back to the kitchen--she thought he was applying for a job as a cook.

Moore presents a set of cold, hard facts for us: Black people don't make as much money. Black people don't do as well in school. More Black people are in prison. More Black people are arrested even though the rate of delinquency is equal to that of Whites. Less Black people own their own homes. Perhaps most strikingly, Black people die younger--much younger. These are the numbers. They are not subjective.

"When you look at these numbers," Moore says, "you have to come to one of  two conclusions. The first possibility is that Black people are inferior to White people." The room rustles. "I can tell you are not comfortable with that conclusion. The second possibility--the only other possibility--is that there is some sort of problem, or problems, with our society that is holding Black people back more so than White people. We call that Systemic Racism. Nobody's burning crosses. A lot of people aren't even aware the problems exist. But if you don't believe Black people are inherently inferior to White people, there is no other conclusion."

He has convinced me. The next week in class we receive a handout: "10 signs you have White Privilege":

1. Nobody wonders if you go into your college based on your skin color.
2. You don't have a ready response for "Where are you from?"
3. You aren't expect to explain all White people's behavior.
4. You've never been called a thug or anti-American.
5. People aren't surprised when you're articulate.
6. Most of the people in history textbooks have your color of skin.
7. You don't worry about excessive attention from the police.
8. You can screw up without it reflecting badly on your race.
9. You can have money without people wondering if you're in the drug trade.
10. You culture isn't appropriated--it is the culture.

I am left with no doubt that I have White Privilege, and that Systemic Racism exists.

Another night we have a group of students from the UI LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer) association come to class and talk to us. They are very nice and assure us that any question is okay, they won't be offended. They speak of depression, of wanting with everything in them to not be gay, family estrangements, self-harm, suicide attempts. They speak of getting the shit beat out of them, especially the guys. They speak of movies--if a movie has a gay lead, why is it considered a "gay movie"? We don't call movies with straight leads "Straight Movies". They speak of coming out, accepting themselves, celebrating themselves, the peace that it brings.

I am left with no doubt that I have White, Straight Privilege.

We begin reading a book called Schoolgirls by Peggy Orenstein.  I am amazed by what she documents, the psychological horror some girls put themselves through, the different treatment by their parents, the unrelenting social pressure to conform. We watch videos. Men and women submit job applications with everything the same but the name. Men receive twice as many invitations to interview, particularly for managerial positions.

A man and woman of the same age with the same social background go into a car dealership. The woman presents her driver's license for a test drive. The salesman explains that for insurance reasons, he can't let her drive the car, but she can sit in the passenger seat while he takes it for a ten minute spin. That same day, in the afternoon, the man goes in. He asks about a test drive. "Absolutely," the salesman says. "Here are the keys. Take as long as you need. I'll be here waiting." The man did not even show him his license.

Betsy says that this stuff is everywhere, if you just keep your eyes out. A couple nights later, in my Educational Psychology class, it's a little chilly. There's a window open. "Mark, can you get up on a chair and close that window?" the professor--a woman--asks me. There are two women closer to the window than me. Neither seems to mind or to have noticed the irony. I get up and close the window.

I am left with no doubt that I have White, Male, Straight Privilege.

What I do have doubt about is exactly what to do with this knowledge. I am going to teach, so I suppose it is good to know that these things exist. I make a couple of ineffectual stabs at joining campus organizations to combat racism, homophobia, sexism. But I work 20 hours a week and take classes full time and I'm getting ready to student teach, and I have a full social calendar. I think about emailing Eddie Moore, Jr., but it slips away.

Human Relations for the Classroom Teacher ends in December. There are tears and promises to be in touch over Christmas Break, hugs galore for Betsy. It ends up being probably my favorite class in the entire School of Education. But I still don't know about the subtitle, "Multiculturalism and Diversity". Maybe a better subtitle would have been "Aspects of Privilege". The class certainly showed me lots of the privileges I've had in society, how being White, Male and Straight have made things considerably easier for me than someone who may be Black, Female or Gay.

As the 24 of us chat before we all go our separate ways--18 women and 6 men, all White, not sure about sexual orientation--it strikes me that the one thing we did have in common, apart from education obviously, is that we all seemed pretty solidly middle class.

And I think about that a little more. Being White, Male and Straight have made my road easier, but I still think that probably the biggest factor in me being where I'm at, close to a Bachelor's Degree at a prestigious institution, is my family background. Very functional family, lots of support, emotional and financial, an expectation that I would go to college--all 3 of my siblings are also college students or graduates. My dad has a good middle-class job teaching at a community college, and my mom, before she died, also had a decent middle class job as a department head at Hy-Vee.

There are only 16 weeks in a semester, so you can't do everything, but it sure would have been interesting to discuss Financial Privilege in addition to all that other Privilege.

To be continued...

The Great Bypass - 1988

1988

Great news! There's a new business coming to Sheldon!

Normally I don't get excited about these things, not the way my parents do anyway, but this is different. This business is good for kids too. It's a mini-golf course! It's going to be called "Putt-a-Round" and it's going to be a full course, 18 holes, concession stand, everything.

It's not actually going to be "in" Sheldon; just outside of it, probably about a half-mile east of Country Club Road. But that's okay. I don't even know where the next closest mini golf course is; you probably have to go to Sioux City or at least Spencer, so this is great news. We'll be able to play mini golf a lot more now! I've only even played mini-golf one time, when we were on vacation. So to have one practically in Sheldon, that's awesome!

*****

Mom and Dad take us out to Putt-a-Round the week after it opens. They wanted to avoid the huge crowds, which I understand. It was so cool; we drove out east on Highway 18 and turned off to the left just after leaving town. The course is surrounded by lots of leafy trees, and there's wooden mulch between the holes. It's really nice! It's still pretty packed even though it's the second week. Lots of families, teenagers, people that seem like they might be on a date.

The whole family plays; we split into two groups because six is just too many for one group. Mom plays with the boys and Dad with the girls.

The 19th hole is funny. It's like a trick shot. If you can make it you get to play another round for free; otherwise it swallows your ball and you're done. None of us make the trick shot.

Mom and Dad buy us each one treat at the concession stand. We beg them for another round but they say no. We knew it was pretty much a lost cause anyway.

On the way home it is getting dark, but Putt-a-Round has tall, bright lights and will stay open until 10:00. I can't wait until the next time we get to go, even though I know it might be a while because it costs a lot for six people to play mini golf.

Before I go to sleep I make sure to thank God that Sheldon now has a mini-golf course, right outside town.

To be continued.

The Great Bypass** - February 2016

**Formerly titled "Sheldon Moves East".

February 2016

"And tonight, while the results are still not known, it looks like we are in a virtual tie."

I have to work tomorrow but I'm up late anyway. How could I not be? Bernie Sanders has taken the Democratic Party by storm; I've never been so fired up by a presidential candidate. I've even given him money, a step I've never taken before in my life. I knocked on doors for Obama in 2012, but that was more because I had a strong dislike for Mitt Romney than any Obama adoration. But Bernie, he's the real deal. He speaks clearly, passionately and almost exclusively about the two-tiered economic system in this country, and about how more and more people are on the second tier, and how even though more and more people are on this second tier, more and more money is accumulating in the first tier. Economic dignity and health care, he is clear, are not privileges or even something that's earned, but fundamental rights that the state can and should provide.

His opponent for the Democratic nomination, the person with whom he "virtually tied" is, of course, Hillary Rodham Clinton. Before Bernie got in the race, and even for a good while afterward, it was widely assumed that Hillary had a virtual lock on the nomination. After all, she had performed admirably as Secretary of State, and Obama had let it be known in subtle ways that he thought she would be the ideal person to cement his legacy (notwithstanding his defeat of her in the 2008 primaries).  And Bernie, as so many people are quick to point out, is not even a registered Democrat: he is an Independent who caucuses with the Democrats in the Senate; he calls himself a "Democratic Socialist".

Many people are of the opinion that someone who describes himself in that way could never win the presidency.  This, I disagree with. "Socialism" does not carry with it the stigma that it did during the Cold War years; in my admittedly amateur opinion, "capitalism" probably carries with it just as much negativity as "socialism". Many Bernie people suspect that the institutional Democratic Party is taking action behind the scenes to make sure he doesn't win the nomination; I'm not sure how plausible that is, although there is an odd lack of high-profile debates, supposedly the work of the Democratic chairperson, Debbie Wasserman Schultz. And I gotta admit, that all these superdelegates declaring for Hillary before the first caucus/primary are pretty off-putting. At least let the race play out!

No matter. I'm proud right now to be a Democrat. Bernie is fighting for everything I strongly believe in, pushing NAFTA-promoting, welfare-reform-instituting, I-give-$200,000-speeches-to-Wall-Street Hillary Clinton to the left in key areas. Bernie and Hillary are not talking about email servers; they're not denigrating entire groups of human beings (besides Wall Street CEO's, perhaps); they agree that more can be done to help the poor, working and middle classes. Their differences rest in how to get there: Hillary is a self-described "incrementalist", while Bernie speaks of his campaign as a "revolution".

Contrast this with the Republicans. Oh my God! Seventeen candidates, although that should change after tonight. They've had lots of high profile "debates", probably better described as "debacles", and in each one they swim further and further to the bottom, trying to find the lowest common denominator. They seem focused on three things: lowering taxes (mainly for those with enough money to pay them); scapegoating immigrants (while oddly not worried about why people hire them); and of course, ridding the country of Obamacare, without any clear idea of what to do in its place.

Books could--and have already--been written about the Obamacare battles, but I'm pretty sure it all comes down to this: the Republican Party in 2016 doesn't think everyone should have health care. They won't come out and say this, of course, but the bottom line of it all is that only the "deserving" should have health care. Obamacare is designed after Romneycare, which came straight from the Heritage Foundation. The freaking Heritage Foundation! If Republicans really wanted people everyone to have health care--which they say they do--they should be jumping up and down in joy that the conservative, market-based solution was implemented, and not a more socialist system like virtually every other industrialized country. If anyone should be complaining about Obamacare, it's Democrats--which, incidentally, Bernie Sanders is doing.

And, then of course, there's the elephant (no pun intended) in the room: Donald Trump. "Make America Great Again". Ol' Donald came in second tonight to Ted Cruz, whose religious conservative credentials carried him in much of the state, like my hometown of Sheldon. Nobody ever stops talking about Trump; he seems almost as loathed by institutional Republicans as Democrats. Yet, he draws huge crowds and is set to win New Hampshire next week. All the "experts" keep asking why, but I'll tell you why: last August, Dana Point, California, site of the Koch brothers' so-called "Koch Primary". Every Republican hopeful was there, eager to secure the approval of the billionaire, libertarian brothers.

Every Republican hopeful, that is, except Donald Trump.

Donald gleefully (rightfully?) mocked the money grab by the other candidates. He bragged about not needing their money, therefore not being beholden to their agenda. He guarantees access to health insurance even while blasting Obamacare. He isn't hell bent on "modernizing entitlements". Poor, working class, middle class Republicans noticed. These Republicans are not particularly concerned about free-market orthodoxy, and they can't quite understand why the Paul Ryans of their party are so obsessed with taking on Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security. They vote Republican for religious reasons, cultural reasons. They grew up being told America was great. They weren't told it was great because of low corporate tax rates, because of health savings accounts, because of Ayn Rand. They just know America is supposed to be great, and it isn't anymore, and for some reason, they think that the Donald is the one to do it.

I don't agree, of course. Trump is the phoniest populist I can conceive of. I've seen real populism. Hugo Chavez, he was a populist. Chavez grew up poor in the country and joined the military to play baseball. Chavez attempted a military coup against entrenched powers. Chavez went to jail and when he got out he criss-crossed the country in old cars, crashing on people's houses, building popular support. Whatever you think of his politics, Chavez definitely felt passionately about Venezuela. Trump is a billionaire with a new hobby.

While I don't believe he is personally xenophobic or racist, he sure as hell is exploiting those tendencies in a lot of Americans in building his "movement". This, more than anything, seems to be what drives my liberal friends crazy: the man just isn't nice. But these xenophobic impulses are nothing new to the Republican party; they've been using them since Barry Goldwater in 1964, thirteen years before I was even born. Hell, Mr. Establishment himself, Mitt Romney, suggested "self-deportation" of "illegal immigrants" in 2012.  The only thing Trump's doing different is, he's using a regular whistle instead of a dog whistle.

Personally, Trump doesn't scare me as much as most of the candidates. Ted Cruz, he's a snake. Marco Rubio couldn't be more bought and paid for. Rand Paul thinks everyone was born with money and wants to go back to the gold standard. Mike Huckabee would have been more comfortable in the 1950's. The only Republican, really, that doesn't scare me a little is John Kasich. Don't get me wrong, I won't be voting for him, he's too fiscally conservative, but he at least seems to be the sort of Eisenhower Republican who understands he'd be serving the people, not corporations or the Family Council.

And another thing I don't understand, is the media's constant comparison of Trump and Bernie. Both of them are drawing huge crowds, but past that I honestly cannot see any similarities. The media keeps referring to them as "outsiders", but that is only the case for Trump; Bernie was a mayor, then a Representative, and he's been a Senator for several terms. He is, I suppose, an outsider in that he's an Independent; but he's been in government a long time, longer than Hillary Clinton, in fact, has been. I would argue he's more Democrat, at least FDR Democrat, than Hillary herself: Bernie was in the March on Washington, he stood on a picket line in Cedar Rapids, he isn't taking any money from corporations in his bid for President. You might say, as Walter Mondale famously said, that Bernie represents the "Democratic Wing of the Democratic Party".

And if you wanted to vote for, say, a fiscally moderate Eisenhower Republican? Well, I think you have a candidate there for that, too. Her name is Hillary Rodham Clinton.

The Great Bypass - 1985

**This will be the last post with this title.  From here on it will be "The Great Bypass". Thanks to Don McDowell for the idea. Thanks for reading!

1985

We have the biggest house in town, at the corner of 6th and 6th. The house is big and the yard is too. Some people think we're rich because we live here.  I don't think we are 'cause Mom and Dad are always saying we can't afford things, like a color TV for the kitchen or candy when we're at the City Park for softball.  The only person I know who might be rich is Andy Collins. He might be rich 'cause he always buys all the candy his kids want at softball. He might be rich. I don't know.

The yard is big, which is good for games and other stuff, but it sucks too, 'cause we got to work on it a lot.  Some days it takes pretty much all day, like today. We've been working all day on the lawn. We're still not quite done and it's supper time. We're just having sandwiches 'cause it's hot and Mom's been working outside too.

The news is on.  We don't always watch the news but tonight we are. The news is talking about how lots of people are upset 'cause their pay was cut or something. This one guy used to have a fishing boat and he had to sell it, he couldn't afford it anymore. He says he doesn't get as many work hours as he used to and he's mad. I wonder, Why would anyone be upset that they don't have to work as much?

"I don't understand these people," Dad says. He sounds a little mad. "What are they complaining about? What do they expect from a factory job? Everyone knew. They told us. They said 'You need to have marketable skills.'"

I don't know what "marketable skills" are. But it doesn't matter 'cause we're almost done eating and we got to finish the yard work.  We're almost done. We just have to put the bags of cut grass in the station wagon and take it out to Ray's. Ray lives in the country and we take our cut grass out there and put it around the trees.

Only me, Dad and Marty go to Ray's. Mom, Teresa and Tracy stay home. When we get back Dad has great news. Since we worked hard all day, we're going to go to Dairy Dandy! Even better, we're gonna ride our bikes!

Teresa still has training wheels and Tracy rides in a seat behind Dad. I've been riding about a year without training wheels and Marty, well, he's 11 so of course he doesn't have training wheels! We ride to Dairy Dandy. I don't know how far it is but it seems kind of far. I'll count the blocks on our way back home. We're really careful crossing Highway 60 'cause it's one of the busiest streets in Sheldon. Highway 60 and Highway 18 and Washington Avenue are the three busiest streets in Sheldon. Highway 60 and Highway 18 actually cross each other. That's one busy intersection!

The Dairy Dandy is right across Highway 60 and they have the best ice cream in the world, I imagine. I can't believe any place could have better ice cream, anyway. Us kids all get cones and Mom does too. Dad gets a Butterfinger Cyclone 'cause he's big and he loves Butterfinger Cyclones.

After we eat we carefully cross Highway 60 and ride home. I count the blocks as we ride. It's a 10 block ride. I think that's a pretty long ride but Marty says it's just medium. He rides a lot longer to get to his friend Jay Huff's house, he says.

When we get home us kids take baths, except for Marty. He showers 'cause he's 11. Then we watch a little TV. We always watch Cheers and M*A*S*H* at night. Then it's time for bed.

Before I lay down I look out my window at the yard. The window is open 'cause it's hot and we don't have air conditioning. That's another reason I'm pretty sure we're not rich, by the way. My friend John Bradley has air conditioning through his whole house. I look out at the lawn 'cause Dad says after you finish a big job, it gives you a good feeling to look back and see what you've done.

I have to admit, the lawn looks pretty good. But I still don't know why we had to spend the whole day working. I'd rather play and have a messy lawn than work and have a nice lawn. I tell this to Marty. He says, "Yeah, Dad's kind of obsessed with having a nice lawn."

We lay down on top of our sleeping bags. We're sleeping on the floor 'cause it's hot and Mom says there's a good south breeze, and it's more fun anyway. Even then I really don't like bedtime 'cause Marty always falls asleep real fast but I don't. It seems like I always have trouble falling asleep and Mom and Dad, they don't let me get up. Just close your eyes and rest, they say. It gets a little frustrating sometimes.

Tonight, though, I fall asleep real fast. The next day Marty tells me, "You laid down and you were out in two seconds flat." Two seconds flat is about as fast as anyone can fall asleep, I guess.

To be continued...

The Great Bypass - 2017

**A working title...I hope to come up with something better.

2017

Dad has already asked a couple of times if we're doing anything for my 40th birthday, and if so, what? I tell him Dad, I don't know, it's still six weeks away, and who knows anyway, if Sonia's planning anything or whatever and she's not even here, she had to stay in Iowa City for work.  Right now I just want to spend a few days in God's Country, Sheldon, hometown to superheroes like me. That's what I always tell Niko and Orlando.  My dad always tells them that he's in the Baseball Hall of Fame and that he won the Heisman Trophy.  Niko and Orlando are starting to figure out that Grandpa's a liar and maybe Dad is, too.

Dad's house is always super relaxing.  He and his wife Deb moved into the house on 9th and 9th when they got married in 2012.  It's exactly six blocks from my boyhood home at 6th and 6th. At least once every time I'm back I like to walk by there with the kids. They ooh and aah about how big it is.  Sonia does too when she makes it up here.  And it is. It's one of the biggest houses in town.  I suppose it doesn't seem quite as big now that I'm grown up, but I have to admit, it's still quite a house. It's a Victorian.

It's even right across from the City Park, although to be honest this part of Sheldon seems a little, I don't know...yesteryearish?  True, U.S. Highway 18 still runs on the north side of the park, but ever since they built the bypass for State Highway 60 on the east side of town everything's just kind of moved that way.  The corner where 18 and 60 intercepted, just a couple blocks west of the park, used to be a big deal; but now it's just Old Highway 60, 2nd Avenue really, just another road intersecting with Highway 18.  It wouldn't even surprise me if they took out the four-way stop in the near future, that's how non-big-time Old Highway 60 is.

The bypass runs about three miles east of there.  Highway 60's kind of a big deal up here because it's the main route between Sioux City and Worthington, MN, and thereby the Twin Cities.  It's not even really correct to say the bypass was constructed "on the east side"; it was constructed just plain east of Sheldon.  When I was a kid Sheldon more or less ended well before Country Club Road.  We called it "Million Dollar Road" 'cause the houses there were supposedly really fancy, although looking back I think that may have been more class envy than anything else.  Today, though, Country Club Road is well within mainstream Sheldon and past there you have Fareway, Hy-Vee, Pizza Ranch, Taco Johns, McDonalds, Neal Chase Lumber Company, even Sheldon's new "Events Center". When I was a kid Pizza Ranch and all thing Municipal were downtown, around 3rd and 9th; Neal Chase Lumber Company was smack on Highway 60 and 9th Street; Taco Johns was on the hot intersection of 18 and 60 along with Hardees, A&W, and Godfather's Pizza; Hy-Vee was right across Highway 18 from the City Park.  We didn't even have Fareway or McDonalds! Nowadays, on this visit, it seems that just about anytime we go anywhere with Dad it's East, and we have to drive, 'cause it's a little ways to get out there.

Anyway, it's not like I'm blind to reality or anything. Things change. People change. Towns change. At least Sheldon's not like my mom's hometown Centerville, which has really hit hard times lately, or one of those towns that has just a bar and a church and a Slow Pitch Softball Tournament once a year. Still, though. Take the City Park.  When I was a kid there were something like 18 Mens' League teams and 10 Womens' League teams, not to mention Coed, and the junior high baseball and softball teams played all their games there.  There was pretty much something going 4,5,6 days a week. Now I hear they only play one or two nights a week, and all the kids' ballgames are played (where else?) on the East Side near the new Middle School.

No, if you live west of say, 6th Avenue, where I grew up, there just ain't a whole hell of a lot of anything going on anymore.

But that's just the way it is. Things change.  When Mom died, in 1996, Dad decided to move 'cause that big house at 6th and 6th was just too big now.  He moved east of Washington Avenue, East 8th Street, where my sisters finished their high school.  And he live there for 15 years. almost as long as he lived in the big house, 'till him and Deb tied the knot and moved into the house on 9th and 9th. Behind every major demographic movement are hundreds, thousands, millions of decisions made on the micro level which then produce the macro effect.  Although, to be fair, a macro decision (like building a bypass a mile east of town) can certainly fuel those micro-level decisions, thus creating a cycle, benevolent or vicious, depending on where you're at....

Aah! Too much thinking. I'm here to relax.  And the house at 9th and 9th is great for relaxing.  With Niko and Orlando sleeping upstairs I have the whole basement to myself, like a college student or something.  I stay up late playing Strat baseball and reading cheap paperbacks and being self-important on my blog.  And then I go to bed, and I'm so relaxed up here in this quiet little Northwest Iowa town, that I only use half a sleeping pill to fall asleep.



To be continued.

The craziest 72 hours of my life: Marco, not Mark

We continued to chat as we neared the hotel.  It was dark and beginning to get cold on June 28, 2007, and literally thousands of people were out on the streets, listening to the live music emanating from the Plaza de Armas, bundled up in parkas or at least heavy sweatshirts.  It was a decidedly more modern festival than the one we had observed the previous Saturday.

The driver pulled up in front of the hotel. We tipped him well, as we always tried to do. "You guys. You are good guys. You deserve some cusqueñas. Get out there and find some." He waved his hand and drove off down the cobblestone street, weaving around the clusters of tourists and natives out enjoying the evening.

*********

We had discovered Películas my second night in Cusco. As we walked around the Plaza de Armas somebody gave us a flyer, and we ended up there. Películas ("movies", literally translated) was a unique establishment.  I had never before been in a place quite like it, nor have I since.  It was part eatery, part bar, part dance club, part movie club. Películas wasn't its real name; it was the shorthand that the three of us used to talk about it.

Rosa was the hostess. She was a short, industrious young woman with the rosy cheeks and lilting Spanish typical of cusqueñas.  She constantly wore a heavy parka and spoke halting English, which allowed her to communicate directly with all three of us. That first night, she explained how Películas worked. The first floor was mainly a sports bar, with a couple of TV's that we watched the Copa América on. The stairs led up to a third floor, eventually; but it seemed like there were floors between floors, where they had crammed in tables or viewing rooms.

Besides a drink menu and a food menu, Películas had a movie menu, a list of the thousands of movies they had on DVD (pirated, of course: that is the only way in South America). You and your friends could choose a movie and order food and drinks and they would install you in a viewing room, depending on the size of your group. The second floor, Rosa told us, also became a dance club after 10:00 or 11:00 in the evening; we had not been in Películas late enough to see that happen.  In fact, the only time we had been out late in Cusco was my first night, when we accompanied our new European friends to Club Asia, directly across the street from Hotel Suecia 2.

It was probably sometime between nine and ten on June 28, 2007, when Rosa installed us on a second floor table between the landing and what would become the dance floor.  We hadn't changed upon returning to Cusco; we were dressed in hiking garb and dirty from the expedition to Machu Picchu. More significantly, we were exhausted, and Cody and Adam had to catch a flight back to Lima at the crack of dawn.  We ordered Cusqueñas and some food; Rosa was happy.

"Finally, you guys will be here to dance," she said.

"I don't know," I said. "We're pretty tired, and we're leaving tomorrow."

"What?" she asked. She looked genuinely sad, even though her livelihood consisted of people constantly coming and going. "Already?"

"We've been here a week," Adam said. "We have to see Lima before we go home."

"A week? That's all?" Rosa said. "You should stay longer."

We laughed. "We have families, you know," Cody said.

"Well. I don't know. You never got to dance. You said you know how to dance salsa," she said, to me.

"I do."

"I don't believe you. If you did you would stay and dance."

"I'll dance," I said. "Let's dance right now, before our food is ready."

"You and me?"

"Sure. Why not?" We had switched into Spanish.

"Okay. Well, I have some things to do, and I'm going home at 10:00."

"Well, let's dance at 10:00. Right after you get off work."

"That should work," she said.

Rosa left. The three of us put our bottles of Cusqueñas together and said "Salud".  These would be out last beers together in Cusco and we were already reminiscing on an incredible seven days (six for me, due to my Mexico City detour).

Cody spoke of his and Adam's first night in the city, when they were on their own with limited Spanish.  Cody had had a rough couple of years before our trip, which I think he saw as a sendoff of those tough times. He had been a little nervous without me to translate, he said, but when they had gone out for pizza, the waiter befriended them, took them out on the town, and insisted on buying rounds for the three of them. He said it reaffirmed his faith in humanity.

Adam recalled the young woman who worked in the diner across the street from Hotel Suecia 2.  My first meal had been there; when she asked me to translate a sign into English for her and I agreed to do so, she literally jumped with joy and gave a bear hug. "She was so happy just to have a sign in English," Adam said wistfully.

So much had happened in such little time: meeting our European friends at Hotel Suecia 2, from England and the Netherlands. Walking the steep streets and looking at the Incan walls, still perfectly together after hundreds of years. A spontaneous six-hour overnight bus ride to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, and a night there.  An ill-fated purchase by me of a cowboy hat on the way home. And of course, the 15 hours we had just experienced.

"Do you think Lima will match up?" I asked.

"Fuck yeah," Cody said. "We're gonna take over that city."

"Miraflores. Avenida del Avión. Irish pubs. Tequila Rocks. Barranco," Adam recited. He had nearly memorized the relevant parts of our Fodor's Travel Guide to Peru.

As we talked we began to exchange eye contact with a pair of cusqueñas who were at a table 10 or 15 feet away from us: far enough away so it wouldn't be natural to talk with them, but still to close to talk about them.  One was very short, her dark hair cut just below her neck.  The other was a little taller, thinner, fairer, her hair a bit longer, with a pair of black glasses.  They were both cute in their own way and bound up in parkas; they would look at us, look away and talk to each other, then look back and smile.

"Guys, there they are," I said. "The cusqeñas our cabdriver told us about."

Indeed, Películas was hopping; it was busier than we'd ever seen it. It was Thursday, and the concert outside in the Plaza de Armas was drawing to a close.  Our food came and we ate like cavemen.  As the food began to settle a great weariness began to set in; the alarm had gone off so early in Hotel Suecia 2.

All of a sudden Rosa was back at our table. "Okay, I'm done working. Do you still want to dance?" she asked. I think she still really didn't believe me.

"Let's do it," I said and stood up.

"Go Mark!" Cody and Adam said and tipped their beers at me.

I laughed as Rosa and I walked to the dance floor.  Luckily for me, the song was salsa; the only Latin music I know to dance to is merengue and salsa.  Rosa and I danced and chatted; she was mainly concerned with what our impressions were of Cusco.  I once again admired the strong pride the cusqueños had for their city and state.

"It is amazing," I assured her. "The nicest people in the world."

When the song ended we walked back to our table.

"How was he?" Adam asked.

"Pretty good. Better than I thought," Rosa admitted. "Hard to believe he is a gringo."

We all laughed.

"Well, I am going home," Rosa said. "You guys. Thanks for coming. I wish you were staying longer. Have a great trip."

Rosa walked around the table and gave all of us a strong hug.  Then she bounced down the stairs with her signature energy.

"She was fucking awesome," Cody said.

"Absolutely," Adam and I agreed.

As Rosa disappeared at the bottom of the stairs, the two cusqueñas who had been sitting near us stood up and began to go down the stairs. Both of them looked back at us; one made some sort of odd signal with her hands and then they, too, disappeared.

"What was that?" Adam said.

"No idea," I said.

"Well, maybe that's our cue," Cody said. "Our flight is at 6:30. We should probably get back. Adam?"

"Yeah. I guess. Although I wouldn't mind getting to know some cusqueñas. And drinking some more, too."

We laughed.

"Adam, if you want, I'll stay out with you.  I don't leave until tomorrow afternoon," I said.

"No, I better not," he said. "Got to have energy to conquer Lima."

Him and Cody stood up and I did, too. But then I paused. "You know what, guys? I am gonna stay out a little while. What the hell. When's the next time I'm gonna be in Cusco?"

"Are you sure?" Cody asked. "I guess we can stay a little while."

"No, go ahead," I assured them.  I knew how early they had to be up.  "I'll be fine.  I'll probably just drink another beer, then head back. Hopefully find somebody to dance with."

"All right, dude," Cody said. "You made it all the way here from Mexico City on your own. I'm sure you can handle yourself in Películas."

We fist bumped and I sat back down as they descended the steps. My short dance with Rosa had sparked me, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally.  I was anxious, in a good way; I felt something in the air that I could not yet define. I wanted to dance and drink, but it was something more than that: I realized, as I sat there, that when I had lived in Venezuela, I had been fortunate enough to build the kind of relationships that allowed me to experience Venezuela not as an American, but as a native. Mark had gradually morphed into Marco. I realized that I had not truly gotten to know even one person from Cusco in a relationship that was not based on commerce.  All the relationships I had built were with Europeans, Australians, Californians. I wanted to experience Cusco, but not as a gringo. I wanted to be cusqueño, before it was too late, even it were for one night, for one hour, before I left this enchanted city in the mountains.

To be continued...

The craziest 72 hours of my life: Cusqueñas and cusqueñas

Inside the train, Mark again rested his head on the glass. This time, he was smiling. If he was really going to do this whole God-thing, he realized, he had to remember people talked about Him (or Her) (or It) (or Whatever) in lots of different ways.  Sometimes they used words for hours on end. Sometimes they just gave a thumbs-up.

The train lurched into motion. They were making the stretch run into Cusco. “Good,” Mark thought. He was tired. And fucking hungry.

**********

The cabs were lined up as far as we could see when we exited the train station. We picked one and jumped in. The cabdriver was probably fifty years old, short, like most cusqueños. He was in the mood to talk and we shared, essentially, the same conversation I had had with the cabdriver 15 hours earlier. It seemed like weeks ago.

"So, what do you guys think of the Cusqueñas?" the cabdriver asked.

I laughed. "We love them. We drink a few every day. In fact, just had three on the train."

Now the driver laughed. "No, not the beer. The women, from Cusco. Las cusqueñas. Or did you just have three of them on the train?"

I laughed too and explained the misunderstanding to Cody and Adam, who also laughed. "We love them, too," I said, "but we don't know them nearly as well."

"Oh, you have to get to know some cusqueñas," the driver said. "Wonderful women. And they love foreigners. They love gringos. You guys go out, go to some bars, meet some cusqueñas."

I translated for Adam and Cody, and then I said, "But we barely see any cusqueñas when we're out. It's all these Europeans. Where are they?"

The driver waved his hand dismissively. "If you look, you will find them." (I had a flashback to Field of Dreams here). "They are all over. Just ask them to dance. They love to dance. Dance with them and they will fall for you."

We were approaching the Plaza de Armas, and as we got close we could observe a giant, inflated Inca towering above a temporary stage. "What the hell is that?" Cody asked.

"It's for Inca Raimi," the cabdriver said. "Big Incan festival."

"But wasn't that last Saturday?" I asked. "I mean, we saw this huge parade...."

The driver waved his hand dismissively. It was his signature gesture. "In Cusco no party is just one day. You see? The cusqueñas will be out tonight. Big time."

We continued to chat as we neared the hotel.  It was dark and beginning to get cold on June 28, 2007, and literally thousands of people were out on the streets, listening to the live music emanating from the Plaza de Armas, bundled up in parkas or at least heavy sweatshirts.  It was a decidedly more modern festival than the one we had observed the previous Saturday.

The driver pulled up in front of the hotel. We tipped him well, as we always tried to do. "You guys. You are good guys. You deserve some cusqueñas. Get out there and find some." He waved his hand and drove off down the cobblestone street, weaving around the clusters of tourists and natives out enjoying the evening.

"That guy was fucking awesome," Adam said. "We better do what he said. Find some cusqueñas."

"Well, we gotta eat anyway," I said. "Where do you guys wanna go? It's your last meal in Cusco. You're leaving first thing in the morning. My bus doesn't leave until 2:30."

"I can't believe you're taking the bus," Cody said. "How long is that gonna take again?"

"19 hours. Supposedly."

"Jesus Christ. Why don't you just fly with us?"

"I hate flying. And it's cheaper. Besides, I don't mind. I'll just pop a sleeping pill."

Cody shook his head. "You're one interesting dude, Mark Plum."

"Yes, I am. Now. Where the fuck are we gonna eat? I'm starving."

"I don't think there's a choice," Adam said. "We have to go to Peliculas."

I laughed. "You love that place."

Adam laughed, too. "I do. I love that chick. The hostess. Rosa. She's super nice."

"She's pretty nice," I agreed. "Fine with me. Cody? Películas?"

"Let's do it," Cody said. "I fucking love Peliculas."

We locked the door to our hotel room. Películas was four blocks away, on the other end of the Plaza de Armas. We walked out into the cool, dark night, and weaved through the crowds on the way to our last meal together in Cusco.

To be continued...

The craziest 72 hours of my life: Strangers on a Train

As it became apparent that it was going to be tough to get in on this conversation, I sort of gave up. I sat back against the wall of the train, and closed my eyes. I tried to sleep but I was far too uncomfortable. Around me, Andrew and Bob, the Australian guys, competed with Roy for who could be the loudest, and I just bought another Cusqueña and tried to relax.  I was really ready for some socializing, but it looked as though between trying to avoid Roy and the incredible alpha maleness of these two Aussies, it wasn't meant to be. And I made my peace with that. It looked like this train ride really would just be about getting from Point A to Point B.

*********

The young man's gazed focused on nothing in particular.  Eventually he settled back once more against the side of the train, and his eyes alternated between open and closed. His Cusqueña beer was snug in his hand.  Once again, he marveled at his privilege.  To spend a day, even just an afternoon, among the ruins of Machu Pichu was something he would never forget.  He hadn't felt that close to God--whoever or whatever God was--for a long time.  Perhaps when his son had been born the year before; perhaps that was the last time the presence had been so strong.

There was a tap on his shoulder. "Excuse me?" said the American woman who had been crouching in the aisle. "Do you mind if I use this seat? My legs are starting to hurt."

"No. Of course not. Have a seat." The young man swung his legs back over in front of him so she could sit down.  She, in turn, swung her legs into the aisle to continue the conversation with Cody, Adam and the Aussies.

About an hour, maybe ninety minutes, into the trip, there was a lull in the conversation across the aisle.  The young man began to feel uncomfortable. Had his eyes been closed, he may have feigned sleep; but after a few minutes he couldn't handle the awkward silence.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I ever got your name," he said to the young woman.

"No, I don't think we were properly introduced," she said. "I'm Jamie."  She extended her hand.

"Mark," he said, shaking it. "Where're you from?"

"California. Southern California. And you guys were from...Ohio?"

He smiled. "Close. Iowa. Common mistake."

She slapped her head against her forehead. "Oh, sorry.  It's just I've never been to the Midwest. To be honest, I don't know that I've ever even met someone from Iowa."

"No worries. But just so you know, I know plenty of Californians."

"Oh? You've been?"

"No. Never been. And I don't really know that many Californians, either. Just giving you shit."

The conversation continued like that for a while. Jobs, educational background, family, interests. Relationships, of course.  Mark told her about the whole background for the trip, from its inception as a honeymoon, then a destination wedding, and finally a boys' trip/honeymoon.  For Jamie's part, she had been in a serious relationship for several years and had just recently broken it off. In a fit of spontaneity, she had taken the opportunity for this trip to Peru. She had volunteered for a month in an orphanage, and was now sight-seeing before heading back to California to start work as a nutritionist.

"The best part of this whole thing," she said, "is that I'm doing all this on my own. I mean, people have arranged contacts for me and shit, but I am the one building the relationships, making the trips, meeting new people. And the funniest thing is, I barely speak Spanish!

"I would have never done this before," she continued, "but since the break-up, I don't know. I needed to do...something. Anything different from go to school, graduate, go to work.  I've always just done the regular old middle class shit. My parents said I was crazy. My ex-boyfriend begged me not to go."

"Well, fuck him. He's out of the picture," Mark said, laughing.

Jamie laughed too. "Absolutely. Abso-fucking-lutely."

There was a pause.

"And you know what," she continued, "now that I've done it, that I'm doing it, I can't even fathom NOT having done it. You know what I mean?"

Mark nodded. "Absolutely. When I went to Venezuela eight years ago, my dad was totally supportive. But there were a lot of people who didn't get it. But I can't even conceive of my life without that trip. My job is in Spanish. My wife is Peruvian. None of those things would have happened."

Jamie started to talk but Mark plowed ahead. "And it's not even that, you know, the tangible things. It's the way I see the world. It's the way I see people. Like, earlier, I heard some young kid tell an older gentleman that 'Machu Picchu is the best part of Peru, hands down'.  And I thought, you know what, kid? How many Peruvians did you talk to at Machu Picchu? How much actual Peruvian culture did you absorb in those ruins? In Lima there's 10 million fucking Peruvians. Go there. Talk to them. Live a week there, in a middle-class neighborhood."

Jamie was nodding. "It's the people, I totally agree. My Spanish is, like, third semester Spanish, but I've forged these relationships. They're gonna last my whole life. I feel like, as soon as I get back to California, the first thing I'm gonna do is start planning my return trip. And improving my Spanish."

They laughed.  "You don't want to try another country instead of returning to Peru?" asked Mark.

Jamie was almost bouncing up and down in her seat.  "That's just it, I don't fucking know. It's like, oh my God, I love these people, but I could repeat this process again and again.  I could go to Africa, I could go to Europe. But then I just can't imagine just not coming back and seeing these Peruvians again...."

Mark was nodding in agreement. "I'm not that much more experienced then you," he said. "Venezuela, now Peru. A crazy-ass night in Mexico City that was never supposed to happen. But the thing about it is--and this is what kills me, this is the crack-cocaine part of traveling--is that wherever you go, people do different stuff. They eat different foods. They find their romantic partners a little different. But once you get past all that--and it's not nearly as hard as people make it sound--the freaking amazing thing--or maybe it's not that amazing--is that we're all so goddamn similar.

"Oh my God," Jamie said, "I couldn't agree more. And you're right. It's like this drug. Once you get a hit, all you want is another one."

Mark took a swig from his Cusqueña, or, better put, he tried.

"I'm gonna get one more beer," he said. "You want one?"

"You know what? I have to use the restroom. I'll get us one. But don't leave--I want to continue this conversation."

Mark looked out the window. It was now close to 8:00 in the evening, and it was very dark outside, although by looking carefully, he could see they were starting to approach the tree line. He made a mental note: right before they got off the train in Cusco--in about an hour, maybe a little more--he would have to tell Jamie how much he had enjoyed the conversation they were having, and how much she impressed him as a human being, and that he wished her luck in all that lay ahead for her. He was a man who didn't like to leave things--good things, at least--unsaid. 

As the train rumbled slowly up towards Cusco, the five men—the three Americans and the two Australians—began to share pictures. On June 28, 2007, the most common way tourists took pictures was with digital cameras; phones that took good pictures were still a few years away. Bob and Dave passed their phones around, as did Cody. Cody took all the pictures for the three Americans: he was a graphic designer by trade and had an eye for good shots; also, Adam and Mark were both too cheap to invest in a digital camera, so it was a pretty good system. When Jamie got back, she put hers into the mix as well.

“Whoa! Who is this?” said Bob, showing everyone an image from Jamie’s phone of a young blond woman, wearing a formal evening dress, her hair professionally styled.

“That’s me,” said Jamie. “From my sister’s wedding last summer.”

“No way.”

“Seriously, it’s me!”

“No way,” repeated Bob. “This woman is way more attractive than you.”

“I swear to God it’s me,” Jamie insisted.

Mark took all this in quietly. True, the image from the camera and woman sitting beside him were quite different; Jamie was, after all, not dressed for a wedding. Like all of them, she had dressed for a day of hiking and sight-seeing: cargo shorts, tennis shoes, a bandanna holding her hair back. But it wasn’t only the Bob’s shocking rudeness (at which Jamie hadn’t seemed to bat an eye) which perplexed him; it was his insistence that the woman on the phone was so much more attractive than the live version. Quite honestly, Mark thought, she looks better now.  More authentic, maybe.

He started to state his opinion, but even before he started, he stopped. It would come off all wrong. At best, it would come off as some lame attempt at chivalry; at worst, as some sort of come-on. He decided instead to wait, to tell her his opinion (and it probably didn’t matter, but he’d feel better if he said it) as they parted ways at the train station in Cusco, with everything else he wanted to tell her.  That way, he wouldn’t call attention to Bob’s appalling lack of manners (though maybe someone should), and she also wouldn’t take it as a come-on: after all, why would he hit on her if they were never going to see each other again?

Then he realized Jamie was talking to him. Resuming their conversation.

“I’m sorry, I was a little out of it,” Mark said. “It’s been a long day. What was that?”

“I was asking why you didn’t like Machu Picchu.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“Well, you were telling that story about the kid who loved Machu Picchu, and how he should go to Lima instead….”

“Oh. Yeah. I see what you’re saying,” Mark replied. “But I didn’t mean that. All I meant was, as travelers, I think it’s a shame when we put buildings and objects first in our memories, instead of the personal relationships we build. But no. I loved Machu Picchu. It was…I don’t know. I can’t even put it into words.”

Jamie was nodding. “I getcha. It’s unbelievable. Sorry, that’s totally cliché. But you’re right: it’s beyond words. You have to see it.”

“I’m glad Cody was taking pictures,” Mark said.

“Me too,” Jamie agreed. “I took a shit-ton of pictures. Although even that…I don’t know. I don’t know if the pictures are enough. You know?”

“I know. There was this…I don’t know…feeling.”

“Yeah! A feeling.  That’s the only way to put it,” Jamie said. “I felt…well, I don’t know where you are on religious stuff…?”

Mark smiled. “It’s a long story,” he replied. “I’d like to say ‘I’m spiritual but not religious’, but I hate it when people say shit like that. Everyone our age says shit like that.”

Jamie laughed. “That’s true,” she said, “but it’s true. That’s how I am, anyway. I believe in God, or something, but I don’t think church is the best place to go to find him. Or her. Or it. Or whatever.”

“So we go to Machu Picchu.”

“So we go to Machu Picchu. I mean, I don’t mean it that way. You don’t have to go to another continent to find God. That’s pretty fucking elitist. Still, though. Especially later in the day, when the clouds started coming down…I could swear I felt God, more than in a long time. Definitely since before the break-up. I just don’t know the last time I felt God so close to me.”

Mark looked at her for a few seconds before he responded. “That’s incredible. I was just thinking the same thing.  I mean, the exact same thing. The last time I had felt so close to God was when my son was born.”

For the first time in a long time, neither one spoke. There was nothing else to say.

“Jamie! Are you coming?” It was Andrew.

“What? Already?”

“Yeah girl. Ollantaytambo, second-to-last stop. This is where the taxi’s meeting us. You’re coming, right?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah,” Jamie said as she jumped up and ran down the aisle to grab her backpack.

Andrew and Bob shook hands with Cody, Mark and Adam. “It was great meeting you guys. Hopefully we’ll see you out partying tonight. Or maybe in Lima. You’re saying in Miraflores, right?”

Adam said, “Yeah, I think so. Inkawasi, right, Mark? It’s in Miraflores?”

“Yeah. Inkawasi. It's in Miraflores.”

Bob said, “Well, I don’t remember the name of our place. But there’s supposed to be some Irish pub in Miraflores where people party hard.  Supposedly they got good blow. Hopefully we’ll see you there.”

Jamie ran up with her backpack. “Okay, I’m ready. It was great meeting you guys,” she said to the Americans, giving each of them a quick hug. “I hope the rest of your trip is awesome.”

Jamie, Andrew and Bob walked off the bus.  Cody, Adam and Mark sat back down.

“God, I’m tired,” Cody said.

“And fucking hungry,” Adam added.

Mark sat quietly.  He knew that he had just had one of those stereotypical, once-in-a-lifetime type conversations you always read about. Being a guilty sort, he immediately began fostering an odd feeling of resentment at himself, at God. He would never, ever see Jamie again. He was a man who didn't like to leave things unsaid. All he wanted to do was tell her those three things: how much he was impressed her, how much he had enjoyed their conversation, and about that picture. That stupid fucking picture.

Once again, he rested his head against the window. No sooner had he done so that the glass vibrated three times as though someone were knocking on it.  He looked across from him before he thought to look out at the moonlit platform, where Jamie was waving to him.

“Thank you so much for the incredible conversation!” she shouted.  He read her lips more than he heard her.

He couldn’t shout inside the train car. Not knowing what else to do, he put his right thumb in the air. On the other side of the glass, Jamie laughed and put her thumb in the air.  Then she ran off to meet her friends.

Inside the train, Mark again rested his head on the glass. This time, he was smiling. If he was really going to do this whole God-thing, he realized, he had to remember people talked about Him (or Her) (or It) (or Whatever) in lots of different ways.  Sometimes they used words for hours on end. Sometimes they just gave a thumbs-up.

The train lurched into motion. They were making the stretch run into Cusco. “Good,” Mark thought. He was tired. And fucking hungry.

To be continued...