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We've all dated THAT person. You know, THAT person. That person, who you maybe went out with a couple times or maybe even dated casually for a month, but for whatever reason--maybe they chewed with their mouth open, maybe they watched too much reality TV, maybe one night they got really plastered and serenaded you with "She Wants to Drive My Truck" in a karaoke bar in front of all your friends WAY too early in the relationship--the details don't really matter, the point is that for whatever reason you and this person were not meant to be. And so you ended it, fully expecting a clean break because, hey, you only went out for one month, right? In your mind, that person does not even deserve to be called an "ex" because the relationship was so short so what's the big deal anyway? THAT person, however, does not take it so easily. They cry, they beg, they call incessantly, they "happen" to "coincidentally" show up at your favorite coffee shop hoping to run into you...well, you get the idea. THAT person wants you back at whatever cost--to their pride or sanity.
I'm happy to report that for most of
my life I've resisted being on the scary side of this disfunction-junction. Except for now. Now, for some reason, safely back in the States after my trip way down South I find myself acting sort of like a crazy stalker ex-girlfriend of...who else...but Lima, Peru. Sounds weird, I know. But, yes, there is just no other way to explain my behavior. I am really and truly THAT person. I constantly look through my Peru photos looking for any excuse to reorganize my Flickr page (oh, hey, that reminds me, see fabulous photos of my trip
here). I very often find myself wondering, "If I was in Peru right now, just what would I be doing?" I frequently google "Peru," which is actually so very satisfying given that there are about 230 million page results devoted to the South American country. And, most worrisome, to myself and those who know me well, I spend hours listening to Enrique (singing in Spanish!) on my IPOD. Totally pathetic, right? Sounds like someone definitely needs a little bit of that paid employment thing I've heard so much about.
There's a scene in one of the episodes of "Sex in the City" where Carrie
is drinking margaritas outside with the girls--come on, don't act all above it like you don't know exactly which one I'm talking about. She's going on and on and on about her breakup with Mr. Big, until finally Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte interupt and tell her that they can absolutely not listen to her for another second, that it's not healthy to talk about Peru, I mean Mr. Big, so much, and that she must force herself to move on or get professional help immediately. Well, folks, I realize that I'm clearly at the "begging-for-an-intervention" stage right now given that I'm writing in my travel blog even though my "traveling" ended...wow, has it really been TWO WEEKS AGO? But before I move on forever, perhaps I could share just one final story. If this somehow has meaing for other people, then fantastic, but I suppose the real purpose of this entry is much more self-serving in nature as I attempt to capture and forever remember my time there.
During my third week of volunteering, I was promoted from my usual duty of running breakfast gruel back and forth from the kitchen to actually SERVING boiling hot breakfast gruel with a huge ladle from a gigantic metal pot into 120 little bowls for the abuelos. (Note the "boiling hot" description as it proves key to this story.) The staff thought I could handle such a task; as you will see, it proved to be too much for me. No more than three mintues into it, the ladle I was wielding slipped and instead of pouring boiling hot gruel into a bowl, I poured it directly onto my right hand. I can't find the exact words to describe the blistering pain that within micro-seconds overtook my entire hand--from my fingertips to my wrist and everywhere in between. Trust me, it felt like someone was microwaving my hand. Oh, and it turned an alarming shade of purplish-red.
I tried to push through the now throbbing pain and act like nothing at all had happened. I told myself that my job was to serve these very hungry abuelos breakfast, and they had all been through so much in their own lives that I could certainly survive with one less hand without being a baby about it. I continued to spoon the gruel into bowls when one of the abuelas, who had seen my very graceful move, got up from the table even though she wasn't through with her breakfast, grabbed the ladle out of my hand and gave it to someone else to spoon, and wrapped my burned hand in her cloth napkin. I tried to protest but she would have none of it. She then dragged me to the nurse's office where she told the other abuelos waiting in line that they would need to let me go first because it was an EMERGENCIA and then sat with me while the nurse rubbed some sort of burn salve on my hand and told me that it was a close call but, yes, I would make it. For the rest of the day, the abuela personally made sure that I didn't wash dishes or sit in the sun--two things that would apparently aggravate the burn. She kept calling me "mamita", which I at first I thought directly translated to "stupid worthless klutzy American idiot"; later, back at the house, I found out was simply an affectionate term of endearment.
As should be clear from this anecdote (and probably every other anecdote included in this blog), I got way more out of the international volunteer experience than did the people I was supposedly there to help. Nearly every interaction I had with the people there played out in a similar fashion: I was determined to help but them but then for whatever reason--my lack of skills, the language barrier, simply my own awkwardness--THEY ended up not only helping ME, but also being very patient and affectionate toward me in the process. As a result, I had the chance to learn a lot about human relationships--specifically, the priority they tend to take in your life when there are no distractions, obligations, stresses, or material objects to otherwise entertain you. In other words, true, the burn story above had little consequence for me, my hand, or anyone else. But because it happened at a time in my life when I was totally stripped down (in the mental sense, of course, this is not THAT kind of blog!), meaning that I didn't really know anyone, was wearing the same clothes everyday, eating the same food everyday, basically had nothing else to do but show up for my placement and try to not get killed or injured in the process, I was able to focus and find relevant meaning in it. Even more than that, it has made me wonder how I can replicate being on the giving-end of this affection in my real life, not just with people I don't know but also with my real family and friends with whom I interact on a daily basis.
So, yes, ever since I left Peru I have felt those gnawing wistful pangs in the pit of your stomach that you sometimes get when you breakup with someone; but like any good relationship I expect it to have a postive, lasting effect on my life.
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