Newlyweds Crushed by Flatulent Elephant

I am constantly on the lookout for situations that will result in my death being reported on Yahoo’s News of the Weird. In moments of possible danger, headlines appear in my brain: American Tourists Brutalized by Charlie Chaplin Impersonator, or, Slasher Monkey Disembowels Students at Taj Mahal. It’s my brain’s way of telling me, “So the Roman mime just hit you in the ass with a riding crop. Best not to retaliate. He looks like he does judo in his spare time.” (Or in the case of the monkey, “Run. Run now.”) But sometimes this warning system kicks in a little too late, when there’s no escape option. And such was the case this week, when these words flashed through my mind: Newlyweds Crushed to Death By Flatulent Elephant.

Thailand is the mothership of weird news. Drugged Owls Found in Man’s Pants. Cache of Pygmy Marmosets Escape from Guitar Case at Bangkok Airport. Smuggler Dies After Cobra in Underwear Bites Buttock. OK, I made up those titles. But Thailand does produce a staggering number of stories in which air travelers alert the authorities because someone’s pants are chirping. As I have zero interest in joining an international crime ring and even less in stashing fruit bats in my skinny jeans, I wasn’t too worried. Which is why my alarm bells didn’t go off when our tour guide suggested we ride an elephant up a mountain.

I did have a bit of trepidation. After all, I’ve been on an elephant before. In India, my traveling companion, whom we shall call Mango in this post (she now has multiple pseudonyms on this blog), and I rode an elephant named Rangmala. Rangmala was the Ferrari of the elephant world. I’m pretty sure we broke the land speed record at one point, as she bolted for the cliff’s edge while trumpeting like a lunatic. Naturally, we interpreted this to mean, “Enough with hauling things up the mountain! Up, down, up, down! Who am I?! Sisyphus?! I’ll jump! I mean it!” In fact, what she really meant was, “Excuse me, please, but I must pee.” It was terrifying, and I truly hope that is the only time in my life I‘ll be glad to be enveloped in wisps of pee steam.

This time our elephant (whom we will call Bang, because in the adrenaline haze I forgot the second syllable of his name) was definitely not built for speed. Bang was built to digest. Two minutes into the ride (when I was already gripping the safety bar like a sailor clinging to the mast of a sinking ship) Bang stopped to eat a thicket, after which he expelled an equal amount of waste products. A short time later, Bang stopped again to eat large quantity of reeds. He then paused to release a gas pocket so powerful I’m pretty sure birds dropped out of the sky behind us due to lack of oxygen.

Eventually we came to a harrowingly steep and narrow part of the path, which had turned entirely to goo thanks to the monsoon rains. It was covered in elephant foot slide marks. It was on the edge of a cliff. It was easy to imagine the elephant tumbling backward, smushing us flat like cartoon characters. That’s when the prospective headline popped into my head: as Bang opted to take his next meal, in the middle of this death slope, us leaning precariously backward in the rickety elephant saddle. He munched away while the mahout tried to urge him onward. Bang’s only response was to make huffing sounds as if to say, “Screw you, I will eat this tree.” We were there for what felt like the better part of a decade, the blood slowly draining out of my head, allowing the next elephant a chance to catch up. Bang waited until the elephant’s head was only a couple of feet away, before releasing The World’s Most Epic Fart. There are operas performed in less time than that fart. It reverberated. It is the sound used in the making of horror movies when some ancient, cursed tomb has been opened, unleashing the beast within. When it was finally over, there was a long silence. Then the stunned reaction of the couple behind us: “Wow.” They didn’t utter a word for the rest of the trip.

Bang’s intestinal pyrotechnics continued up the mountain, prompting the mahout to turn around from his perch and say, “He eats many bananas.” Which at once made me a) never want to eat bananas again, and b) feel very guilty for having fed some to the elephants back at the camp. Eventually we made it to our destination, very much alive and three-dimensional. Which just goes to show that you can face your fears, with the only appreciable reward being a new addition to your mental library of nature sounds. (Seriously, not everything can lead to an epiphany.) But at least it gives me the perfect excuse to avoid future pachyderm riding opportunities. Because I can already see the headline: Blogger Crushed by Elephant Forsees Own Demise.

Us with Bang, who is actually very cute. You can see me gripping the handle bars. You can also see the unfortunate couple behind us.

This Traffic Circle Does Not Exist

I am hopeless at navigation. I could get lost in a shoebox. I have gotten lost on the street where I live. I once pulled over at a motel for directions, and discovered, to my surprise, that I had landed in West Virginia. Very often I have no idea where I am.

Some people have told me this is a blessing in disguise. “If you’re wandering around clueless for hours, you’ll encounter all kinds of wonderful and unexpected things” they say. Lies. It’s a great way to find the places where someone will either try to purchase you for the night or assess how much ransom they could demand from your family. I submit as evidence the following quotes:

“Man, there are a lot of hookers on this street.” (My friend Chris, in Berlin, Germany)

“That’s the fifth chop shop we’ve seen on this block. I’m pretty sure the house on the corner is a mafia stronghold. I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.” (Oso (formerly known as Pulpo), in Buenos Aires, Argentina)

But the biggest problem doesn’t come on foot. It’s in the car. Yes, that’s right. The GPS. “Wait,” you may be thinking, “the GPS is supposed to help you!” It’s true, the GPS is capable of finding a route to your destination. It inspires your trust. You just have to follow its instructions. And that is exactly what makes this device so subtly evil. (Well, that and it receives its information from space, which leaves you vulnerable if aliens ever decide to claim your Volvo.)

My first GPS was named Federica. She got her name because her voice sounds like a phone sex operator who moonlights as a professional assassin, and obviously such a person would be named Federica. To her credit, Federica did actually get us to Mount Rushmore. But not before taking us up the wrong mountain, directing us into a picnic area, then taking us back the way we came for twenty miles. It was an early lesson: the GPS will get you there eventually, but it will do its damnedest to make you give up first.

And so it was on Part One of our honeymoon. Pulpo (ugh, I mean Oso) and I rented a GPS-equipped car for a few days in rural France. Now let me tell you something about PulpOso. He is from the country (and very proud of it). His celebrity doppelganger is Paul Bunyan. He is one of those people who can tell you your exact latitude and longitude just by mentally cross-referencing the local bird songs and species of moss. He says that is an exaggeration, but I have seen this rural magic. So when my husband exclaimed halfway through our four-hour trek to the cottage, “Where the hell is this thing taking us? It’s like France by goat path!” I knew we were in for it. The GPS had gone rogue.

Our path across the map looked like a sugar-high kindergartener had drawn it on an Etch-a-Sketch. And as the trip went on, we discovered that sometimes your GPS aspires to be a murderer. Exhibit A: Its suggestion that we drive 90 KPH on gravel mountain switchbacks only wide enough for a large cow. Exhibit B: Its demand that we drive up a claustrophobia-inducing alleyway, straight into a pedestrians-only farmer’s market. And lastly, Exhibit C: The directions that took us up a staggeringly steep cobblestone path, which had been closed off due to deadly rockslides. Oh, and did I mention this path was on the edge of a cliff? If you’d like a visual of the scene inside the car during that ordeal, go find a cat. Then pick it up. Take it to the seaside. Try and throw it in the ocean. Look at the cat. That’s what I was doing in the car.

On the other hand, there is one major benefit to that devious dashboard parasite known as the GPS. You can never have enough ridiculousness in your travels. Maybe it’s just me, but I enjoy whenever life borders on the absurd. Like this scene in our car:

PulpOso: I’m coming up to a traffic circle. Which direction do I go?
Me: There is no traffic circle.
PulpOso: What do you mean? There it is. There’s the traffic circle. It’s huge.
Me: Not on the GPS. It made up its own road.
PulpOso: The traffic circle doesn’t exist. Great. So where do I go?
Me: Maybe go straight? If the road on the GPS existed, it looks like it would go straight.
PulpOso: What?
Me: I don’t know. Just go straight.
PulpOso: Right, cause the traffic circle we’re on right now as we speak doesn’t exist.
Me: Exactly.

I admit, I have to appreciate a machine that pays homage to the work of George Berkeley, Abbot & Costello, and Rand McNally simultaneously. A little bit. Maybe. As long as it stays away from the cliffs.

Mini Monsters, Snowballs, and Shots

As Pulpo (AKA Oso) and I have been planning our honeymoon, we've fielded a lot of questions about our choice of destinations. Most often it's something like, "You do realize that France and Thailand are nowhere near each other, right?". Yes, we do, but I think we've established by now that Pulpo and I are a little nuts. Another common one has been "Why go to Thailand? Don't you think you'll get sick there?". And I have to admit, that question leaves me a bit perplexed.

I have never been to Thailand. I don't think I've ever met anyone from Thailand. I used to send stacks of papers to Thailand for my old job, but to my knowledge, viruses haven't figured out how to fax themselves. So it's pretty much guaranteed that I'm going to run into a whole universe of pathogens I've never encountered before. Mini-monsters lurking in a bowl of coconut soup, plotting an extended vacation in my digestive system. Squadrons of airborne bacteria released when someone sneezes next to me in a spice market. Monkey-riding insects with cartoonishly evil Latin names, trying to hail a human taxi. Yeah, I think there's a good chance we might catch something.

I do not have an invincibility complex. There are lots of those people traveling the world. Sometimes they fit the stereotype: a 23-year-old college dropout who goes by the name OakFish who hasn't washed his hair in three months and doesn't own a pair of shoes. OakFish will walk off alone at night with any person who offers an invitation. He will eat raw sheep eyeball, if the opportunity presents itself. He thinks common sense gets in the way of "the experience." But let's not pick on OakFish. I have met plenty of well-educated, well-dressed, well-informed people who proudly proclaim, "I didn't get any vaccines or malaria pills before I went to Kenya, and I'm just fine." And they are just as crazy as OakFish. Survival is not proof that you used good judgment. It just means you were lucky. I, on the other hand, am I human pincushion. I'll list my vaccines at the bottom, in case anyone is interested.

Still, no matter how well you try and protect yourself, infections and injuries will still happen. And unfortunately, sometimes they snowball. Take for example, my trip to India with my friend Sneezy (Obviously Sneezy is not her real name, but it works for this post). When we got off the plane, Sneezy already wasn't feeling so hot. By the time we got to our host family, Sneezy had a full-on nasal/respiratory/swamp monster cold going on (which she had obviously caught in the U.S., but would now have to deal with in India). That night we accidentally knocked down the privacy curtain shielding our room from the other household occupants. While trying to put it back up, I managed to fall off the wobbly chair I was standing on and slam my ribs on the backrest. I spent the entire trip trying to breathe like a hamster, because if I inhaled completely, the pain was like being stabbed with a pitchfork. Meanwhile, Sneezy's immune system, already overwhelmed by the swamp monster cold, fell prey to everything else we encountered, including (but not limited to): a second cold, a sore throat, a stomach bug, and finally, some lovely intestinal parasites. I managed to stay comparatively healthy until we started traveling outside Delhi, when I was overtaken by some kind of fever. I remember dragging myself through the Taj Mahal, cold and miserable. It was my sickest day of the whole trip. It was also the day we got attacked by a monkey.

These things happen when you travel. They're also just part of life. (Well, maybe not getting attacked by a monkey, but you know what I mean.) The sickest I've ever been, without comparison, was in Western Europe. There are no special health hazards there. I just happened to pick up a nasty stomach virus, which, thanks to appallingly bad medical care at a Swiss clinic, got worse and worse, until I ended up hospitalized in Germany. I was ferried from doctor to doctor for two hours at the German hospital, trying to communicate in a pathetic mixture of German and English ("Ich bin sehr, sehr krank. Doktor bitte."), before getting to a wonderful internist, who explained that my kidneys weren't working. She gave me tons of IV fluid, and for the first time in days, I was able to sit up without the room spinning. It was a miserable experience.

But aside from the language barrier, it could have happened anywhere, even at home. At least if I'm traveling I get to see cool things while I'm ill, like pagodas and catacombs. I mean, seriously. Pagoda vs. bedroom ceiling? I'll take the pagoda anytime. I don't mean to be trivial. Obviously there are some bad diseases out there. But I'll take that risk over not getting to see the world.

So fingers crossed neither Pulpo nor I will get sick on our honeymoon. Obviously, trips are more fun when you're healthy, especially on a honeymoon. But if we do, it's OK. After all, true love isn't roses and champagne. True love is taking care of someone when they have food poisoning. And we've traveled enough to know that from experience :-).

NOTE: As promised, for those of you interested, here are the vaccinations listed on my yellow card: Hepatitis A (1st dose), typhoid, the adult polio vaccine, typhoid again, Hep A (2nd dose), Tdap, Hepatitis B Booster, 2 flu shots, and yellow fever. This doesn't include my pandemic flu shot from 2009, my three doses of Gardasil, or my childhood vaccinations. Told you I'm a human pincushion.

The Idiot's Guide to Accidental Swimming

If there's one thing I learned in Scotland, it is this: I have no skills. Scotland is the land of intense and bizarre skills that I had a) never heard of before the trip and b) don't have a prayer of attaining at any point in the future.

Take, for example, the gentleman at the left. At first you may think, "this man's skill is looking awesome." And while he is clearly rocking his muscle shirt and kilt ensemble (because when you look like you eat raw puma meat for breakfast, you can wear whatever the f@&# you want), please direct your attention to what's in his hand. It's a big metal thing that weighs [mumble]billion pounds, which he flung across a field after spinning around a few times like a big, bearded ballerina. It was seriously impressive. This man later went on to throw a medley of objects across the field, including a big rock, a giant log, and something that looked like a anvil on a stick. I, conversely, couldn't arm wrestle a squirrel. Puma-eating-ballerina: 1; Lani: 0.

For exhibit two, I submit the preschoolers in the photos to the right. First, I have to congratulate them on their sock choice. I totally want a pair. But more importantly, take a look at how they're all moving in sync with each other. Have you ever seen little kids do that? I babysat in high school. I've worked in a preschool. Usually when little kids are corralled together with music on, about half of them do a weird squat-stand-squat-stand dance with their arms up, and the other half mills around aimlessly like the ghosts in Pacman. These kids moved in perfect timing, gracefully hopping up and down like tiny, plaid-covered kangaroos.

But the mini-highlander to the left really took it to the next level. First of all, she looks like something out of The Matrix. (Seriously, compare her to this picture. Uncanny.) Secondly, did you notice what she's jumping over? That's right, she's leaping over swords. The four year-old is leaping over swords. When I was four years-old, I tripped over my own feet so much that my parents were actually concerned that I had a neurological problem. This girl, on the other hand, is a fairly competent ninja. Tiny ninjas: 1. Lani: 0.

It's not really surprising, though, that I don't have those skills. Unfortunately, however, Scotland also taught me that I'm lacking skills I really thought I had. Like knowing how to read. Or more specifically, pronouncing the letters I read. How do you say Druim na Droichaid exactly? Yeah, no idea. Driving is another example. I thought I knew how to drive. But then the steering wheel moved to the other side, and I had to drive on the left, and there were 8,000 roundabouts, and before I knew it, I had smashed the side-view mirror on a gate. Thank god for the "peace of mind" insurance package.

But I was still pretty sure I possessed the ability to decide for myself when to go for a swim. Not so. Nothing could have made me voluntarily go for an open-water swim in chilly, drizzly Scotland. I'd have been even less likely to go for said swim in my jeans, shoes, and shirt, while carrying my camera. Did I end up going for such a swim? Yes, I did. Where? In Loch Ness. Thanks to a horse named Moss. We had made it about halfway through our lake crossing when Moss stopped. He turned to the side, with that unmistakeable horse facial expression that says, "I'm freaking out, man!" Then he tried to launch into orbit, flinging me sideways into Loch Ness, much like what the puma-eating ballerina did to the big rock.

So here's my advice should you unexpectedly find yourself swimming in Loch Ness.
1) Enjoy the moment! You're in Loch Ness! I mean, if you had to fall into any lake, this one makes for the best story.
2) When walking out, try to move fast. That mud has some sucking power.
3) Start laughing. That way you can join right in with your companions on shore, who are by this point doubled over and red in the face.

So what did I do when I finally got to dry land? I pet Moss and slung myself into the saddle. I have realized after all this that I do have one skill. I may not be able to keep myself on the horse, but I'm pretty good at getting back on. And for the Disaster with a Passport, that's a useful skill to have.

Me, having just crawled out of Loch Ness.

Me, back on the horse post-swim



















And just to provide a more equitable comparison with the little highland dancers, here's a picture of me at age five, showing off the proudest accomplishment of my life to that point: losing my first tooth. And I didn't really lose it. It wouldn't fall out on its own, so the dentist had to pull it out. Yeah . . . they win.

The Zombie Goes to Tea

In theory, I possess the ability to sleep on airplanes. In practice, I almost never do. No, it's not because the seats were designed by medieval torturers. I'm pretty much OK with folding myself into a small cube and passing out. It's the one place where being built like a dachshund is actually a plus. (If you have never seen a dachshund, this is what they look like, dressed as hot dogs: click to see) No, the reason I don't sleep on planes is because I'm always seated next to people who are either a) crazy; b) smelly; or c) possess some kind of sleep disorder that turns them into a space invader.

Allow me to illustrate. In category A, we have the man who kept me awake for seven hours while trying to convince me to come to Greece and meet his mother. In category B, we have the algae-covered man I shared a row with on a flight from Japan to Detroit. His carry-on was giant trash bag full of socks, and he smelled like the small mammal house at the zoo. Lastly, in category C we have the Rasputin look-alike with narcolepsy whose unconscious head bludgeoned me every twenty minutes on a flight from DC to LA. (If you don't know what Rasputin looked like, this is him: click here. I ask you, would you be able to sleep next to that?)

And on my flight to London last Tuesday, I was once again given a less than ideal seatmate. She also fell into category C. I should have known things were not going to go well when she piled her jacket, blanket, and pillow on top of me in order to buckle her seatbelt. I should really have known after she fell asleep twice while eating. But the moment I actually realized I wasn't going to get any rest was when she started tilting further and further to the side, like a stinky-breathed Leaning Tower of Pisa, until she took up more of my seat than I did. Where was I, you may ask? Pressed flat to the window like a tree frog. Eventually a flight attendant came to the rescue and woke her up. And then we repeated the whole process for six and half hours. Leaning Tower of Pisa. Tree Frog. Rescue. Repeat. All night long.

If you've ever flown east across the Atlantic, chances are you've arrived at the crack of dawn, about eight hours before you can check into your hotel. Such was the case for my arrival. It was hour 20 of being awake. Wrinkled and cranky, I left my bags at hotel reception and set out into the city to kill several hours. As time crept on, the sleep deprivation began to take its toll. My eyes got redder and would only open one at a time. This affected my depth perception, so I tripped a lot. I became too tired to focus, which caused illiteracy, aimless roaming, and an inability to speak in anything but moans. In short, I become a zombie. (Since I was in the U.K., think either 28 Days Later or Shaun of the Dead, depending on your taste.)

Technically, I could check into the hotel at 3:30. But I was meeting friends. They had made high tea reservations for four. I didn't have time to go back to the hotel. So I went, in zombie mode, to tea at Fortnum and Mason. I looked like hell. I could hardly sit up. I'm sure the waitress was surprised to see the bedraggled semi-conscious heap look up at her with one eye and say, "I'd like a pot of rose pouchong, please." After that, I mostly remember consuming lots of miniature food. (I'm somewhat concerned that the kitchens at Fortnum and Mason are staffed by Lilliputians.)

As the day, and then night, went on, I kept saying, "I should really go check in after this." And for reasons I don't quite comprehend, it just never happened. By the time I finally got back to my hotel, it was 1:30 in the morning. I had been awake for about 36 hours (at least I think it was 36, I lost the ability to count in the afternoon). I was surprised to discover that the woman who collected my bags was still on duty. Her coworker, who we will call Igor, eyed me suspiciously as I dragged myself into the lobby. I put my head down on the counter and said something like, "Left bags in the morning. Must need room. I sleep." He smiled and said, "Come with me. They are in the back. I must open [lengthy pause] the vault." Um, creepy. It was at this point that I noticed the dirty flickering overhead lamps and dark red stains on the floor. The dusty windows. The creaking doors. And the fact that the staff seemed to work all night without needing sleep . . . I am staying at a hotel run by Nosferatu, I thought. (I read the Twilight series three years ago, so clearly I'm an expert on these things.) They're were definitely vampires. I should have been concerned. Igor the Undead was about to turn me into his own personal Jamba Juice and all I could think was, "Damn it, now I'll never get to brush my teeth."

Needless to say, I survived. Igor handed me my bags, and I went to my room. I was still fairly sure I was going to be murdered in my sleep, based on the state of the room. That was obviously what had happened to the last occupant. But I was so exhausted I didn't care. "They can have me," I thought, "Just as long as I get to take a nap first." And with that, I, the tea-drinking zombie plopped on the bed and fell fast asleep.

Snuggies at the Studios: A Birthday Story

Here are some things I don't usually do on the weekend: a) hug a rapper; b) wear false eyelashes so long I could thresh a wheatfield by blinking (or really, wear false eyelashes at all); and c) drink frozen cocktails dipped in liquid nitrogen by a reality TV star. Did all of those things happen last weekend? Yes, they did. It was very, "Toto, I don't think we're in Washington anymore." But in an awesome way, not a flying-monkeys-are-coming-to-make-me-their-bitch kind of way.

Don't get me wrong, I love Washington. And I'm sure I'm used to things that would make other people have that Oz-like feeling ("This is the longest presidential motorcade ever! Can't I cross the street yet?!"). But it's kind of like veggie pad thai. I love veggie pad thai. It's my staple Thai food. But sometimes, you want something different. You want the evil prince curry with fried tofu. Los Angeles is evil prince curry with fried tofu. But as it happens, I wasn't in Los Angeles for a change of scenery. I was there for a far more important reason: celebrating my cousin's 18th birthday!

If you've ever spent any time with my family, you know that they could make an appendectomy fun. I mean that literally. When family members have had surgery, we have been known to turn hospital rooms into party suites. (We're pretty sure restricted visiting hours are detrimental to recovery.) So for actual celebrations, like Ariana's birthday, just imagine. After all, 18 is big deal: (Insert Rock the Vote PSA here). Now, I'd like to go on and on here about how talented my cousins are, and how fabulous they were at the birthday extravaganza: Frankie was hilarious, and Ariana's voice is even more astonishingly awesome than this fish: (click here to see the fish). But there's a problem. I am so proud of them, and was so blown away by their show on Saturday, that I'm alternately gushy or speechless about them, and neither works very well in a blog. So sufficed to say, however wonderful they are on stage, they are just as amazing off it. I'd consider myself lucky to have them as cousins, even if they were tone-deaf garage collectors instead of brilliant performers.

In addition to their awesomeness, there were other recurring themes to the weekend. Here are three of them:

1. Nonna
Our grandmother is a very special woman. When you think of Nonna, don't picture an old granny sitting in rocking chair with her knitting, waiting for the roast to be done. Nonna is the matriarch. She wears stilettos and swears like a sailor. She has uncanny luck at three-card poker. She wears sunglasses indoors, because she can. She is Nonna, known universally by the one name, like the geriatric Madonna. She is, in short, kind of a badass. And after she was introduced to Patti LaBelle this weekend, a legend of the music world, Nonna came back to her seat and said, "She was thrilled to meet me." Later on in the night, she was asked not once, but twice, for her autograph. She signed "Nonna."

2. Snuggie vs. Slanket
A few of us got into a conversation, after a few cocktails, about the merits of the snuggie versus the slanket. (The party favor was a pink snuggie.) We ultimately decided that the snuggie wins, not because of any real benefits over the slanket (they're both just blankets with sleeves), but because the word "slanket" sounds either like a murder weapon or something from a porn movie. For four of us, "Slanket, baby, slanket" became the catchphrase of the night.

3. Interesting Answers to the Question "What do you do for a Living?"
In Washington, there aren't many answers to that question. Usually it's something like, "I'm a lawyer with [complicated acronym]." I discovered that in L.A., you get answers like, "Oh, I'm a figure skating coach" or "I'm a Ferrari broker" or "I'm a pet masseuse." (Two of those three were real answers I got this weekend. You guess which two.)

Now, before I finish this, I just want to state that I'm aware I've mentioned wheat twice in two posts, which is bizarre. But since I may have offended some wheat enthusiasts last week, I thought I'd include something to make amends. If wheat is your passion in life, take a look at this video, which shows wheat threshing, just as my Grande ancestors may have done: Party time in the wheatfield.

Nonna and Grandpa. If I told you how old they are, you wouldn't believe it. Also, Nonna would kill me.

The Birthday Girl and I before her party (I've exercised great restraint in not using her childhood nickname)

There are few genes more dominant on this earth than the Grande jawline and eye shape. Here are Frankie, Grandpa, and I displaying said characteristics.

Spin the Globe, Point a Finger

When Pulpo and I first moved into our apartment, the first thing we did was put up a world map. (Actually, the first thing we did was paint. But then we put up the map.) We covered it in colored coded pins for places we've been, and we stuck in big white flag pins for the places we wanted to go. The debate over which countries would receive a white flag pin was intense. These were going to be our priority countries. Funds would be allocated. Lists and timelines would be drawn up. We took it seriously. I campaigned hard for Mongolia (I had just seen The Story of the Weeping Camel), but alas, my bid was rejected. Pulpo countered with Morocco, but I vetoed (mostly out of despair over the crushing defeat of Mongolia). Mysteriously, Greenland managed to get a white flag pin. In the end, we had about ten white flag pin destinations . . . And we've never gone to any of them.

We could have. We've gone lots of places since The Great Map Debate of '08. But instead we went elsewhere. Inevitably, when people see the map in our apartment, they say, "Oh, are these the places you're going to go next?" And we don't really have a good answer, other than, "No. In fact, we think the white flag pins might be cursed." We came to this realization one night while tossing around ideas for our honeymoon. We were talking about a place we'd both like to go and I said, "Hey, maybe we should put a pin in the map for it!" Horrorstruck, Pulpo said, "No! Then we'll never go there!" My reaction: "Ooooh, that's true. Nevermind."

When I think it through though, I'm about 99% sure that evil spirits haven't possessed our map. I think the problem is much simpler: we took it too seriously. We almost always pick our travel spots based on what we're excited about in the moment. Sometimes they come out of the blue. And there isn't much discussion. When Pulpo was working overseas last year, we planned to meet somewhere in the middle for a week. Here's how we decided where to go:

Me: I'm not sure where we should go.
Pulpo: Let's go to the Philippines.
Me: Why the Philippines?
Pulpo: Why not the Philippines?
Me: Good point. Let's go.

This is pretty much how we make every travel decision. There's no debate. I could get excited about a trip to our backyard, and Pulpo is up for anything. Which is good, because some of my ideas are a little out there. (If you're ever in Szentendre, Hungary, there is a marzipan museum, and in it there are Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and a life-sized Michael Jackson made out of marzipan. Amazing.) Anyway, the point is that it's much more exciting to decide on a whim than to consult the methodically negotiated map. So that's what we do. The big white flag pins are a buzzkill. Which pretty much makes them useless. Which means maybe there's hope for Mongolia yet!

Of course, the budgeting, booking, and logistics are not done on a whim, but that's a whole other subject, about which I will never write a blog post. Why not? Because it's about as riveting as an encyclopedia on various kinds of wheat. (Translation for wheat geneticists: Not very exciting at all, but have a good time with your freaky wheat.)

And now for two side notes . . .

When I first started the blog, I thought maybe five people would be reading it, so I didn't think there was a real need to consult Pulpo when I came up with his pseudonym. I was wrong on both counts, so I have to state for the record that Pulpo strenuously objects to being named Pulpo. He would have preferred Oso. And he has a point. He bears a greater resemblance to an oso than a pulpo. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I suggest Google Translate (Spanish to English).

And the second note: I have written and posted this whole blog entry while on a flight to Los Angeles. I have never been on plane with internet access before. I bet this is how the pilgrims felt at the end of winter.

Trolls, Voodoo, and the Pacific: An ELM Adventure

Before there was Panama, there was ELM. What does ELM stand for, you may ask? It's actually just our names: Emily, Lani, and Margaret. But I get asked that question so often, I'm going to come up with a more interesting explanation of the acronym. Effervescent liquid marmosets. Elephants love muffins. It's something I'll keep working on.

ELM grew out of my all-consuming desire to go to South Dakota. I had taken an anthropology class on the native groups of the Plains my senior year, and as Pulpo will tell you, if I read about a place long enough, I will become completely obsessed with going there. Unsurprisingly, most people did not share my passion for South Dakota. In fact, my search for travel companions was usually met with reactions like "Why in the name of god are you going to South Dakota?" or "Who the hell would want to go there?" Thankfully, I got an answer to the last one: Emily. For months we planned our trip and tried to convince Margaret to come with us. Finally, a couple of weeks before the trip, my cellphone rang: "I seriously need a weekend away. Can I still come to South Dakota?" And ELM was born.

That was in 2008. We have done an ELM trip every year since that first trip to South Dakota. In 2009, we met up in Las Vegas, and road tripped to Utah and Arizona. In 2010, we went to Boston for the 4th of July. And this year, over Memorial Day weekend, we went to Seattle and Portland. We have seen humpback whales, gone on a bison safari, and walked the whole length of The Strip. We have ridden horses on the beach, been to the top of the Crazy Horse Memorial, and eaten donuts shaped like voodoo dolls. But most importantly, we have continued to travel together, through relocations, new jobs, family tragedies, financial constraints, cramped schedules, and all the good things in between. Girlfriends are what keep you sane, and ELM is a bit like recharging the batteries. It's like therapy, with cocktails, sushi, and suitcases. And I wait for it excitedly all year.

So here are some of the highlights from ELM 2011: Seattle and Portland . . .

Oh, and just for the record, South Dakota was awesome, and you'd have to be crazy to not want to go there.

Seafood on sale at Pike Place Market in Seattle

M, L, and E at our hotel in Portland

On the roof of The Nines for drinks

Horseback riding on the Oregon Coast (and Emily's first time seeing the Pacific!)

Wine tasting at Montinore

We waited on line for over an hour at Voodoo Donuts. Definitely worth it. (The cyclops is mine.)

Back in Seattle

Margaret and I on top of the Fremont Troll

My Heat Stroke roll at Japonessa

View over Portland, Oregon

Pictures of Paradise

As promised, here are some pictures from Bocas del Toro, Panama and Playa Nicuesa, Costa Rica:

KoKo Resort Cabins in Bocas del Toro

Me holding a red frog (the guide said it was OK)

Pulpo and I island hopping in Bocas del Toro

Outside an island restaurant (Panama)

Dolphin!

Tiny plane to Costa Rica

Basilisk in a tree in Costa Rica

Flower at the resort

Hiking up to the waterfall

Under the mosquito net in our room

Dear Panama, (Insert Love Letter Here)

Three and a half months ago, I was sitting in the Houston airport, killing time during a three hour layover before my flight to Panama City. More specifically, I was having a glass of wine in the Houston airport, at 10:30 in the morning, in a failed attempt to calm my nerves before moving to a city I had never been to and knew almost nothing about. The wine did nothing to relax me, so instead I became a slightly drunk ball of nerves. Under the combined effect of fermented grapes and thirty pounds of carry-on luggage, I aimlessly roamed the international terminal, walking like a bedraggled pirate. Believe it or not, this was an improvement compared to the weepy zombie that got to the Washington airport at 5 o'clock that morning. It was not my finest day.

Now once again I'm in an airport (Newark this time), stuck here for a three hour layover, waiting to go home for the first time since January. Most of me is ecstatic. I could write a small encyclopedia about how much I've missed my friends and Pulpo. And there are some trivial perks to being home, like free museums, living in a walkable city, and having easy access to copious amounts of sushi. But at the same time, it feels a bit like leaving home to go home. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with Panama.

I spent the last few days traveling in Costa Rica, a trip planned back in December. Everyone goes to Costa Rica, I thought, and I'll be right next door. Why not go? This week, however, I found myself determined to dislike Costa Rica. Why? Because it wasn't Panama. And I wanted more time in Panama. I refused to accept that a neighboring country could possibly have something to offer that Panama did not. Why was I even bothering to go? It was clearly going to be inferior. Oh, they have sloths? Who cares? I saw two in Panama, so there! I had the sense not to say any of this out loud, but inside my head I was a five year old kid throwing a temper tantrum at Thelma's. I wanted strawberry ice cream, and if I couldn't have strawberry ice cream, I didn't want any ice cream. All other ice cream was obviously going to taste like poop. (NOTE: For those of you unlucky enough to have missed Thelma's, it was an ice cream shop in Great Falls, Virginia, and it was awesome.)

In reality, Costa Rica is very nice and well worth a trip. But it turns out that my cranky brain was right, at least in part. Because the things I'll miss most about Panama just aren't anywhere else. My apartment and its resident lizards who kept it bug-free. (I ended up naming them all Renfield, after the character in Dracula who eats insects.) Having watermelon juice at Pan y Canela every day. Living next to the water and going for runs on the Cinta Costera before going to work. And last, but certainly not least, my friends and coworkers (shout-out to Victoria and Camila! You have a place to stay in Washington any time.).

So now that my time in Panama is done, there is one remaining question: What happens to this blog? Inevitably there will be at least one more entry, with pictures from the last few days in Panama and Costa Rica. But after that? In theory, Disaster with a Passport could go on. The title is pretty general and I travel a lot. I suppose I'll make a decision in the next couple of weeks, but in the meantime, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who's been reading. When I started this blog, I thought my audience was going to be a few close friends. The pool of readers ended up being larger than I ever imagined, and the blog has officially traveled more places than I have at this point (thanks in no small part to my awesome cousin). I hope I've provided some entertainment for you all, and if not, then I hope it's at least been a good way to procrastinate. So thanks again, everyone!

And Panama, thank you.

The Invisible Souvenirs

There are only two things I enjoy shopping for: shoes and books. Granted, I have a bit of an addiction to shoe and book shopping (I may have just ordered a pair of gorgeous cognac riding boots and a book on tiger attacks in the Russian wilderness), but other than that, I'm not much of a "stuff" person. I'd rather be dipped in a vat of boiling oil than spend my whole weekend at the mall (AKA, the evil windowless box that eats your money). And our apartment is too small to house a truckoad of random decorative objects. So it's probably unsurprising that I avoid shopping like the plague while travelling.

That doesn't mean I come back empty-handed. My camera memory card is almost always filled to capacity. I usually have at least one good story: "So, I was almost arrested in Amsterdam," or, "We went on a garden tour at 2 AM, and I got attacked by a lemon." (There's more to both of those stories, but I'll spare you.) And of course, there are the invisible souvenirs.

I've been in Panama for over three months now, and it won't be that long before I'm heading home to Washington. While I'm very excited to be going back to my city, I have to confess, I'm also going to be sad to leave. But like with any trip, long or short, there are pieces I'll be taking with me. Here is the top five list of the invisible souvenirs I'll be bringing home from Panama.

1. Watermelon Juice
Inevitably, everytime I go to a new country, I come back with a new food/drink obsession. In Hungary, it was cherry soup. In Germany, I discovered Riesling (still my favorite wine). A trip to the Philippines set off an all-consuming love of mangoes. And in Panama? Watermelon juice. I have consumed an obscene amount of watermelon juice. And I can pretty much guarantee that when I get home, our blender will be working overtime. (Recipe: Select watermelon. Split watermelon. Scoop watermelon meat into blender. Blend.)

NOTE: If you are currently thinking "Wait! Watermelons aren't invisible!", don't worry, I know that. But I think you probably get the point anyway.

2. Slight Trepidation about Men with Hairless Arms
As many of you know, I didn't actually see the face of the man who mugged me my third week in Panama, given the difficulties of turning around while in a headlock. While my friend was able to give a few more details to the police, the only description I could provide was that I was attacked by a burly hairless arm. Since then, I am constantly noticing burly hairless arms. And inevitably my first thought is, "Hmm, you have hairless arms. Are you, by any chance, a mugger?" Irrationality: 1; Lani: 0.

3. The Verb "Pegar"
I really didn't get this verb pre-Panama. Largely because it is used for so many things. But now I can use it! Here are some real-life examples of the verb "pegar" in action:
La pantalla está pegada.
The screen is frozen.
Mis zapatos estaban pegados al suelo.
My shoes were stuck to the floor.
Quiero pegarlo.
I want to slap him.

4. Several Animals Crossed off my To-See List
Three-toed sloth, crocodile, basilisk (also called the Jesus Christ Lizard) running across the water, marmoset, howler monkey, capuchin monkey, agouti, coati, iguana, toucan, and a ton of other birds.

5. An Improved Resume
I get to add a three-month internship with a major international organization, which adds some diversity to my work experience. And my first publication came out this month (through the organization I interned with last semester in Washington). Of course, implied in this list item is everything I learned while doing the work, not just getting to put the experience on a piece of paper.

Minus the hairless arms thing, I think those are a lot better than a mass-produced Panama hat. Especially since "Panama hats" are actually from Ecuador. And instead, I can buy books for my upcoming western Panama and Costa Rica vacation. (I did say it was an addiction.) Recommendations, anyone? :-)

Zebras, Flamingos, and Other Things You Can't Put in a Blender

For many people, being a good traveler is virtually synonymous with being able to blend in. You should look like a local, eat like a local, think like a local, and aside from extremes like ritual scarification and honor killings, you should pretty much embrace every aspect of an unfamiliar culture without a second thought. This is the philosophy espoused in the most famous travel advice in history (a piece of advice so well known that you don't even need the whole sentence): "When in Rome . . ."

Changing your style of dress and drinking passion fruit juice for the first time is easy. The challenge comes, for me anyway, in trying to make my brain adapt. I spent my first two months in Panama absolutely determined not to react strongly to something just because I found it shocking or surprising. I would not let anything phase me. I would be comfortable in all situations. I failed miserably.

Race and skin color come up a lot in conversation in Panama. Being American, I'm used to discussions about race. As it relates to politics, American society as a whole, etc. I am not, however, accustomed to conversations like this:

"You look like my cousin. She's white."
"Oh, um, ok."
"She and I don't look alike. Look how much darker my skin is that yours."
"Yes . . . my skin is kind of white."
"Yes, but not as white as blond Americans. Sometimes they look like cream cheese."
"Yes . . . I am darker than cream cheese."
"Also the English. The English are whiter than you."
"Yes, probably."
"They burn in the sun. Do you burn in the sun?"

These conversations, despite my best efforts, turned me into an awkward, bumbling idiot. I quite simply had no idea what to say in response. My brain was not programmed to have a casual conversation about skin color. History? Discrimination? Sure, I can talk about that. But to non-chalantly say, "Hey, you're right. If we were crayons, I would totally be apricot, whereas you sir are more of a burnt sienna."? I cannot say that. I felt awkward just writing that, let alone saying it out loud to someone. So instead, I said next to nothing. I'm sure I left several people with the impression that not only am I pasty, but I also have either a mental deficiency or a speech impediment.

And I haven't just failed in conversation. Wild taxi rides have also gotten the better of me. Clearly, cabbies who drive like maniacs are not unique to Panama. I have met plenty in Washington, including an astonishingly drunk one who offered me a shot of whiskey from his flask one night. The difference is that in DC, I have no problem yelling for them to slow down, or if all else fails, telling them to pull over before we all get killed. Here? I've said nothing. I tell myself, "this is just what the driving is like here. (*Clunk* as I hit my head on the window.) So what if there are no seatbelts? (*Clunk*) It will be fiiiiine. (*Clunk*)" Somehow I don't think it really counts as adapting to your surroundings if you're paralyzed in fear.

And it's probably best that I just be as brief as possible about men yelling at me from car windows, construction sites, the seat next to me, etc. Sufficed to say, I have been told that is the norm here. Men like to voice their "appreciation." Ok, whatever, that's happens back home too. But once again, in the US I might say something if they cross the line. But in Panama, I have no idea where the line of acceptability is. With any of these things. Where is the line? And if I have no idea where that line is, how could I possibly try and blend in?

The answer is that I can't. Trying to blend in is futile. Yes, if you live in a place long enough, your perspective starts to change and you can blend in. But that's a result of time and experience, not incessant trying. And why all this emphasis on blending in to begin with? It's obviously important to make an effort to understand cultural differences, to not make snap judgments, and to expose yourself to new things. But do we really need to try and erase our cultural context to do that? If all cultures have value, doesn't that include our own?

It's a bit like zebras and flamingos. You can put a zebra in the middle of a bunch of flamingos, and try as it might, it will not blend in. Even if it stands on one leg like a flamingo, you will not mistake the zebra for a flamingo. If it hunkers down to the size of flamingo, it will just be a zebra squatting in a sea of flamingos. If you paint the zebra neon pink, it still will not blend with the flamingos. And honestly, why on earth would the zebra bother with all that? It doesn't have to blend in with the flamingos to hang out with them. It doesn't have to blend in with the flamingos to use the same watering hole. It can be a zebra, and still get a long just fine with the flamingos. (Do a google image search, it's true.)

The other day I shared a cab with a business man, and a Panamanian woman and her three children. And the ride was like being on space mountain. We weaved in and out of lanes; we were up on two wheels; we pulled a U-turn in the middle of oncoming traffic. After we nearly collided with a pedestrian, the woman said to the driver, "Please be careful, my three children are back here." For once, I knew where the line was. So when he launched into a vicious tirade after her comment, I spoke up. I released an angry torrent of rapid-fire Spanish, demanding that he desist in his efforts to break the land speed record. He slowed down, and we made it back in one piece. I smiled the whole way home. And I didn't care if my response was right or wrong, or judgmental or American or anything else. It felt great.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll yell at a lecherous construction worker. :-)

The Panama Effect, or, How I Learned to Love the Dirt

I have never been particularly outdoorsy. Actually, that's an understatement. I hate camping. I hate it more than almost anything else in the world. The last time I was talked into camping, a bear popped out of a tree fifteen feet in front of me. I lay awake the whole night waiting for death by mammal. The most athletic experience of my whole life was running out the woods the following day, scanning the trees for predators. Which brings me to the next point: I have never been particularly athletic. A friend of mine freshman year of college once said that seeing me in athletic gear was like seeing a fish in a tuxedo.

Sure, since then I've learned to love working out, preferably if I can make myself look like an uncoordinated idiot in the process (New York City Ballet Workout, anyone?). But I've never had any particular goal in mind. It's mostly just been a way to stay healthy and to justify my avid consumption of soft cheeses (they're a source of vegetarian protein!). And the outdoors were always a great place to see animals in the wild, which I love (as long as they're not ninja bears descending from above). But other than that, I'd just as soon skip the dirt, sweat, heat, cold, rain, and bugs. That is, until now.

Panama has triggered a mini-identity crisis. It started because I was completely obsessed with seeing a three-toed sloth in the wild. I swear I was more driven to see a wild sloth than Napoleon was to conquer Europe. So I took a rainforest boat tour (pictures in an earlier post). And naturally, there was a downpour. Of course, I got soaked. When I stood up, a small ocean poured out of my shoes and socks. Did I find this annoying or unpleasant? No. I thought it was hilarious. This was the first sign.

Next, I woke up one morning and thought, "Hey, it seems like a nice day for running along the bay." In 93 degree heat and 100% humidity. As a rule, I do not run outside. I prefer to know exactly how far I've gone (down to the hundreth of a mile), and honestly, I look like a cherry tomato with a ponytail while exercising, and the less people who see that the better. But on this particular day, it seemed like a great idea. And I enjoyed it. Despite having a face the color of baboon's ass.

But I think the moment I really realized how far my identity crisis had gone was when a coworker invited me to go on a 15k hike in the mountains. Now, obviously, outdoorsy or not, you have to appreciate the beauty of the rainforest in Panama, so this should hold at least some appeal for everyone. But still, at least half of that was going to be uphill. With a very good chance of pouring rain. And huge jungle insects. I'm sure that several months ago I'd still have gone, but I'd have been at least a little nervous. This time? Not at all. I was ecstatic. I couldn't get there fast enough. And sure enough, there was rain, and the whole trail was wet and slippery. If you could call it a trail. I fell down not once, but three times in what can only be described as a mud chute. I was caked head to toe in dirt, sweat, rain, and small bits of shrubbery. It was, in a word, awesome.

Yes, that's right, it was awesome. In fact, I liked it so much that I decided, why not do something like that again when I get home? (And by "something like that" I mean something in which I will get absolutely filthy.) It is that question which led to me waking up at 6:30 this morning, putting on my conspicuously American New York Giants cap, and going for a 5k run on the Cinta Costera. All in order to train for something called The Down and Dirty Mud Run, a 5k race with obstacles, where you fling yourself into a mud pit before crossing the finish line. I am starting to become concerned that I may, in fact, be a pod person.

But then again, isn't this why I travel in the first place? Ok, this is a bit more extreme than learning to make cherry soup in Budapest. But it's also not quite as big a deal as when I fell so madly in love with India that it gave me a much-needed idea for a career. For me the whole point of travel is to explore something new, learn something new, try something new. Sometimes this is serious business. The things you learn while traveling can change your whole perspective on the world. But sometimes, it's nice to stop taking things so seriously and just have fun. In Panama, I've learned to love the dirt.

Stuck in the Middle with You

I had one main goal this weekend, which was to not break the law. More specifically, Panamanian immigration law. This is a little more difficult than it sounds, because no one is really sure what the law says. (To illustrate: A coworker of mine went to the Office of Immigration to find out how long she's allowed to stay in the country. Their response? "No one here will be able to answer that.") However, it was pretty clear from the beginning that at some point, I was going to have to leave Panama for 72 hours and come back in, to avoid being in the country illegally. Some might call this a pain in the ass, but I prefer to think of it as a legally obligated mini-vacation. And so on Thursday night, I was off to Florida, halfway between home and Panama. For the first time in two months, I was going back to the U.S.

I'm going to keep this post short, because I think I'm about due for another mostly pictures entry. Especially after the peanut butter robot post, which was a little more serious than usual. So instead, here's the short list of things I realized or learned during my weekend stateside.

The List
1. It's nice to go for a run without having to dodge traffic.
2. According to my grandparents, giraffes, zebras, turtles, and frogs all look pretty much the same. Reason #4682 why my family is hilarious.
3. Jam-filled Italian cookies are evil. So evil, and so good.
4. It is extremely difficult to get into an innertube with bikini bottom in place. (I succeeded, but only through some incredibly ungraceful acrobatics.)
5. There is no one I have more fun with than Pulpo (see Carnival post for explanation of pseudonym).

One of the little lizards that suspend themselves from all Floridian surfaces

Hanging out on the balcony

Cool little beach building

Pulpo with the lions at the hotel

Tofu with black bean sauce at Hakkasan

Sunrise

Pulpo and I at the hotel

Building the Peanut Butter Robot

I came to Panama to figure out what I want to do with my life. Not in a deep, existential "Eat, Pray, Love" kind of way, but rather how to direct my career. While I had spent most of my graduate education studying the big international organizations, most of my work experience had been at small, underfunded, and understaffed NGOs. Coming to Panama and working for one of the big guys would let me branch out. And then I could make a decision. Do I look for jobs at the small NGOs or with the major players in global health?

I've gotten a lot of advice on this subject, most of it to the effect of "the bigger, the better." This is probably the result of two underlying assumptions:

1) All organizations designed to help people can be categorized into a perfectly vertical hierarchy, and the goal is to fight your way to the top (the top in this case being a corner office in Geneva). Consequently, all the best and brightest people are clustered at one level of the food chain.

And 2) It's impossible to make any significant impact at a small organization.

Though I'm still at the beginning of my career, the experience I do have tells me that both of these assumptions are a crock. Asking "Which is better, a locally run homeless shelter in Los Angeles or the foreign aid arm of the Swedish government?" is a bit like asking, "Which is more attractive, a moose or a cupcake?" It depends largely on who you're asking and for what purpose. And it certainly isn't a linear trajectory from one to the other. As for the best and brightest, the large-scale organizations do attract a lot of smart and talented people. It would be silly to deny that. But big orgs also attract big egos, and if you think that doesn't get in the way of the quality of the work, take a look at Congress. (Clearly, I base that opinion not on my time working in Panama, but on a lifetime in Washington.)

In terms of impact, as far as I can tell, it's hard to make a significant impact anywhere. Here's an illustration of what the work is like (or what it can feel like) at both types of organization:

Large international: You have $10 million and a team of 80 PhDs. In the next five years, plan a meeting so that 600 representatives from 180 countries can come together and discuss water for day.

Small NGO: You have a box of toothpicks and some peanut butter. Build a robot.

Obviously, both organizations have their advantages and disadvantages. It's easy to get buried in red tape in the UN system, and things move at a snail's pace. But they have so much money. And we've all heard of them. (Who didn't carry around that little orange UNICEF box on Halloween as a kid?) Small organizations have to fight for every penny and command less attention. But they can work faster, use resources more efficiently, and can work on vitally important issues that will never be a focus for an organization accountable to a messy kaleidoscope of members states, bureaucrats, and political interests.

It's really not a question of which type is better. We need them both, and they are of equal importance. The eradication of smallpox could not have happened without international coordination, a ton of resources, and yes, bureaucracy. But in the 1980s, when HIV/AIDS was still thought of mostly as a gay men's disease, local groups formed and took action long before the international, or even national, powers thought the disease was worth their time and energy. Doesn't it seem kind of ridiculous to say that someone who's spent his or her career at the Whitman-Walker Clinic is somehow more or less successful or valuable than someone who's spent decades at the WHO?

So really, the decision of where to take my career comes back to my own interests and personality (or rather personality flaws). More specifically, my soft spot for people and problems often overlooked by the mainstream, and a tendency toward impatience (arguably the worst of my many weaknesses). Nothing gets me more excited than working to help a group of people who never seem to be anyone's priority. Or on issues that don't get the attention they deserve. (Ex: Pneumonia kills more kids each year than HIV, malaria, or TB. Is there a Global Fund to Fight Pneumonia? No.) And it must be said, bureaucratic processes make me want to rip my hair out. There are glaciers that move faster than the UN. They make two-toed sloths look like speed racers. And for me, things like weekly departmental planning meetings are somewhere on a level with gangrene and experimental theater. I'd prefer to avoid them at all costs.

I'm learning a lot here in Panama, and the experience has been great. I'm very grateful for the opportunity. But mostly I'm glad I came, because now I have a pretty clear idea of where I'm going from here: I'm going to be building the peanut butter robot.

When Small Children Attack: A Carnival Story

By the time Carnival rolled around, I was thoroughly afraid. When I first got to Panama, I was excited about Carnival. Two days off from work for what is essentially a four day country-wide party? That's awesome. Who doesn't like parties? Then the advice started pouring in from my Panamanian coworkers. It started off mild enough . . .

"You just have to be careful you watch out for your belongings."
OK, I thought, it's a four day party, with some pickpockets.

"And you don't want to drive anywhere, because everyone on the roads will be drunk."
OK, so it's a four day party, with pickpockets, where I might be run over by a drunk driver.

"Actually, you shouldn't take anything with you. Hide cash in different pockets. Don't even wear your necklace."
OK, it's like a group mugging, with music.

"You shouldn't go anywhere alone. People are wild during the Carnavales. There are huge drunken fights and the men are crazy."
Ok, so it's like Sodom and Gomorrah, with a parade.

"You're going with your fiancé?! You're not supposed to go to Carnival with your fiancé!"
So basically it's like a big Roman orgy worthy of Caligula himself, full of pickpockets, swerving cars, brawling drunks, and neanderthals. On my list of things I want to do, I think that comes right after self-flagellation and listening to polka music while being waterboarded by the Fox News team. Remind me again why I get time off for this?

Thankfully, I did not have to go alone. My wonderful fiancé (and rugby-playing bodyguard) arrived just in time to share in the madness. Though I'm sure most of you know his name anyway, in the interest of not putting it on the internet, I shall refer to him only as Pulpo, in honor of one of the ten nouns he knows in Spanish (thanks to my obsession with the psychic octopus from the World Cup).

Pulpo and I went to the festivities on both Monday and Tuesday night, the latter of which happened to be his birthday. Even first impressions showed that there was a big discrepancy between the reports of Carnival and the reality. There were a lot giggling babies being toted around. The most threatening substances offered seemed to be warm Balboa beer and chorizo from a food cart. I was starting to get the impression that this was not going to be as scary as I thought, though we did run into a slight obstacle. To get in, you had to present an ID. Since the mugging, the only legal ID I have is my passport, which I refuse to take out of the apartment. After some rapid-fire explanations of my situation to the exasperated, camo-clad security dude, I was let in, with the understanding that next time I needed to bring my official police report to get in. Which I did on Tuesday. Yes, you can use a police report as a form of ID. (In fact, it's more detailed than a normal ID. In addition to my name and address, it also has my parents' names, my profession both in the US and Panama, my employer, the story of my mugging, what I typically carry in purse, and my declaration that I can speak and understand Spanish.)

Once inside, we didn't see any of the horrors I had been promised by my coworkers. Instead, there was something much worse. Something much more insidious. Small children. Armed with shaving cream. Silly string. And confetti. A trifecta of evil. They roamed the grounds in little ragtag militias. Some attacks were predictable. You would see a small kid looking at you with crazy eyes, like a shark, and you knew you were in for it. Other times, they used stealth attacks. Like when a little girl pulled on my shirt, yelling "Señora!," at which point I turned and inhaled a blizzard of confetti. Moving down the street was like running the gauntlet. Or being a plankton.

But aside from the lung full of paper bits, it was actually pretty funny. Especially since each attack was punctuated by Pulpo's demand for revenge. There's also something hilarious about the satisfied facial expressions five year olds get when they've just made a colossal mess. And it's not every day you get to walk into a nice restaurant covered in silly string and hole punch remnants without people looking at you strangely. All in all, not a bad way to spent your night, and despite Carnival's terrifying reputation, not in the least bit like a zombie movie. And yes, there was a parade.

Where the Streets Have No Name

There are a lot of things to love about Panama City. You can go hang out by the pool in February. The watermelon is out of this world. The people here are very friendly, and despite a sometimes turbulent history between the United States and Panama, have an incredible capacity for not blaming individual citizens for the actions of their government. Also, the view of the city skyline over the water is pretty spectacular. There is just one problem: transportation.

This is not a city for pedestrians. Yes, technically, the six-lane highway has a crosswalk painted across it. But I think that's more so that the ambulances will know where to find all the squished people, because it definitely doesn't make the cars stop. The smaller streets aren't much better. Though there are sidewalks, they're mostly filled with parked cars and food carts, so you end up walking in the street, waiting for death by Hyundai. Crossing at an intersection is a bit like playing Pac Man, when you realize all the ghosts are about to converge on your position. You find yourself saying, "I think I'll bolt in front of the Skoda. That would be less likely to kill me than getting hit from behind by the Isuzu truck."

And it's just as well, because even if you wanted to take the risk and walk, you wouldn't be able to find your way. Because the streets have no names. Or rather, some of them have names, or more than one name, but most don't have any signs to indicate what these names are. And even when there are signs, you still probably won't understand where you are. (I'm convinced that this is because Panama has no door-to-door mail service.) For example, Calle Uruguay, also known as Calle 48, intersects with Avenida 5 a B Sur, which is not to be confused with Avenida 5 a Sur, which is a block away and also intersects with Calle Uruguay (or Calle 48). At some point Calle Uruguay ceases to be Calle 48, and another road becomes Calle 48. There's also a Calle 50, and no matter where I am, I'm never far from Calle 50, leading me to believe that this road is in fact a spiral that covers the entire city. Calle 50 also has about 20 different names, depending on what part of Calle 50 you're on. Of course, my understanding of this system is so poor that all of this could be wrong, and I'd have no idea.

Clearly, public transport seems like the way to go. No. It is not. The option here is buses, which are ominously called the Diablos Rojos (or red devils). I think the scary name says it all. I have been told to avoid them.

So how does one get around? Taxis. And it is very possible to find good taxistas. I have found two, and they're awesome. (If you're in Panama City, and need a taxi recommendation, let me know). I won't mention their names on here, because I haven't asked their permission, but they are reliable and very helpful. One even lent me a phone for a week after the mugging. The problem comes when your normal taxi drivers aren't available, and you're forced to call a company. Though there's often not much point in calling, because they'll tell you they don't have any cabs to send you. So you hail a random one outside. At which point the bargaining process begins.

(Translated)
"I am going to the corner of Calle X and Avenida X. How much will that be?"
"How much do you usually pay?"
"Normally, I pay five."
"At this hour, it will be seven."
"I leave at this hour every day and I pay five."
"It's five with no traffic, seven with traffic."
"That's OK, I'll wait for another cab."
"Six."
"Ok, fine."

This is one of the more extreme examples, but it gives you an idea of this works. Then you get to join the ranks of all the crazy drivers here. Picture Manhattan, on amphetamines. How crazy the drivers are depends on the car. In the words of one of my regular cab drivers, "There are things that yellow cars can do, which other cars cannot." Commuting in Panama is a bit like going on Space Mountain. Turn signals are not widely used in Panama City. Red lights are more of a suggestion. Driving 50 miles an hour and breaking two inches before the car in front of you is just how you stop. Honking can mean a) Hi! b) My cab is unoccupied; or c) #@$& you! And you get to learn all this in the backseat, where they've likely upholstered over the seatbelts clasps. I should point out now that both my usual taxi drivers are very responsible and none of this applies to them; they're great. (One of them generously got me some watermelon on the way home from work today, which if you know how grumbly I get when I haven't eaten in hours, definitely counts as a safety precaution.)

So most of the time getting around Panama City is a hassle. I invest a fair amount of time every week playing Frogger with the traffic, wandering around lost like a half-concussed puppy, and speeding through the streets with my eyes covered. But there is an upside. When I commute by Metro at home, my goal is basically to ignore everyone around me. During rush hour, I put in my headphones and pretend that my face isn't smushed into someone's arm pit, that the woman in front of me didn't marinade herself in perfume, that the man who just took a flying leap into the train car didn't elbow me in the kidney. By contrast, when you're in stuck in a traffic jam in a taxi for 40 minutes, you actually talk. And I'm learning a lot on my cab rides. Including a bit of slang and Panamanian politics. And no one is elbowing me in the kidney. It's pretty peaceful, even if you are running the red lights.

Is It Just Me, or Do Sloths Look Like They're Doing Tai Chi?

In case you didn't know, I keep a very important list. It is entitled "Cool Animals I Want to See in the Wild." This list has dictated entire travel itineraries. It has taken me to some rather out of the way places. And sometimes, when I get to move something from the want-to-see list to the have-seen list, it makes me dissolve into a giddy five year-old. Yup, I'm a nerd for animals. (And animal facts: The world's longest flight of a chicken was 13 seconds.)

So today was a very exciting day, because I got to move a bunch of creatures off the list. I went with a company called Ancon Expeditions on their Panama Canal Rainforest Boat Adventure. In other words, I went about 40 minutes outside the city and got on a boat to look for wildlife. Awesome, awesome wildlife. Of course, I also discovered today how hard it is to take a good picture from a boat with the telephoto zoomed out all the way. Still, here are some of the highlights:

The Rufescent Tiger Heron

The Ringed Kingfisher
Panama is home to 972 species of birds, so there were a ton of them.

Osprey, eating unidentifiable meat

Capuchin Monkey
This was taken after he jumped on our boat to get that fruit. Yes, once again, I came within two feet of a monkey.

I think this is a Striated Heron, but I'm honestly not sure.

Iguana

Howler Monkey, with attached baby howler

Three-toed Sloth!

Disheveled after one of those sudden downpours that happen here all the time. We all got soaked.









So all in all a pretty great trip. I really wish I had more time to just be outside here. For one, because I'm still enjoying the fact that it's warm in February, but also because I'm dying to make a sub-list: "Cool Animals I Want to See in Panama." And I'm not leaving until I've seen everything :-).