The good thing, transportation-wise, about being in Bogotá is my travel schedule over the rest of the year:

• Two weeks from now: Long weekend in the Amazon.
• Early November: Four days in Medellín.
• Late December: Two weeks on Colombia’s Caribbean coast (Cartagena, Santa Marta and environs, Cabo de la Vela).
• Early January: Argentina (and maybe Uruguay).

The only one of those that will be expensive is the trip to Argentina. The tickets for each of the others cost about $100 roundtrip, and thanks to friends in the places we’ll be going, Isa and I aren’t expecting to spend much money except on activities (jungle treks, scuba diving, etc.).

In early October, when I bought a plane ticket home and gave myself a long vacation, I was nervous that I’d lose out on a lot of work while away, that I might feel like a bum back at home just hanging out for so long, and that a whole month at home might break whatever rhythm I would create here by then.

By the time I left, I wasn’t concerned about work. My one guaranteed class that meets every day took a month-long break, so I missed just two sessions, on Monday and Tuesday of this week. By the time I got home to New York, it was easy to see that I wouldn’t tire of being there or with everyone there. And when I got to Yale, I enjoyed myself from start to finish and only wished I could have spent more time with more of my friends from college.

A few days ago, as I prepared to leave New York and return to Bogotá, I found myself nervous about Colombia for the first time.

When I left in August, everything was uncertain. Around me, people asked whether I was nervous, but I honestly wasn’t. I didn’t feel I was risking much, and I saw the potential for a world of awesomeness. The things I feared–loneliness, listlessness, professional failure–those aren’t rare among recent college grads, even among those recents grads who take more commonly trod paths than I was about to take. So in exchange for the risk of experiencing those things farther away from home than I would otherwise risk experiencing them (for that’s what my move came down to, at least in my head), I gave myself the chance to have great new experiences I couldn’t anticipate and couldn’t have in New York or the United States. And I was really excited to go back to Latin America. So I wasn’t nervous.

Then I got to know Bogotá, and I got to settle down there, and I came to really like it. But I also came to know it as a resident. And then last month I came home to New York. And in New York everything was so easy, so nice.

It was wonderful to have Isa in New York, and for as long as she was there. Over ten days doing almost everything with me (I took some for myself time while she and my sister went shopping), she got to know my family well, and she got to spend almost as much time with my high school friends–who still make up most of my best friends–as I did. Sharing the hometown I love so much with her was a delight, as were the specific things we did that we can’t do here, like go to the Empire State Building or take peaceful walks outside at night (even if it was freezing cold and we had to walk briskly).

But the downside of sharing my whole charmed New York-based life with her was that she became even more confused about why I had come to Colombia. She had wondered aloud about this to me before, and I had given truthful, though not entirely convincing, answers that began and ended with, “Why not?” and luckily had a little more substance in the middle. But seeing just how much love I give and get in the U.S. made her even more uneasy: Why, again, had I left all this? Why was I not staying there now that I was experiencing all this again? When might I want to return to it–and would I do that abruptly, and painfully to her?

Hopefully I’ve done a better job by now of explaining to her why I came to Colombia initially, why I’m here to stay for a while, and why she doesn’t have to worry about me deciding to leave quickly anytime soon. But I completely understood why she was–and maybe still is, a little bit–concerned about the fact that I chose to try something radically new when I had everything I have in New York.

It was hard to leave New York this week. Not as hard, perhaps, as it would have been for someone else. Because, as sentimental as I am, rarely does sentiment keep me from feeling excitement about new and impending experiences and then heading into them. I knew the whole time I was in the United States that I was going to go back to Bogotá in mid-January, I knew I wanted to go back, and I had enough time to really enjoy myself and do (almost all) the things I felt I had to do while I was home. So I was ready to come back here.

But I was also nervous.

While I was in the U.S., everything was just so easy. A big part of that was staying with my parents, and then with friends at Yale. It was calming not to have to worry about paying for food, and having all the simple physical pleasures of rich countries (perfect heating, hot water, etc.). It was understandably calming to be back in my original home where nothing can be very surprising or upsetting.

But much more than that, it was just plain easy and calming to be in the United States. My whole time there I felt notable internal peace because of the physical peace of the places I was in. The cities are (generally very) safe. The transportation isn’t (usually) maddening. The people are (often) polite. Nothing about life outside your home has to be stressful or scary or tiring. And life here can often be all of those things.

Facing my return to Bogotá in my last week at home, I was nervous about coming back. Not so much nervous that anything specifically bad would befall me, though that was a small concern I hadn’t had the first time I left (when I was one computer richer and several stabbed acquaintances poorer). More so, I feared becoming severely worn down by the city.

See, I live here now. And I have for several months. The honeymoon is over. I’ve wrung every little bit of enjoyment, wonder, and intrigue possible out of the bus rides I take. I’ve examined TransMilenio in as many ways as it can be examined. (Bottom line: It’s the best of a bad situation–transportation in Bogotá–and even that only at times.) I’ve studied the people and the streets and I’m pretty used to them by now. They’re people. And streets. Different from the ones I grew up around. But not intrinsically better than what I used to know. Even, actually, worse in some ways (the streets, not the people–I hope). No longer very exciting. Also, have I mentioned that the city can be dangerous and that that’s a real bitch, just a total drain on the psyche a lots of the time?

That was what was so nice about being back in the U.S., and what made me nervous about coming back here. I didn’t want to spend hours a day on shitty buses again, nor any time on the streets holding my bag tightly and keeping my hands in my pocket, where my phone and wallet are. I don’t have to do that in the U.S. And I hate that I have to do that here. So I wasn’t feeling great–ready, but not great–as I packed up my things and headed to the airport again.

But then I landed in South America. Instantly, things got better. The heat–relative heat: it’s only like 70 degrees here–was immediately comforting as soon as I got off the plane and into the airport. The vibe of being back in Latin America was exciting. And the fact that I got out of the cab in a new and much nicer neighborhood than I used to live in was a great surprise, in how much it both comforted and excited me right away.

This neighborhood is awesome. I live with Isa now, in the apartment she got with her sister and a friend of her sister’s right before I left Colombia in December. It’s a lot smaller than my old place, but it’s new and clean and (now that I’ve moved in) our own place. It’s got three bedrooms, and ours is cozy and pretty. Most important are the fifteen blocks between old apartment and this one.

Real quick geography lesson about Bogotá: The city runs largely north-south, directly to the west of a mountain ridge. The city began at the foot of the mountains, then grew north and south, and in recent decades has grown out to the west. The east of the city is the nicest, and the avenues that line the low hills at the base of the mountain are the nicest. The north-center center of the city is desirable because of its proximity to everything, but it’s not the safest or swankiest part of town (the rich people live uptown; the museums, historic district, and backpacker hostels are all downtown). For much of its miles-long stretch, Avenida Caracas divides neighborhoods, with the east side of the avenue distinctly nicer and safer than the west side. (It’s not a radical division, but it is visible and meaningful. Imagine 96th Street on the East Side, or at least 96th Street from 10 or 20 years ago. And multiply that gulf by two or three.)

My old apartment was half a block west of Caracas. So that’s the bad side. The new apartment is four blocks east of Caracas. The good side. And it’s between avenues 4 and 6 (there’s no 5 here): very close to the eastern end of the city. The old apartment was in the middle of a low-end commercial district that wasn’t that nice during the daytime and could be downright creepy at night. The new apartment is on a beautiful sloped street full of other nice apartment buildings and a striking view of the mountains only a few blocks away. (I like to imagine it as San Francisco. That probably won’t stand up to scrutiny when you see pictures, which are to come in a day or two.) It has a doorman–or, rather, doorwoman: The few different people I’ve seen at the door have all been women. (And my share of the rent, by the way, utilities included, should come to no more than $225 a month.)

In the half-dozen times I’ve walked out of the apartment since arriving yesterday afternoon, I’ve been invigorated each time, much the way I was when I left my hostel the first few days after I arrived in September. I’m sure part of that is that, despite what I believed I would feel when I returned, the city is at least a little bit new and exciting again. Maybe this feeling will only last for a few days. But maybe it’ll last a little while. I’m also excited about picking up my professional life again and seeing the friends I’ve made here. There’s a bunch to be excited about. But the biggest part so far has been this new apartment and neighborhood. I really like the new home I have. And I love the neighborhood. Did I mention we’re three blocks away from the climbing gym I used to go to (and hope to return to more often now that I’m closer)? And one block from a meditation center that I want to check out? And that I can actually imagine walking a bit with Isa at night around here?

So that’s what’s up with me now. I had my first class back this morning, and it’s looking like by next week I’ll be at a full schedule–or even more than that: I’m currently overbooked on Tuesday and Thursday, so I’ll probably need to cancel one of my four classes each of those days. I had an amazing time in the U.S., I was nervous about coming back here, and in my first 30 hours back I’ve felt great. Hopefully that’ll keep up. There are bumps to come, I’m sure. But maybe I’m ready for them. And I’m glad I’m here.

Two final notes:

First, I owe everyone I saw in Maryland, New York, and New Haven so many thanks and so much love for making me so happy. It was great to see you all. And a special major shout-out goes to Justin Berk, who gave me the best present anyone has ever given me. I’ll keep it mysterious for now, but I’ll have photos of the gift up in a day or two. And I’ll give a hint now: The present was related to the most recent post on his blog.

Second, I’ve got a thorough summary of my first four months here (well, really, my post-college life so far) coming in a week or so. While catching up with so many people over the last few weeks, it seemed that lots of people in my life have been reading this blog occasionally, sporadically, or mostly, but still missing a few posts. So the post to come will be a comprehensive overview for anyone who missed stuff and wants the full-run down. Also, since a lot of people didn’t realize they can get these posts automatically, here’s a reminder of how: At the top-right of this page is a “Subscribe” button. Hit that, enter your email address, and you should get every post emailed to you the instant I click “Publish.” For those of you who use RSS aggregators, you can get the same instant delivery to your aggregator by subscribing to the feed using the URL http://peterfmartin.com/feed/. (For some reason the page looks all screwed up, but if you add that URL to your aggregator list of feeds, it should work. If you try and it doesn’t work, please let me know.)

Last week she showed me a music video on YouTube, which I’ve embedded below. It’s a PR video promoting Colombia. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it includes a Shakira lookalike:

As you can see, the video is lighthearted and fantastical. But apparently it’s got a serious element too. “If I’m going to fairs in Europe, it’s because of ‘Colombia is Passion,’ ” Isa said after we watched it. “Colombia is Passion” is the country’s five-year-old PR campaign to attract foreign visitors and investment, and to re-brand Colombia internationally as an exciting and fun, rather than dangerous and backward, place to visit or move to. In a few more words, it is:

a competitiveness strategy that strives to strengthen the image of our country abroad by generating trust among foreign investors and audiences with the aim of obtaining more and better opportunities in the fields of trade culture, investment, and tourism.

Since 2005, Colombia is Passion has been working to show our reality to the world, extolling everything that makes us a privileged nation:

• We are one of the most solid and stable democracies in the region.
• Our economy registers growth rates above the regional average.
• An advantageous geographical location makes us an important tourist destination increasingly recognized by cultural wealth and identity.

For the full pitch, click the link. It’s pretty impressive in its bluntness: “We Colombians should feel proud of having been born in this country and should show our passion for it by talking positively about the land and its people and by becoming the best possible hosts for our visitors.”

When she said Malpelo and she were going to international fairs because of “Colombia is Passion,” I thought Isa meant that the campaign has raised Colombia’s international profile so much that her organization is now invited to travel overseas to promote itself. But she corrected me yesterday: Proexport, an organization that promotes investment and tourism in Colombia, as part of “Colombia is Passion,” is actually paying for Malpelo to go. So the “Colombia is Passion” campaign is the direct reason she gets to go back to Europe next month.

I wrote most of this post up yesterday. Because I wanted her to verify some facts, I asked Isa to read it over before I put it up. In my first draft, I wrote that I didn’t know whether “Colombia is Passion” has had any demonstrable effect on tourism or investment in the country. The anecdotal report I’ve heard from Colombians is that there are now many more extranjeros in Bogotá than there were a few years ago (when there were close to none) and that the national economy is also better than it was five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago. But I haven’t looked up numbers. And I mused that even if, as I imagine they do, the numbers show more tourism and investment in Colombia now, they’re likely more a result of the reality of life in Colombia than of a PR campaign. Colombia’s distinct progress in the last decade or two away from its history of drug-money-(and anti-drug-money-)fueled violence has been followed, slowly, by a similar movement in its international image. I’m sure, I wrote, that has been helped by “Colombia is Passion.” But the campaign wouldn’t be able to do anything if the facts–that Colombia is a pretty good place to visit or invest in right now, at least depending on where you go and what you do–weren’t true.

Isabel corrected me. From her perspective, “Colombia is Passion” has had a huge effect on the national image, both internationally and among Colombians. She grew up here in Bogotá and left the country in 2003, moving to France to study. She stayed in France for six years, studying (she got her master’s degree there) and working. In 2009 she moved to London, where she lived for ten months before moving back to Bogotá in July. Back here to live for the first time in seven years, Isa regularly comments on how different Bogotá and Colombia are now from how they were when she left in 2003. The differences are, she claims, in no small part a result of a new national feeling, significantly cultivated by a national effort to make the country better–and to both be proud and show pride in Colombia. “Colombia is Passion” isn’t just something Colombians see on billboards; its something a significant number of them believe and help promote. It has made a noticeable difference, she says.

But, as much as the country has become safer (especially in its major cities), and as much as the Colombian government and people have advertised the good sides of the country’s passion, “Colombia is Passion” is still true in ways the country wishes it weren’t.

Last Friday, Isabel and I came home from a friend’s party at around 2. We went to sleep half an hour or an hour later. At 6, we were woken up by one of my roommates, A, and his friends hanging out and talking loudly right outside our door. I got up to ask then to move, at least to hang out somewhere a little farther from us. As soon as A saw me emerge from the room, he was apologetic. I asked him in Spanish (he’s Colombian) just to move to the living room, and he said they would, sure, right away. But then they kept talking right there for ten or fifteen minutes. Ugh. Before Isa and I felt forced to go out again and ask them a second time to move or stop talking, it sounded like they began to get up to leave. And then they did, and it was quiet, finally.

Half an hour later, our bedroom door opened. Each of us woke up. A man stood there for a few seconds, silhouetted by the light behind him. Then he closed the door. And then we heard the apartment door open and close.

I hoped and convinced myself that the guy at the door had an innocuous explanation: When the rest of A’s friends had left, one or more had stayed behind, and one, looking for his friend’s room, had accidentally opened our door instead. When he saw us and realized he had made a mistake, he closed it.

We went back to sleep.

Half an hour or an hour later someone pounded on the apartment’s front door, loudly and quickly. Then again. Pissed that I had to do this, and do it only about five hours after I fell asleep for the first time and an hour since I fell asleep the last time, I got up to answer the door before the knock could come a third time.

In my boxers I greeted two of our downstairs neighbors. They immediately began speaking quickly in Spanish. At 8 in the morning, still a little asleep, I definitely can’t understand Spanish. I heard rompió, the past tense of romper, “to break,” and I saw one of them make what looked to me like a stabbing motion. When they said “T,” the name of my roommate who pays for the whole apartment and rents the rooms out (and is therefore in charge as far as the building is concerned), I thought, “Good. I can get T, who will understand this and hopefully have some idea what to do. And I can go back to sleep.” I knocked on her door until I got a response from her, then went back into my room to try to fall back asleep. I wasn’t going to succeed.

T eventually emerged and began talking to the neighbors. Their volume and intensity rose quickly. Then they stopped talking. I guessed they went downstairs. I realized I was right when T came back and quickly started yelling again.

First she yelled in English: “Get up! Get your ass off the floor! Get up!” And more. A (our Colombian roommate who had had friends over a couple hours earlier) speaks some English, but not very well, so I figured she wasn’t talking to him, and I didn’t know whom she could be talking to. Then she switched into Spanish, first for more of the same–”Ven aquí! Levántate!“–and then for something a lot heavier: “Estás sagrando en el piso!“–”You’re bleeding on the floor!”

That’s when Isa and I realized (since we were both awake, of course, what with the yelling and door pounding right outside our room) that something serious had happened. I don’t remember all the specifics of what we heard next, or how long the yelling continued. Among the things we heard (in Spanish, so I’ll translate into English) were: “This is a disrespect!” … “I love you, but you can’t do this!” … “I’m responsible for this place, so when you do this, you hurt me!” And so on. T was clearly crying as she was yelling. Whoever she was yelling at was presumably still on the floor, still bleeding, until the yelling and crying stopped a few minutes later. I never found out exactly what was happening then, so I’ll just finish the story with what we later heard had happened that morning:

A had gotten very drunk with his friends. For some reason, he went downstairs and got into a fight. Or he got into a fight and went downstairs (though we didn’t hear anything like that in the apartment). While downstairs, he punched through the glass in the building’s front door (the “rompió” the neighbors had mentioned), rendering the front door effectively useless, since anyone could reach around to the lock and open it up. He also, from the glass, started bleeding, and presumably passed out or decided to collapse in the entryway. When he had rushed downstairs, he had left the apartment door open. Someone–someone who lives or was at the time in the building, it seems–had come into the apartment. This must have been the man who opened our door an hour or two earlier. Before leaving the apartment, he stole T’s computer.

Of course, by the time we found all this out, the event was long over. But the coda to the story is that by 3 pm that afternoon (only a few hours after all this happened), A and T and a friend of theirs were drinking and singing and shouting (happily) once more in T’s room, apparently having made up and decided that what had happened the night before didn’t warrant more than several hours of chill-out down time without alcohol.

I’m looking to move when I come back in January. One of my other American roommates, M, moved out this week.

The next night, less than 24 hours after all the above went down in our apartment, the friend who spent the afternoon drinking and hanging out with A and T stayed out late (I don’t know what neighborhood he was in) and was attacked, stabbed several times outside a bar.

And the week before, I received the following email from a guy I work for. The subject was “fucked up day.” The entire text of the email read:

okay if you cant get a hold of me i don’t have a cell phone call me at ###-####
can peter or [X] cover my classes at studio com? i have them at 5-7 t,w,t this week
I was stabbed today and i have to stay in bed fort a few days.

please send me your numbers
Thank you
[XYZ]

I don’t really have a good way to end this post. A bunch of people around me have been victims of pretty serious crimes recently. All are ok, very thankfully, though they still bear the physical wounds and one lacks a computer. I almost do too (another one, or who knows what else would have been stolen), in case that wasn’t clear from the story about the intruder.

I’m still very happy to be in Bogotá. I’m taking care of myself as much as I can, and I don’t usually feel at risk. But bad shit happens. Maybe (probably?) more here than in the other places I could be right now.

So is Colombia passion? I’m excited to be here. But as Isa points out whenever I say that, I can leave whenever I want. The “excitement” of the country isn’t the same for its citizens. As I wrote in one of my first posts from Colombia, whatever “passion” I feel, or other foreigners feel while they’re here, surely dosn’t make for the same experience that Colombians have while living in their country.

And on what will hopefully be a comforting note for the people who love me, even I recognize, especially when people break into my apartment, that some excitement is the kind that makes for exciting stories (and is, honestly, exciting to live through if nothing truly bad happens to you), but really isn’t the kind of experience to seek, encourage, or even tolerate. I don’t want more of this to happen around me–or to me.

Because I’m pretty sure neither Blogger nor Dylan will sue me, and because he has deleted the blog he kept years ago (the first blog a friend of mine ever maintained), I’m copying his post in full below. I don’t know that this will last forever if I don’t preserve it, and it needs to, because Dylan has written something amazing here. Though he writes about China (where I have never been) and himself (from whom I am wildly different), he hits on feelings I believe have to be universal to people who travel abroad, who spend any extended period of time in a new culture, away from familiar people, places, and customs. Without any more quaint and pedestrian reiteration, let me direct you to read what Dylan wrote, here on his blog or below the jump.

Monday, July 6, 2009

7/6/2009, Final Thoughts

I’ve resisted, if you haven’t noticed, posting my final thoughts on China. I said I’d do it a week after I came back, and then I figured I’d do it once I was done posting my photos. So that was my plan, but in reality, I think it was a stalling tactic. Because even though I have now been in America for more than a month, I don’t quite know what to make of my experience in China, and even now, as I write this, I am fully aware that it will take a while for me to make sense of it all and determine what really did or did not happen to me in China. But something I read today made me reflect on the whole experience and what it meant to me, and I figure that I will write that reflection as my final thoughts.

So people ask me three questions. They ask me, first and foremost, how China was, or what China’s like, or some variation on that question. And my response has been repeated so many times I have it memorized and ready to pull out at a moment’s notice. China’s a big country, I say, which is mundane, but probably the truest observation I have of China as a whole, and something that people who have never been can’t really understand, I think. The key fact is that it is a country the size of America with four times the population, and that doesn’t sink in until you go. Outside of that, it’s hard to say what China’s “like”. Which part? When? For who? So I neglect to go any further than saying, China’s a big country. My response can either be that, or the entirety of this blog; nothing in between would be quite accurate.

Then they’ll ask me if I miss China, and that one’s hard for me to answer. No, not exactly. Parts of it I certainly don’t miss. And even the parts I have fond memories of, well, I’m just not really the missing type. Life moves on. But more to the point, I have a hard time integrating the memory of that time with the rest of my life. China was so different, and feels so distant – and is so distant, in so many ways – from the rest of my life that it sometimes doesn’t feel like it actually happened. I feel like I went to another planet for a couple of months and then came back. So no, I don’t quite miss it, when I’m sometimes not even sure it actually happened.

And then the hardest question, which is rare, but I still get: did China change you? Now that’s the hardest one to answer. No, on one hand. I still feel like me, just with a slight disruption. I have the same flaws, and the same problems. I don’t feel like I really changed. I’m still as stubborn and convinced of myself as I’ve ever been, and still very skeptical – perhaps more so now than ever – that that kind of experience can really change people.

But then, I also feel like it was a big experience. I feel like I saw things differently, at least for a time, that I got some glimpses of a different way of being. It affected me, I am sure. When I talk about how China was rough sometimes, people often counter, but you were in a pretty comfortable position, being a Westerner, with access to Western things and hell, even the internet. But that’s not what was hard to me about China. There is a distinct, unbelievable isolation that comes with being a stranger in a strange land, cut off from your language, your culture, your family and friends. And no matter how many comforts you may have, you are still cut off, you are still not at home. It really is the sensation of the Freudian unheimlich (not coincidentally literally translating as “not at home”), uncomfortable even though nothing is all that different. I don’t know if that’s any lessened by having this experience in a culture closer to one’s own, since I haven’t had that experience. I just know it was intense as all hell in China. When I was lonely in China, I was lonelier than I’ve ever been.

Do I feel like I have a better understanding of China? On one hand, on a superficial level, obviously; I mean, I’ve been there. But then, I think about it, and my observations and thoughts based on my limited experiences in China, interacting with the Chinese, are only slightly less superficial than my thoughts before hand. So I spoke to some Chinese. So I visited some places. I still can’t tell you what China is, or what it will be. I doubt that’s even an option for the Chinese. So what can I say? I don’t know what I got out of the experience or learned from it, either about myself or about China or the Chinese. Yet I feel so sure I got something out of it…

Today, in my reading, I came across a quote written by Ovid when he was in exile that finally encapsulated how I feel about China, at least in the immediate aftermath. Ovid writes, barbarus hic ego sum, quia non intelligor illis, translating as, “I am here a barbarian, because I am not understood by them.” On one hand, it is the nightmare of exile, and it was the nightmare of being in China. It was the feeling of “what the hell am I babbling about, anyway?” Not just when I was trying to make myself understood in Mandarin or in English, but when I was trying to convey my feelings, what was important to me, and trying to explain why it mattered to me and why it should matter to them, trying to explain the touchstones of my culture. What the hell was I talking about and why? I looked like an idiot. I felt like an idiot. Because, in that context, I was an idiot.

But with that nightmare also comes a sort of lucidity and an opportunity that you can’t have in America: the opportunity to understand oneself. With Ovid’s nightmare comes a certain identity: he is the barbarian. I came to realize that all that stuff that I was babbling about, all those needs and basic desires I suddenly realized I had, all the stupid pop culture things that suddenly became so vital to me when I left home, well, they were me. They were what I was. The thing about the unheimlich that is so uncomfortable, after all, is the fact that you are looking at yourself, as nakedly as possible. So I do think that I received a better understanding of myself from China. Not that it’s something that’s actionable; understanding yourself and being able to change are two different things. And it may be something that I no longer possess. Ovid wisely uses the qualifier “here”; when he returns home, he’s Ovid again – whatever that means. So it might not mean anything, and it might no longer exist, but while I was in China, I got a better sense of who I was. And that is why this blog, despite my desperate efforts to document China and not me, ultimately became concerned mostly with my thoughts and feelings. The thing I experienced most wasn’t China, after all – it was myself.

With that observation, even though it likely isn’t my last thoughts on this whole weird semester, I conclude the writing on this blog. I’ll continue to post photos until they’re all up there. It just takes me forever.

Here are the photos from Peru. And, as a bonus, here again are my pictures from India, another batch I’m proud of.