Sunday April 22 The political Wife

One of the things about the campaign is the Political Wife. Samantha appeared when Primo was working on Teresa's judicial campaign. I like Teresa. I just don't like how she ran her campaign. I don't think judges should run partisan campaigns. The law is the law, right? Should Democrats apply the law differently from Republicans? Should my chances of going to jail vary depending on who is sitting on the bench? Technically, judicial races in our area are non-partisan, but Teresa and Samantha, her campaign manager, turned Teresa's race into a partisan race by attacking the governor.

I first met Teresa when Primo and I attended a candidate forum for the mayoral campaign in our city. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would have been interested in who was running for mayor, I would have laughed in your face. Who cares about mayor, I would have asked.

That was before I took the majority of every penny I had ever earned and sunk it in real estate. There is nothing to make you care about what happens where you live like knowing that your future literally depends on it. Now I care about the mayor. Now I care about the county executive. Now I care about the governor. I care about property taxes. I care about what they build down the street from me. Strip joint? Prison? Not so fast.

Teresa was campaigning at this forum. Primo had already started campaigning for her. I don't know how he got involved. I try to stay out of these things. He introduced me to her. "Her mom's from Argentina," he said. "You both speak Spanish!"

I tested her. Spoke Spanish. She answered in Spanish. Indeed she did speak Spanish. We conversed. My Spanish, she is not so good these days. I don't find many opportunities to speak it, so it's nice to have a chance to practice it.

"We need more women and more latinas on the bench," she told me. "We need more diversity!"

I raised my eyebrows. Her opponent was an African American. Wasn't that diverse?

I should have asked her then what immediately came to my mind: "How does being a woman and a latina make a difference in how you would interpret the law? Isn't the law the law?" But I never ask these things when I think of them. Besides, I was distracted by her seeming assumption that I would agree with her statement that of course we need more women on the bench. I think we need good judges, period. Male, female, intersex, neuter, transgender, whatever. I thought justice was blind, kind of flat-chested, and without anything between its legs, like Barbie, under those black robes.

That's neither here nor there. I started out talking about Samantha, the Political Wife. Samantha was Teresa's campaign manager. Primo would come home raving about her. "She's so smart! She has such good ideas! Her strategy is brilliant! She's cute, too! She dresses kind of hippie chic. She runs marathons!"

I hated her.

I had hated the Nighttime Wife, as well. At least at first.

The Nighttime Wife, Christina, is the woman Primo hangs out with when he goes out to sing. I'd been hearing about her for a year or so before I finally said, "I want to meet this woman." Primo had been telling me that she was a really good singer and she was pretty, too. I found her on facebook and friended her, then told Primo to take me out with him.

I met her. She is 29. She sings like an angel. She is very nice. She is beautiful.

And she is now my friend.

She is not a threat. I worry not when Primo is out late on Saturday and posts that he and Christina have gone to get burritos. I think, Well, someone is going to be sleeping late tomorrow. Good. That means I'll have the morning to myself.

I was getting tired of hearing about how amazing Samantha was. I needed to neutralize her. Deal with her the same way I had with Christina.

"Take me to meet Samantha," I said.

So he did. We went to a fundraiser at Coffee Blacker Than Midnight, which is a great name for a cafe, even though I prefer my coffee with lots of milk and cream. The fundraiser was boring, though. Can there be anything more dull than hanging out with a bunch of political groupies who already know they are going to vote for the candidate? And the candidate makes a speech anyhow? Shouldn't the speech just be, "Thanks for coming! Thanks for giving me money! Now let's all go home and watch Big Bang Theory!"

The only good thing about the fundraiser was that the chef at the cafe is from Alabama and he knows how to make fried chicken, mashed potatoes (covered in rivers of melted butter), and sweet tea.

Primo brought Samantha over to meet me. I looked at her. She was not all that. Kind of skinny. Mutton dressed as lamb, if you know what I mean. Women our age probably shouldn't wear miniskirts and patterned hose unless they're trying to pick up some cash.

Yes I am being a total bitch here.

She sat. "Primo raves about you," I said. Which was the truth.

"Thanks," she said.

"How did you get into this?" I asked. "Managing campaigns?"

"Oh, I did one as a favor and blah blah blah." She told me the story and it was a good story indeed. If I had been interviewing her for a job, I would have hired her on the spot, even though hiring without checking references is always a bad idea. She didn't exhibit an iota of self doubt. Not one misstep. She had never made a mistake. This was a woman who oozed confidence. Tons and tons and tons of it.

She annoyed the heck out of me.

"Well, people on my side of the political spectrum do tend to be really smug," Primo pointed out later.

"She is not cute," I hissed.

"She is not a threat to you," he laughed.

"I never thought she was," I sniffed.

Two weeks later, as an act of marital solidarity and because I couldn't get out of it, I had to go to Teresa's election night party with Primo. Samantha was there. Of course. I raised my eyebrows when I saw her outfit.

I will be the first to admit that I am no clotheshorse. As we speak, I am wearing jeans I bought on eBay, brown Durango cowboy boots I got at a thrift store, an orange v-neck t-shirt that I bought at Goodwill - don't laugh - you can find some good stuff there if you look, a gray cotton sweater, and an orange cotton scarf that is covered with cat hair, but I do know that for a party, one 1. dresses up and 2. wears clothes that fit. Oh, and 3. wears clothes that do not show one's bra.

I also know that the clothes are not necessarily the measure of a woman, but because Samantha is a 1. thin, 2. professionally successful, 3. marathon runner, I cannot attack her on anything but her smug personality and her clothes. So that's all I have to work with, people. I have to resort to cattiness. It's all I have.

Samantha was wearing - keep in mind this woman is in her late 40s - a sleeveless black dress with a huge ruffle around the neck. It was about two sizes too big for her. She is tiny - she is a runner and is quite thin. A little too if you ask me. The back was open so you could see her bra and her ribs. Visible ribs is not an attractive look. Her shoes were clunky and thick - they were trying to be so ugly they would be cool, but they didn't get to cool.

Yes! I know I am being ugly, ugly, ugly! I know! I know what I am writing says more about me than it says about her!

I don't like her, OK? I don't like her. I've met her twice and I'll probably have to see her again as Primo's campaign heats up because like it or not, she's good and she gets results and I'm going to have to suck it up and it burns me. Politics makes strange bedfellows indeed.

Friday April 20 I first campaign for Primo

On my way back from the gym, I stopped at the spice shop. I love that store. I open the door and the fragrance almost knocks me over. Cinnamon, pepper, smoky salt, cumin: it all mixes together into a wall of aroma. And it's pretty. The arrangements in Morocco were prettier. There, they display the spices in inverted cones that I was always afraid I was going to knock over. I never saw the clerk ever take any spice out of the orange or yellow or brown stacks. I wanted to see it, because I wanted to know where he took it from. The top? The side? Then what did he do? Replace it? Smooth it over? This spice shop has glass jars, which is not as glamorous, but is more practical.

I stopped at the shop because we'd had a pepper emergency that morning. We had run out of pepper. You'd think we'd run out of salt by the way Primo carried on. I explained to the clerk, a lady of a certain age much like myself, that my husband is a pepper fiend and that he had been quite distraught upon finding the pepper mill empty.

This is the Magnum pepper mill that his parents had sent him for his birthday a few years before and is probably the only present he has ever gotten from them, besides the cast-iron cat, that he has liked. Who spends $40 on a pepper mill? Better yet, who wants a pepper mill that costs $40? My usually low-maintenance husband, that's who. He is not demanding about what he eats (except that it be good, which is easy because I am a good cook who likes to cook) or about the state of the house or about what I wear or look like or about almost anything, but he likes pepper on his food. There you go. That's his thing. So when we ran out, he was not happy. Why hadn't I kept an inventory of peppercorns, he wanted to know?

I shrugged. I don't care about pepper. It's not at the top of my list.

Primo explained, "I had a roommate once who waited until he was out of things - food, toilet paper - toilet paper! before he would replace them!"

"Maybe I need to implement an inventory replenishment system like I learned in operations management in grad school," I said.




Quick story. Panos Kouvelis taught my operations management class. I loved that class. I loved the material.

I really liked Prof. Kouvelis. He was so cute with his neat sport coat and slacks and slick Italian shoes. I had a little crush on him. He was fun. Smart and quirky with this great subtle sense of humor. He wrote this formula on the board one day, then turned and looked at us. "I would say it's all Greek to me, but..." he deadpanned. I burst out laughing. I'm not sure if the other students got it. But I leaned on every word he said.

Back to the spice store. "A pound of Talicherry, please. We're a little on edge at our house these days," I sighed.

As she walked to the side of the store to retrieve the jar with the peppercorns, the clerk shook her head. "Men," she said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I'm one and done."

"Me, too," she said. "I've been married. Never again. I want a companion, but not a husband. I have this boyfriend. I asked if he wanted to come over for dinner on Sunday. No. He can't. He wants to come on Monday. OK fine I said. I have Sunday and Monday off, so either day is fine. Then he said wait, he can't make Monday either. So how about next week? I said, nope, I'll be out of town. He gets all pouty and you know what? I don't care."

"Well, part of the reason is that my husband has decided to run for the state house."

"Oh!" she said. "Is he a lawyer?"

"No, he's an engineer."

She looked puzzled. "Will he be able to keep his job?"

I shook my head. "Definitely not. That's why it's rich people in politics. Ordinary people with ordinary jobs can't afford to do this, or at least ordinary people who aren't lawyers or who don't have really flexible jobs. The State House pays almost nothing. I can assure you he is not going into this for the money."

She scooped peppercorns into a plastic bag and put them on the scale.

"And we are of opposite political views."

She nodded sagely. "He's Stripes and you're Polka Dots?"

I shook my head. "No, he's Polka Dots and I'm Stripes."

She didn't say anything for a moment. Whatever.

"I never wanted this life. I have never been interested in being married to a politician or being involved in politics in any way. This morning, my husband asked me if I had known that he would be running for office when we met, what I would have done. I told him I would have looked a lot harder for a new job. I had just been laid off from my job when we met. I told him I probably wouldn't have married him."

She laughed.

"He's worried that the Polka Dots will hold it against him that he is married to a Stripe, which I think is stupid. If it bothers them so much that he is married to me, that is their problem. That it says far more about them than it does about me."

She nodded. "You'd think people would want someone who can get along with everyone."

I agreed. "You'd think."

"So are you going to support him?" she asked.

"I told him I would support him by helping him on his campaign, but that I won't endorse his ideas. I'll help with his website and nomination petitions and I'll be his treasurer, but I won't talk about his side's ideas. It would be a lie."

I looked at her. "So if you're a person who votes for Polka Dots, vote for him."

"I'm an independent," she said. "I look at the person."

"Then I can tell you this and I can say it with complete sincerity. My husband is a man of integrity and honesty. He will work hard for his constituents. He is running for this office because he wants to make a difference, not because he wants to make money. There. I just made my first pitch for him."

She smiled. "Ten dollars."

I handed her my money. She handed me my pepper.

That wasn't so hard.

Timing

Hi you guys. There is not another post until next Thursday, I think, but then they will be daily. When I first started writing about the campaign, I thought there would only be enough material for a weekly post. Boy was I wrong.

I was, however, right about how time consuming this would all be.

I do not recommend being married to someone who is running for office.

How this all got started

Primo has always been a political guy. From the beginning, he was emailing links to me. "Read this!" he would urge and I would ignore it. I don't care. I mean, I care, but I want to read the story about the kitten who is born with three legs yet triumphs or the dog who walks 2,000 miles to find the owners who moved across the country. The bride who goes to her chemo appointment and then walks down the aisle. The people who persevere despite incredible hardship. These are the stories that interest me: What drives those people?

Those stories, and what can I wear to make it look like I have an hourglass figure? That's what I like.

Sure, I care about the Big Issues, but there's not much I can do about them. I volunteer on little, specific things. I read to pre-schoolers. I put the books in order at the library. I help at the funerals at church. I do what I can to make things better in my little corner of the world. I donate money to causes I care about. I rest on my laurels of the Peace Corps. But I don't see a lot of value in spending an afternoon marching up and down the square. It's fine for other people. I understand the strategy of raising awareness, but that's not my thing.

Primo, however, is passionate about big, abstract causes. Last year, the governor of our state tried to pass some legislation that was unpopular with the Polka Dots. They rallied and there were protests at the capital. Primo went. I stayed home and watched Mad Men and Big Love. He felt guilty about leaving me for an entire day and even a few overnights - he used hotel points, so don't worry, there was not much money being used on this endeavor, but I waved goodbye with one hand and held the remote in the other. "Go!" I said. "Go!"

To have a guilt-free weekend with the TV and a bag of Fritos? Usually when he's home, I feel as if I should be doing something productive, like cleaning the house or cooking a meal or looking for a job. But when he's gone, I can revert to my lazy-ass, soap-opera watching self.

Not to mention, when Primo's gone, we don't argue about politics. I would be very happy not to argue about them when he is at home, but it's one of his favorite pastimes. We don't argue about who ran us out of toilet paper (for one thing, because that never happens with a coupon-clipping engineer in the house) or who left the toilet seat up (see previous statement) or most character flaws, although it makes him crazy that I put the dishes away before they are bone dry or use canned goods past their expiration date (I used the old tahini to make sauce for the falafel and yet Primo lives), but we have had some knock-down drag-outs about politics.

Which I hate. I really, really hate those fights. Primo hardly notices. It rolls right off him because he was raised by alcoholic wolves, except wolves are nicer. I was raised in a low-drama family. When his parents are giving him their usual alcoholic crap, he'll tell me - and it's true - that I don't understand because I come from a nice family. I do. My family is nice. There is no emotional blackmail. There are no drunken emails accusing me of being a Bad Daughter who Doesn't Care.

I had many of those days and weekends in the months to come. Primo started attending more rallies and more meetings. There was talk of a recall election. That meant circulating petitions. He volunteered. Who circulates petitions in the dead of winter?

My true believer husband. Blesshisheart.

I started to watch Big Bang Theory. That's when I discovered Primo and Sheldon are a lot alike, but that's a different story.

I thought once the petition deadline had been met, I would have my husband back. I also thought we could stop arguing over whether I was going to sign the petition. (I wasn't.) (We didn't.)

I thought we could take a dance class.

Nope. I didn't have my husband back. That's when he started volunteering for a guy who was running in the spring elections for the county government. At least that race was non-partisan. No Polka Dots, no Stripes. I spoke to D. Liked him. Agreed with some of his positions. There was nothing too extreme. I wasn't crazy about his idea to ban smoking within 25 feet of the playgrounds at the public parks. "If you don't like cigarette smoke," I said, exasperated, "then move! But honestly! It's not even indoors! It won't kill you outdoors! Can't people just lighten up? Do they have to control everything that everyone else does?"

Primo agreed with me. We do have some common ground. He agrees with me that stale cigarette smoke in a bar is just nasty as nasty can be but we don't think that it should be illegal to smoke in a bar. If you don't like cigarette smoke, don't go to a bar. Period.

He picked up another candidate. Teresa, who was running for judge. Also an allegedly non-partisan race, but she made it partisan.

We argued more about politics.

I picked up another TV show, The Big C, and told him to go work on the campaign. He emailed more links to me. Delete, delete, delete. Hand me the remote and leave me alone.

More about politics and Primo and me

You guys know that Primo and I don't share the same political views. But we love each other. Politics are not the only thing in life. Food and sex are more important. Movies. Tennis. Traveling. Lots and lots of things are far more important than politics.

Although Primo is a wee bit obsessed with politics. Me, I couldn't care less about it. Oh sure, I care about issues. But I don't care about parties and personalities. I am a Party of Me. The Gold Digger Party. I don't see why I should have to declare allegiance to one side or another. I am interested in me. That's it.

Primo, however, was raised by activists and you know how that goes. I am a descendant of small businessmen and farmers and entrepreneurs who mind their own business and live their own lives and take care of their own. Primo is a descendant of activists and big union folks. One's raising does tend to inform one's thinking.

Where am I going with this?

Well, the past year or so, Primo has become quite active politically. He has been going to rallies and events. I have no interest in rallies and events, even for my side. I have better things to do. Yes, I am interested in improving my community, but I volunteer in ways where I can see a direct impact. We all have different ideas about how to make the world better and isn't that a good thing? Wouldn't the world be a boring place if we all wanted to volunteer at the library or the historic preservation commission or the funeral committee or as pollworkers? Some of us sort books, some of us protest. Primo protests.

For convenience, I am going to call Primo's side the Polka Dots and my side the Stripes because I do not want these posts to be about the politics themselves but about what happens when people are politically involved. The politics of politics, if you will.

Doesn't that sound pretentious?

If you will.

Ha.

You know, that might not even be right. Oh well. The sociology of politics? The psychology of politics? The interpersonal dynamics of politics?

So Primo has become a Polka Dot activist. There have been Polka Dot rallies and Polka Dot parties and Polka Dot protests. He attends and I watch all of Season One of The Big C or Big Bang Theory, where I note Primo's startling resemblance to Sheldon. Win/win as far as I'm concerned. I'm more than happy to have a day to myself to watch TV. If Primo is at home working, I feel guilty for goofing off. I feel as if I should be looking for a job or cleaning the baseboards or doing something to contribute to the upkeep of the household.

This spring, Primo became even more involved. He put up campaign signs in our yard. He circulated recall petitions. He campaigned for candidates for two races, one for a county supervisor who lost and one for a judge who won. I liked the county supervisor candidate, but was put off by the judge, whom I like as a person but didn't care for her assumption that I would vote for her just because I, too, am a woman. I have never understood the thinking that only a woman can represent a woman. The law is the law, right? Does a woman apply the law differently from a man? Can I be represented in Congress only by a woman? Can only a woman understand my need for trash pickup, good streets, good schools, good defense? I guess so. I guess these issues are sex-specific.

He wanted me to be involved.

I didn't want to be involved.

But in the interests of marital harmony, I tried. I attended a campaign event with him. I took a book with me just in case. My instincts were correct. It was boring. Oh man. Is there anything more dull than a campaign event attended by people who have already decided they are going to vote for the candidate? Who then gives a speech anyhow? A speech to people who are already convinced? Why not just say, "Thanks for coming! Let's go home instead of wasting time here!"

The only thing good about that event was that it was held at a shop called Coffee Makes You Black, which I think is a hilarious name, which has a chef from Alabama, who knows how to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes should have rivers of butter swimming on top of them. And tea should have so much sugar in it that you don't even know it's tea.

I even attended the victory party for the judge, where I was surrounded by Polka Dots, even though judicial races are supposed to be non partisan. Primo's Political Wife was there. She was the campaign manager for the judge, the one who had designed the very very partisan strategy. I am not sure if I should be bothered more by the Political Wife or by the Nighttime Wife.

The Nighttime Wife is the woman Primo hangs out with when he goes out to sing karaoke. When I first learned about her, I was very jealous. "She's so pretty!" Primo told me. "And she sings so well!"

I had to meet her. Even though I hate going out and I hate staying out late, I girded my loins and accompanied Primo to karaoke so I could meet Christina.

She's 29. She's beautiful. She sings like an angel.

And she is the sweetest, nicest thing. She is now my friend. She is not a threat.

But the Political Wife? When Primo introduced us, I felt my hackles rise. Still, I was polite. "Primo has been singing your praises," I said. "How did you get into managing campaigns?"

She told me. In great, self-serving detail. Wow. There is not one modest bone in that woman's body. Not one. She is self promoting and smug.

"Well, she is a Polka Dot," Primo told me. "We tend to be smug."

"You said she was cute. She is not cute," I said.

"She dresses cute," he said.

"She is mutton dressing as lamb," I retorted. "Women our age should not be wearing ruffles and dresses that show our bra straps. That dress was two sizes too big. Her shoes are ugly on purpose trying to pass as chic but they're just ugly."

"She knows a ton about winning a race and she's connected," he reminded me.

"Don't tell me she's cute. She's stringy and bony and she dresses like crap and she's smug."

"I love you," he said. "She is not a threat to you."

"I know that," I told him. "Sheesh. Like I would be threatened by someone like that?"

He smiled.

I had hoped that once the spring elections were over, Primo would be done and life would return to normal. I had hoped I would never have to hear Political Wife's name again. Or the names of any of the Polka Dots again. I had hoped that the yard signs would go away.

My hopes were dashed.

"I've decided to run for office," Primo said.

Monday April 16 Primo decides to run for office

Primo has decided to run for public office. The state house.

Oh boy.

You guys know that he and I are in a mixed marriage, right? He is of the Polka Dot Party and I am of the Stripe Party, as much as that side represents my views. I pick and choose a little bit from each side and a lot from the Just Legalize Everything and Leave Me Alone people.

But it's not the difference in our views that has me worried. That's not what's going to make this difficult. He's my husband. I love him. I'll support him. It's not as if he's a neo-Nazi or a Stalinist. He's just on the Other Side. Whatever. People have different opinions and I can live with that. Really. I can. I have friends all over the place. As long as people leave me alone, I don't care. As long as they leave other people alone, I don't care. Be nice to other people, don't hurt them, don't bother them about what they do in their own houses as long as they are over 18, and let's just leave it at that, shall we?

No, what I'm concerned about is the fact that this campaign is going to consume every single waking minute of Primo's life for the next six months. And probably every single waking minute of my life for the next six months.

Which means that the cat carrier will not be repaired as he promised. That the two-foot high stack of magazines in the guest room will not be sorted and discarded, although why it's necessary for us to have the 2010 issues of Car and Driver, I do not know. That I will have to drag the big plastic tube out of the garage and out to the back of the yard to put it on the downspout so my backyard neighbor doesn't get water gushing from our gutter into his garage. Which I don't mind doing, but Primo gets very picky about how these things are done - there is a real science to attaching big plastic tubes to downspouts, you know.

It means that Primo and I will not be playing tennis. Or taking walks. We won't be going to church festivals. Well, we might, but it will be to campaign, not to have fun. We won't be watching Friday Night Lights. We won't be walking to the farmers market on Saturday mornings. We won't be spending the weekends at the lake with our friends. We won't be going to concerts at the gazebo.

We're not going to have any fun.

And that's just the campaign. If he wins, he'll take a pay cut of $A LOT. Many legislators keep their day jobs once they are elected, but Primo doesn't have that kind of job. He's an engineer. He has a 70 hour a week, travel at the drop of a hat job. His employer would not be understanding or flexible.

We'll have a lot less money. Enough to survive, but not enough to re-roof the house. Or take a nice vacation. Or save for retirement Yeah, I'm superficial. That stuff bothers me.

Which means I need to get a job. Which I really, truly would not mind doing. Except nobody seems interested in hiring me.

If he wins, he has the job for only two years. Then he has to run again. If he doesn't win, then what? It would be very difficult for him to return to his profession. Things change too quickly. He's already falling behind. In two years? His knowledge will really be obsolete.

This is going to be lots of fun.

In which I run into another Chile volunteer in La Paz and get the tip of the iceberg of the story about his engagement

Once in La Paz, after a night on relatively smooth road, I cabbed to the hostel (I had decided this walking with backpack stuff was for the birds, especially in countries where cabs cost 50 cents) and fell into bed. Unfortunately, my room opened onto the courtyard lauded by the Handbook. (“Great place to meet other travelers!” it enthused. All I saw and smelled were Frenchmen returning after four showerless days in the mountains.). My room had huge windows that allowed in both sound and light. Those elements, coupled with the cold that I was  unable to escape (have you ever wakened because you are too cold to sleep?) allowed me only a few hours sleep. Frustrated, I resigned myself to being awake and showered and dressed.

            

A word about budget showers in Latin America. It is rare to find a shower that is set off from the rest of the bathroom. Usually, a shower head hangs somewhere over the toilet and the water drains out through a drain set in the bathroom floor. (This was why squeegeeing was important in Argentina.) No shower curtain protects the rest of the bathroom. (If there is a shower curtain, the stall is sure to be absolutely tiny and you end up fighting the curtain off your body, where it insists on wrapping itself and clinging with clammy intensity.) Your toilet paper and your towel usually get soaked.

            

Sometimes hot water is available. Usually, this is only in tropical countries and then only at the end of a steamy day. In the cold countries, some places might have hot water, but only during certain hours. I learned to ask the right questions about the water supply. Not only must you ask, “Do you have hot water, and, if so, when?”, you also must ask “How is your water heated?” If it is by solar power, hot showers in the morning are out. If it is by electricity, the likelihood of the power going out during your shower is high. (I also learned that an American definition of “hot” is  different from a Latin definition. They think we are sissies because we can’t bathe in cold water.)

            

Another important shower fact is that some places don’t have water at all sometimes. Ecuador was going through a drought (until I got there) and I found out the hard way that sometimes the shower just -- stops. Even when there was water, the pressure was barely enough to get the shampoo out of my hair.

I walked across the courtyard from the bathroom to my room. A tall, dark-haired man with a mustache was sitting at a table drinking coffee. He looked familiar, but without my glasses and out of context, I couldn’t place him. From inside the room, I looked out the window. Who was he? The n I remembered. He was Scott, another volunteer from Chile. I’d met him a few times and had found him to be humorless and dull.

            

I walked out toward the main door. As I passed him, I scrutinized him. Yes, it was Scott. He looked up and saw the recognition in my eyes. I was stuck. I couldn’t ignore him now without being totally rude. “Hi, Scott!” I said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were getting married.”

            

He and another volunteer, Cindy, had become engaged after a whirlwind courtship. The whole affair had been grist for the Peace Corps gossip mill for weeks. He was 42; she was 35; and they’d both been married before. (“Shouldn’t they, of all people, know not to rush into this?” we said.) He was dull; she was beautiful. He was a millionaire; she was hooked. (“I wouldn’t marry him, even if he is filthy rich!”) Peace Corps had refused to sanction the marriage and wouldn’t give Cindy an assignment in Santiago, where Scott worked. Cindy had said, “Fine. I’ll live in Santiago and commute the hour and a half every day to my office.” They’d announced they were marrying -- with or without Peace Corps approval -- in September.

            

But it was now September and Scott was in La Paz without Cindy.

            

He told me what had happened and I felt sorry for him -- until I heard the rest of the story from Cindy’s former roommate. “Cindy had this boyfriend in Hungary,” he said. “I thought when we started going together that was all over with. After all, she had come to Chile and left this other guy behind. Anyhow, we were living together and talking about getting married and she kept pushing back the date. First we were supposed to get married in August, then in September, then in December. Then I found out she was still corresponding with this guy in Hungary. And that she’d made arrangements to visit him over Christmas! Well, I realized it was all over. I confronted her and she moved out.”

            

His voice was sad. “You know, I thought we had something. At our age, you can’t expect passion and romance. Those aren’t real. They don’t last. The best you can expect is strong friendship. I thought we had that.”

            

How romantically melancholy, I thought. I still found him to be humorless and dull, but he seemed a little more human than he had before.

            

When I returned to the US, I heard the rest of the story. Apparently, Cindy had decided to move out and had informed Scott that their relationship was over. One morning, she got up and saw Scott’s open journal lying on the breakfast table. She did what any normal person would do -- she read it. Scott had written that he’d had a dream about killing Cindy -- and that it had felt really good.

            

She moved out but had left her furniture in Scott’s apartment. When she returned for it, she found it all chained together in the living room. 

In which I ask the right questions to take the bus

I tried to be more scientific about the bus I chose for this trip. Several bus companies made the journey to La Paz and I interrogated each. “Do you have heat?” I asked one clerk.

            

“Yes!” he said enthusiastically.

           

“Do you have a toilet on board?”

            

“Yes!”

           

“Do you have a VCR?”

           

“No.” He looked dejected.

           

The clerk at the next booth spoke up. “We have heat; we have toilets; we have movies!”

            

“Great!” I said. “What kind of movies do you show?”

            

“What kind do you like?” he asked coyly.

            

“Oh, no,” I said. “You tell me first. If I tell you what kind I like, you’ll say, ‘That’s what we have!’”

            

“Well, I couldn’t really say,” he said.

           

“Do you have action movies with a lot of violence?”

            

He brightened. “Yes, we do!”

           

“Great! That’s the kind of movie I hate!”

            

“Wait! No, we don’t have that kind!”           

           

“Ha!” I said. “Now you say so!” I returned to the bus without the VCR, bought my ticket, and went downstairs to wait.

            

The Potosí bus terminal had a clever method for loading luggage. Most places had men hauling the luggage up a ladder to the top of the bus, but in Potosí someone had actually planned. The bus offices were on the second floor and had patios that opened to the concourse. A company’s bus would park in the gate corresponding to the office and the workers would merely carry the luggage from the patio to the top of the bus -- no ladders necessary.

          

I’d smartened up by the time I got to La Paz: I’d called for reservations and warned the guy I’d be arriving at 5:00 a.m. I just didn’t know that I’d be arriving bathed in sweat. The other buses had been so cold that I was absolutely unprepared for the sweltering temperatures provided by El Dorado, Cia. When we first pulled out of Sucre, I was excited that the bus wasn’t freezing. But within an hour, I was pulling frantically at the window to open it a little. It was so hot inside the bus that the windows were steaming, which meant that I couldn’t see the stars.

            

I did have my chance to see them when we stopped for our 11:30 p.m. supper break at a lonely café huddling on the enormous plain. The aroma of grilled guinea pig (or llama or whatever the catch of the day was) didn’t appeal to me, so I wandered to the back in search of the bathroom. Someone figured out I wasn’t from there and asked what I sought. “The bathroom,” I replied.

           

“Behind the café,” he told me.

            

I left the din of the café, which, despite the apparent lack of electricity in the area, had electric lights and a television blaring “Guardia de la Bahía.” “Guardia de la Bahía” means “Guards of the Bay.” The first time I heard the title, I thought was a National Geographic program but then I learned it was “Baywatch.” “Baywatch” and “Beverly Hills 90210” are two of the most popular shows in Latin America. It’s hard to defend assertions that the U.S. lacks culture when these two shows are among our biggest exports.

            

I stepped into the enormous cold night and walked shivering to the back of the building, looking for the outline of an outhouse. Twenty feet from the café, I was out of range of the TV and there was no sound. Millions of stars flickered overhead. I couldn’t see an outhouse. But dappling the ground  were little dark shadows. In the darkness cast by the café crouched even larger shadows. As I watched, some of them unfolded and drifted away. It was then that I understood that the toilet facilities were wherever I wanted them to be.

In which I suspect Doris has punted on my birthday present

How tacky is it to complain about a gift?

Very, very tacky. I am being tacky here. I know it. I own it. I am ashamed, but not ashamed enought to shut up.

And this isn't even a gift for sure. This is a possibility. This is me using Occam's Razor to come to a conclusion.

The facts:

1. Doris insists on exchanging gifts, even though we have (Primo has) implored her not to. We don't  need more crap and she never heeds our desires for things like theater tickets or a renewal of our subscription to Cooks Illustrated.

2. Doris has very bad taste. Previous gifts have included the hummingbird-painted cheap Chinese stacking tables, the hand-painted vase with butterflies and purple flowers, and the cast-iron cat. None of them returnable for cash. All of them exchangeable for equally odious goods.

3. Doris pesters Primo in the weeks before my birthday by sending him link after link to items he knows - even without asking me - that I would never want in a million years. I know there are women who cherish shirts with lots of different colors and designs and sequins on them, but I am not one of those women. I know there are women who like vases hand-painted with butterflies and purple flowers ($68). I am not one of them. I know there are women who like cast-iron cats. I am not one of them.

Nor do I want to weird scarf from the National Geographic society or the funky sweater from the Metropolitan Museum gift store. I want to buy my own clothes. I no longer do third-world chic: I stopped that after the Peace Corps.

4. Primo has made gentle suggestions that what I would really like is tickets to see the Johnny Cash musical next spring or that Julia Child cookbook Doris has that she has never used and even told me I could have.

5. Doris ignores all suggestions.

6. I got a pamphlet for Heifer International in the mail today. Years and years ago, in a moment of misguided do-gooderness, I made donations in my family's name to this organization for Christmas. This was over 20 years ago. I have moved many times since then and I have come to see the annoying smugness involved in donating to charity in someone else's name AS A GIFT.

7. I have spent the past three years getting us (mostly Primo) off junk mail lists. Our junk mail is next to nothing. Then, out of the blue, this pamphlet.

8. My birthday, she approaches. I suspect that Doris made a donation in my name because she couldn't think of anything else to do that didn't involve giving me nothing (which is what I really want) or what Primo has told her I want (which is my second choice - but really, I just want to stop the madness completely).

What do you think?

In which I go to Potosi to get warm

I left Sucre after one day because I was cold. I arrived early to the bus station and bought a ticket for the first bus to Potosí, which left at noon. I checked my luggage and went downstairs to wait.

         

I was glad to have a daytime bus -- I’d have the chance to see the Bolivian countryside.

            

There are some things better left unseen. The roads (which are unpaved) go up and down the mountains and double back and forth in hairpin turns. Hewn from the sides of the mountains, they are only one lane wide and shoulderless -- just sheer, steep drop-off. There isn’t much room for error.

            

On one turn, the driver didn’t calculate correctly and the rear right wheel slipped off the edge of the road. (He might have been distracted by the screen that stretched across the windshield. It showed four buxom, bikini-clad women arching their backs and smiling invitingly.) I happened to be sitting on the right side of the bus and saw the whole thing. The wheel was spinning, trying to find purchase but doing nothing but spraying pebbles and dirt. The blood drained from my face and my skin turned cold and clammy. I gripped the armrests and noticed that my knuckles really did turn white. The man in the seat next to me noticed my panic and started to laugh. I glared at him and tried to remember the Hail Mary. There are no atheists on Bolivian roads.

            

We stopped at a dusty, middle-of-nowhere café for lunch. After inspecting the sanitary conditions -- a hand pump -- I decided I didn’t need to eat. I took out my camera and began to wander. A gaggle of dusty, pigtailed little girls approached me shyly. Their pink dresses were the only spots of color against the drab landscape. Would I give them money, they asked? I told them no. (I got tired of the begging. At least the shoeshine boys purported to offer a service. Some days I had my shoes shined two or three times.)

            

Then they wanted pens. Again, I told them no. But I did want to take their photo, so I tried to think of something I could give them in exchange. I had a lipstick that was almost empty. If I put lipstick on you, will you let me take your photo? They giggled and said yes. So I carefully drew color onto their chapped lips and then rubbed some hand lotion into their wind-dried, tanned cheeks. They tittered again when they looked at each other.

            

One of them -- she must have been eight or nine -- was toting an infant on her hip. “How many children do you have?” I asked her politely. (Once, when I said something to my mom about children who were too poor for dolls, she pointed out that they had real babies to play with.)

             

She laughed and said, “Ten!”

           

“Where do they sleep?” I asked.

           

“Oh, we all sleep together in a big bed,” she said airily as she gestured vaguely toward the adobe hut up the hill.

            

“You must stay  busy,” I said.

            

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “All day long, cooking and taking care of them.”

Potosí was warmer than Sucre, even though it was 2000 meters higher. I had reserved a room the day before. I found the hostel, dumped my luggage and set out to stretch my muscles after the tense five-hour bus ride. I found myself on a pedestrian mall, reading a movie ad. Behind me, I heard a friendly “Hola!” I didn’t turn because I knew I didn’t know anyone in this town. But I heard it again. Perhaps I did know someone here. I turned -- a bearded stranger was beaming at me and my leggings. He started to speak again and I turned away.

            

“¿Hablas portugues?” he asked. I ignored him.

             

“Speek eengleesh?” he persisted hopefully. I  stared at him blankly as he ran through his repertoire. He wasn’t getting the hint.

            

At my feet sat a shrunken old lady with a basket of bread in front of her. She spoke sharply: “Maybe she doesn’t speak to men she doesn’t know!” Still, he hovered hopefully until I  walked away in disgust. A few minutes later, I returned to talk to the old lady. “Que insolito!” she exclaimed in disgust. I agreed.

           

I’d been cautious about being out after dark, but was getting bored spending every evening in my room. Potosí was a well-lit, busy place -- enough activity on the sidewalks that I could walk safely after dark. I decided to go to a movie. It was a double feature, with Interview with a Vampire showing second. I was relieved: I’d tried to see that movie in Chile and had left after 15 minutes because the blood was making me sick.

            

I waited on the stoop of the movie house until they opened the doors. An odor of stale urine assailed my nostrils. The interior of the theater looked like the aftermath of a bomb: peeling wallpaper, entire rows of seats missing, blackened light bulbs and broken fans. A mangy dog wandered through the seats, stopping to eat to occasional bit of popcorn.

            

Two boys played on the stairway. The one at the top had a string tied around GI Joe’s ankle. He carefully untwisted the string, then threw Joe down to the boy at the bottom of the stairs. Bottom boy had a cardboard box into which GI Joe dove. Joe landed on his head, to the great delight of the boys. Bottom boy carefully untangled Joe’s bungee string from his body and gave top boy the signal to pull him up again, at which point Joe fearlessly took another dive.

            

I trod carefully over the sticky floor and found a seat. The movie started. The ticket seller had lied -- Interview with a Vampire was the first feature.  My friend Bob had raved about the movie, so I decided to try to stick it out. Forty minutes later, I knew I’d made a big mistake. Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt had already slurped their way erotically through rats, a hooker, and a couple of pick-ups. I felt the blood spinning in my head and my skin growing cold and clammy. I dragged myself out to the stairs, where I sat, clutching the stairpost. Nausea overcame me and I quickly ducked my head between my knees. No more vampire movies for me.

I toured the museum in the old mint. Potosí was (and is) an important mining center in the New World. Silver, tin, antimony, mercury and other minerals were pulled from the mountains. To this day, the Spanish phrase “Es un potosí” means “it’s a great find.” As with many other Spanish discoveries, though, things didn’t work out so well for the indigenous people. As part of the minting process, the Spaniards needed to run giant geared systems to laminate the metal. These machines were originally powered by Argentine mules that would walk in endless circles, turning the giant post that in turn rotated the gears. The Spaniards soon discovered, though, that Argentine mules didn’t do well in the Potosí altitude. They dropped dead too quickly. That wasn’t such a horrible problem, but it took too long for the replacement mules to arrive from Argentina. They changed to human labor and had the native people harness themselves and walk around the circle. Today, deep grooves are etched into the stone floor, tracing the path the mules and the men walked.

            

The museum has a wonderful art display. It was the usual South American religious art with tortured, stigmatic, bloody Christs. The guide told us, “In those days, the punishments were harsh. So to convince the native people that Jesus had suffered more than they did, the artists had to make his suffering extreme.”

            

In the paintings of the Virgin Mary, clever native artists had managed to incorporate their own religion into the paintings and gave Mary the form of the mountain, or the Pacha Mama -- the earth mother. She stood on an inverted crescent moon, which was supposed to help her ascend to heaven. Her hair was long and flowing and sprinkled with flowers. Designs in gold leaf were stamped onto the painting.

            

The guide led us through room after room of paintings, then took us to the section where the old firearms were displayed and then to a collection of all the minerals to be found in the area. By now, the tour had lasted two hours. I was getting museumed out. There is only so much art a person can absorb in one day. I gave a token glance at the guns, lingered a little longer in front of the dehydrated corpses and returned to the courtyard. The guide hurried out, chasing after the reluctant tourists, and assured us we had more displays.

            

She ushered us to room filled with ancient engines and I started to wonder what all these things had to do with each other. I looked around furtively and saw that the guide was distracted. I put my hat on and slipped out the door. Almost free. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw a couple slipping out. I wasn’t the only one who was tired. They edged away with their backs to the wall.

           

I dashed into the next courtyard. The ticket-seller saw me. “They’re going up there!” she said helpfully as she pointed up the staircase. I was not in the mood for stairs.

            

“Hey!” I said. “Isn’t that a tour bus?” She turned and I dashed out, free at last.

            

Well, it could have happened that way. What I really did was pretend I didn’t speak Spanish and just keep walking. Feigning ignorance got me out of a lot during my trip.

  

The Andean people chew coca leaves to alleviate hunger, fatigue, and altitude sickness. I decided I needed to try this custom.

            

To release the desired chemical in the coca leaf, you have to have a catalyst in your mouth at the same time. Sidewalk vendors sell the catalyst. They sit in their full skirts and white or black stovepipe hats with their baskets at their feet. A bit of the catalyst costs half a penny. I bought two pieces. Who knew? I might come to like coca. Each lump was the size of my thumb. Black and gritty, it had the feel of homemade play-dough. I picked a little piece off and stuck it in my mouth. It tasted like play-dough -- salty and bitter. I spit it out immediately and the ladies laughed.

In which Sly and Doris find something else to complain about, part 2

Now the problem is that Stephanie, who has been coming over to help - taking out the trash, scooping the cat box, cleaning the cat poop off the wall and floor near the cat box (because the one cat has a problem), does not have the right attitude.

A quick refresher: Stephanie is my sister in law. Technically, my ex-sister in law, because she and Primo's half brother divorced several years ago.

Stephanie has no legal or moral or ethical obligation whatsoever to help Sly and Doris. She is busy with her own life, her children, her job. Sly and Doris have been very mean to her and have said vicious things about her ever since I met them. She is a far, far better person than I with her continued efforts to be nice to them.

So Sly and Doris are incapacitated. They can't cook. They can't clean. They can't scoop the box. They can do very little.

Their neighbors have brought food - that they didn't like. And complained about to Primo.

Although to be honest, if someone brought me food that was dry and tasteless, I might mention it to someone I trusted not to talk to the giver. HOWEVER, I cannot imagine Sly and Doris have any tastebuds left - doesn't heavy drinking kill your sense of taste? Or is it just smoking that does that?

Primo's other half brother, Ted, has volunteered to go stay with Sly and Doris to help.

No, no, no, they have told him. It's too much trouble for you.

Stephanie, who lives ten minutes away, has been coming over to help.

As in, they are getting help they would not otherwise get. Help that they would have to pay for if they didn't get it from Stephanie. Help that they don't want to pay for. I don't know if they don't want to admit they are helpless  or what the deal is. I can imagine it would be very hard to admit that you have reached a point in your life where you can't take care of yourself. I am not looking forward to that time in my life. Primo and I won't even have kids to help us. I guess we better be really nice to our neighbors - especially the ones who are good cooks.

Stephanie has been helping them. She has been doing the - literally - crap work.

But Sly is not happy. "She doesn't seem very enthusiastic about it," he grumbled to Primo. "She acts like it's just some kind of obligation. She doesn't seem happy."

Because the result matters not at all - just the intention. And if Stephanie's intentions aren't pure, then it doesn't matter that she is cleaning the cat poop off the floor.

In which Sly and Doris of course find something else to complain about

You guys know that Sly had surgery and Doris broke her wrist, right?

And now they are at home, recuperating?

Which is difficult. I don't wish that on them. I want them to be nice people. But I don't sit around thinking, "I wish they would have major surgery and break bones! That would show them!"

I don't do that because that would be mean. And then if it really happened, I would feel really, really guilty.

But I do have to roll my eyes at the latest intelligence:

Some neighbors have brought them food.

Which is a very nice thing to do.

It's hard to cook when you are recovering from surgery and when you have a broken wrist. It's hard for them to cook even when they aren't post-op or broken.

So what did they say to Primo about the meal that one neighbor made?

"It was dry and tasteless and she used a store-bought crust for the pie."

Never a kind word shall cross their lips.

In which I discover why the Bolivians consume so much cocaine - it keeps you warm, doesn't it?

As I had been instructed, I arrived a half an hour early at the terminal. It’s a way of identifying foreigners, because the locals never arrive early. I was on the bus, ready to go, but when the bus driver pulled out, a hue and cry arose from a group of schoolteachers who had been in Cochabamba for a conference. Two of their group hadn’t arrived yet. The driver grumbled but waited for the late passengers. I should have known right then that this group was going to annoy me.

The first half hour of the trip was marred by the encyclopedia salesman who stood at the front of the bus and harangued us to improve ourselves with these paperback tomes of knowledge. He sensed he didn’t have a strong hold on his audience, so he threw caustic comments into his speech -- like, “If I’m not taking too much of your time” or “Well, if you’re not interested in being educated,” which I thought was cheeky, considering no one had asked him to stand up and annoy us. The teachers laughed and bought his books. At the end of his discourse, he had the nerve to ask for tips.

The trip went downhill from there. The attendant put on a video but couldn’t get the TV to work. The picture flashed on and off and the sound was horrible. The movie stank. It was an American made-for-TV movie about a father-and-son armed-robbery team that had been dubbed in Spanish. I wanted them to die in a bloody shoot-out, but they survived to escape with the loot. When the video was over, the radio came back on. Horrible music. Usually, I could tune out the radio and doze. Not this time. The teachers -- whom I came to hate -- began to talk loudly. I gritted my teeth and endured. After all, it was only 10:30 p.m. 

           

Suddenly, there was a sharp crack. Cold air rushed into the bus. A woman screamed. Something had shattered a window. The two passengers in the seat next to the window were covered with glass shards. The attendant, who had already prove his mechanical abilities, tried to patch the hole with the curtain. Much to his surprise, that didn’t work.

          

We stopped for supper at 11:30. The café had a restroom of sorts. I found the women’s restroom and was minding my own business when a man walked in. He looked at me and the other women and, unperturbed, walked into a stall and did what he needed to do.

           

I took a sleeping pill and prepared myself for another six hours on the narrow, twisting,  unpaved roads. (I wasn’t to find out until I went from Sucre to Potosí just how precarious Bolivian roads really are.) But I wasn’t prepared for the teachers. I’d thought they would be tired and ready to sleep, but they talked and shrieked and giggled all night. My occasional pleas of “Be quiet! People are trying to sleep!” were met with laughter. I took a second sleeping pill, but it didn’t work.

We limped into Sucre at 5:30 a.m. The horrible loud people left almost immediately and I tried to take advantage of the silence to get some sleep, but now the bus heater was turned off. (It was too early to go door-to-door seeking a hostel and the bus station wasn’t open yet so I couldn’t even call one.) It was freezing cold. At 6:30, the bus station opened and I was able to call and find a hostel.

            

By seven, I was in a bed, but by then, I was so cold that I couldn’t warm up, despite the three blankets I had piled on top of me. I gave up and tried to shower, but found the water to be icy. Bolivian showers are heated by electric heaters attached to the shower heads. Huge electrical switches are attached to the wall next to the shower. You’re supposed to wait until the water is running to turn the heater on. Sometimes there were rubber insulators on the switches, sometimes not. Always there were stray wires on the heater itself. A few places had signs posted with dire warnings: “Don’t touch the shower head! Danger of electrocution!”

            

Sometimes the heater would work immediately. Other times, I had to jiggle the switch to find exactly the right position. It wasn’t always obvious if the shower were broken or just touchy. After a couple of minutes of ice-cold water (fresh snowmelt from the Andes!), I realized this shower was broken. I had to get dressed and find another shower.

I spent the morning sightseeing. Sucre is called “The White City.” The buildings in the town center are whitewashed with red tile roofs. Doors are heavy wood studded with big iron nails. Steep, narrow streets wind up the mountains. It’s easy to imagine the Spanish conquistadores here 500 years ago, walking through town in breeches and plumed hats.

          

I sat on a bench in the plaza. To my left a band of four men played the haunting reedy native Andean music. (The first time I heard an Andean band playing “El Condor Pasa,” I exclaimed, “Hey! They’re playing a Simon and Garfunkel song!”) They wore the native clothing: the pointed hats with the long ear flaps, ponchos over loose pants and sandals. A cronish old woman approached me and stuck out her hand. At the beginning of my trip, I’d given to any beggar who had asked, but I’d realized I couldn’t afford to maintain such a policy. I shook my finger. She thrust her hand insistently into my chest. I shook my finger again. She stepped back and began to scream at me, drawing strange figures with her fingers and shaking her hands at me. It took her thirty seconds to curse me, then she walked away indignantly.

At the top of one of the hills around Sucre is an old monastery. The view from the plaza in front of it is spectacular. You can see the entire city below -- all red and white and stark. An old lady, her hair coiled in a bun on top her head and a bundle wrapped in a brightly-colored blanket slung over her shoulder, trudged up the hill.

           

I waited in the plaza for the two o’clock tour, along with four other tourists, sitting on the edge of the fountain and watching the wind blow the trash around the square. Clouds rolled in from behind the mountain and the wind picked up. The temperature dropped. It had been warm and sunny in the morning, so I had dressed lightly. Now, I was shivering.

            

I went back to the door to the monastery and knocked loudly. It was already past time for the tour to start. A young man in a brown robe opened the door. “Are you going to give the tour today?” I asked.

            

“Yes,” he answered, “but the secretary is still at lunch. She is the one who sells the tickets.” He started to close the door.

           

I stuck my foot between the door and the frame. “Could I please wait inside? It’s freezing out there!”

           

Reluctantly, he opened the door. The wind blew the outside trash into the foyer. He waved to a bench and slipped away. I heard knocking. The Japanese couple smiled gratefully when I opened the door and walked to the corner.

            

At 2:30, the secretary appeared and sold us our tickets. The man in the brown robe returned and started the tour. Three Germans -- a young woman with a baby and a woman who looked like her mother -- joined the tour. The monk led us through the cloisters and showed us a tree. “This tree,” he said, “is very old. It was here when the first monks built the monastery.” He rattled off facts about the tree and the German woman translated for her mother.

           

The monk turned and led us to another room. Again, he spoke rapidly. The German woman finally said in exasperation, “Could you please slow down!”

In which I try to go to a movie and I break another drought

I was bored. Neither Christine nor I had been able to reach Suzy yet. Cochabamba doesn’t present the casual tourist with an abundance of possibilities and there are only so many hours a day I can spend eating.

In the town center amidst the scribes with their typewriters and the signs that pleaded “No urinating,” I found a movie theater. It was showing Casper -- not my idea of great theater, but better than Judge Dredd, the other option. I bought a ticket and went inside. The movie started -- and it had been dubbed in Spanish! (Imagine!) Most movies simply had subtitles. I hadn’t thought that Casper would be considered a children’s movie. (My mind was going with boredom.) I tried to understand the Spanish, but the sound system was old and the words emerged garbled.

I walked out and asked the ticket seller if I could have my money back. She looked concerned. “I don’t know,” she said, and beckoned the ticket taker over. “What do you think?” she asked him.

“I don’t know.” They consulted for a minute, then came to the conclusion that this decision was out of the realm of their collective authority.

“We’ll have to ask the manager,” they warned me. “He’ll probably say no. All these tickets are numbered, you know.”

I told them I’d take my chances and they led me upstairs to the manager’s office. The ticket taker knocked timidly and cracked the door open. The manager beckoned him in. “She wants her money back because she’s American and the movie is in Spanish. We told her those tickets are numbered.”

The manager rolled his eyes and said patiently, “Give her the money and close the door.”

On Sunday evening, I went to the airport to wait for Suzy, who, I was to learn, is not the most organized person in the world. She’d finally sent Christine a fax saying that she’d fly into Cochabamba from La Paz on Sunday but had neglected to give us any other information, like her flight number or arrival time. It had taken me two days and three trips to two travel agencies to find out what flights she might be on. There were two arriving from La Paz that day. I’d gone to meet the 1:00 flight and she wasn’t on it, so now I had returned for the 7:00 flight.

As I waited outside the terminal, I felt electricity in the air, then a crisp, clean smell and a sudden coolness. Odd, I thought. Feels like a thunderstorm. But it hadn’t rained in five months in Cochabamba. The wind picked up and dried leaves and bits of trash spun and swirled on the blacktop. Thick clouds billowed over the mountains toward the terminal and threw off lightning bolts. Within minutes, icy cold rain and hail began to hurl themselves to the ground. The wind blew branches off the trees. A tree tore itself from the ground and threw its naked roots to the sky. The rain started and didn’t stop for two hours. All the flights were delayed.

The flight from La Paz was delayed until 9:30. And then Suzy wasn’t even on it. I left the terminal in disgust and went to wait for the bus. No bus. I asked someone how long before the bus arrived and she told me it didn’t run that late.

I approached a cab. “How much to take me to Christine’s house?”

“Ten bolivianos,” he told me.

“Ha!” I replied. “I’ll give you four.”

He countered with eight. I told him that just because I was a foreigner didn’t mean I was stupid and that I was not paying any more than five, which was what Christine had told me was the going rate. He grinned and looked suitably chagrined. When he dropped me off, he shook my hand, wrapping both his hands around mine, and kissed me on the cheek.

I gave up on Suzy and decided to leave Cochabamba and went to the bus station to buy a ticket to Sucre. Standing in line behind me were two clean-cut, fresh-faced young American men dressed in short-sleeved white shirts and ties. On their pockets were blue badges proclaiming “Hermano Jim” and “Hermano Tim.” They were a pair of those ubiquitous Mormon missionaries who overrun South America. I asked them what they thought of the Bolivian political situation. Oh, they didn’t know -- they never read newspapers or magazines. Really? They hadn’t noticed that Bolivia was in a state of martial law? Nope, they didn’t bother with that stuff. They weren’t supposed to, you know. I asked if they really believed that their church did not want them to read the news. Yes, they said. Some missionaries did, but they went by the book.

I left the bus terminal and was walking through the market when school let out for lunch. A herd of small boys ran out form the gates, yelling and skipping. I stood next to an old pickup that was parked halfway on the sidewalk and watched them. Five of them in a row stopped next to the pickup, upzipped their pants, and peed against the front wheel of the truck. I wondered where the public restroom for the girls was.

In which Primo has to tell Isabel that the alimony is over‏

Primo is all stressed because he is pretty sure that Isabel has not been keeping track of the divorce decree, even though she graduated from college with honors (with a major of dubious academic integrity, though) (at Primo's expense). The alimony ended this month. Done. Finito. No more. No more money leaving our checking account every month to go to her.

If you get divorced, get a lawyer. Don't have a mediated divorce. A lawyer will tell you that your alimony obligation is 17% of your income. Not 35%. Plus cobra.

Ouch.

After five years, we are done. 

But Isabel probably doesn't realize that.

Primo was going to tell her earlier this month, but she was on vacation in Hawaii for two weeks.

Think about that.

Anyhow, he wants - well, feels he should - to call her to advise her that she has gotten her last check. 

And he is dreading that call.

He has already had to deal with family issues. Doris is trying to find out what I want for my birthday.

What I want most is for her not to do anything for my birthday.

So what she really wants is not what I want but what she wants.

What she wants is to give me something that she likes, not what I like. Because if she wanted to give me what I like, she would not take offense when Primo tells her that no, I probably wouldn't like another vase hand-painted with purple flowers and butterflies. Or a scarf. Because I already have 20 scarves. (Everyone gives me scarves. Well, my sister and my friend Lenore.)

I told Primo to suggest that she give us a gift certificate to the theater, as there is a Johnny Cash play we want to see this spring but is a bit out of our budget.

"She won't want to do that," he said. "She doesn't understand buying experiences rather than things."

I did some research on the two scarf options she had presented.

"Then tell her to get scarf #1 because I can return it for cash. Scarf #2 they'll only let me exchange it for something else in their catalogue."

Sigh. She's going to send something that I don't want. I will have to go to the PO to send it back. Money will be wasted.