On this Thanksgiving…

I am thankful for Cosby sweaters, delicious salty beans and being Peru’s very own Jolly White Giant. In that order.

Indeed, the Cosby sweater never went out of style here. Or actually, considering alpaca-patterned wool has been around Peru for centuries, it should probably be called the Peru sweater. I’m guessing it was Bill who bit Peru’s steez back in the day. Either way, the Cosby sweater is to Peru what the mullet is to Chile; that is, it’s everywhere! And now, including in my very own possession. Don’t be jealous, ironic hipsters, I’m taking orders so you, too, can have one. (Prices negotiable — write marissa.payne(at)gmail.com for inquiries. Seriously.):

Additionally, after buying my Cosby sweater for the lovely price of 20 soles ($7.07) at the central market, I ran into a whole bunch of grains and legumes for sale. And we all know I love a fine legume…

OMG! Look at all those delicious legumes! So enticing were these legumes, in fact, that I couldn’t resist and I ended up buying some “salty beans.”

And, hot damn, were they delicious! I think next to crap made from the coca leaf (except for cocaine, on which I believe Colombia still has a leg up a straw up its nose on the entire world), deep fried legumes, grains and tubers seem to be the national items of choice to put in your mouth in Peru. Next to salty beans, my next favorite Peruvian snack are yam chips. Seriously, why don’t yam Lays or yam Ruffles exist? (I “yam” not the only one who thinks that’s a good idea, right? In fact, it’s downright puntastical!)

But all the yam puns I yam thinking of aside, Peru, in general, and Cusco, specifically, have made me feel very, very special. And not just in that “Wow, my vocabulary in Spanish is equivalent to that of a newborn’s” kind of way. No, I feel special in that “Wow, I’m a giant, gringa freak” kind of way.

Well, look at that! I’m the Jolly White Giant! Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what these locals (relatively; they were Peruvian, but from somewhere outside of Cusco) probably thought after chasing me down the street to ask me for a photo. I gladly obliged because, you know, who am I to deny these people a lifetime souvenir image with yours truly? That’s just cruel.

But then they told me something that not only deflated my ego, but also made me hate backpackers even more: “You’re about the 10th person we asked and you’re the only one who said yes!”

“Uh, what?” I thought. “They asked others?”

“We don’t have gringas where we live and we wanted a picture!”

“THEY ASKED OTHERS?” But then I thought of something more legitimate to be outraged about. Why had these nine other gringas snubbed them?

Later that night, while snuggling in bed with my Cosby sweater and snacking on some delicious salty beans, I thought maybe it was a language barrier issue. But then I remember my Spanish is remedial and the word for photo in Spanish is foto, not to mention the three cameras that were waved in my face. So unless these girls ran into nine Helen Kellers, it had to be something else.

And then it hit me. I sat up dramatically, brushed my Cosby/Peru sweater aside and wiped the salty bean drool from my chin. “Holy crap,” I shouted. “Are we are all so paranoid in the First World of poor people robbing us that we would snub children and their cute little mom? Were these nine others so afraid that this friendly little quintet was involved in some elaborate pick-pocketing ruse. Like, one would snap the photo and another would dig in your bag?”

Hmm…

Come to think of it, that’s not actually a bad idea and maybe I’m naïve for only thinking of it now, but I’m glad this didn’t run through my head at the time. If it did, would I still have taken the photo? Would I still have later sat down on the steps with this group and practiced my Spanish with them for half an hour? They taught me the word for yawn — bostezo.

I don’t know. I hope I still would. I can’t imagine myself not, to be honest. But then again, I’m kind of weird. And not necessarily smart. Yet so far, that combo has actually worked for me. Like I said, I’m not so into backpacker culture, so if I didn’t talk to locals, I suppose I wouldn’t be talking to anyone.

But besides simply entertaining myself for 30 minutes, hopefully I did something for these girls and their mom, as well. Hopefully, I made up for those nine other paranoid gringas, who snubbed them out of fear, and, hopefully, I entertained them for that 30 minutes as much as they entertained me. At the very least, hopefully my broken Spanish and big gringa grin changed the stereotype of North Americans being assholes who only like to travel to other countries if they never have to interact with the local population. In other words, I hope I’m the Obama of Cusco right now, in that I revolutionized America’s image by just being in the right place at the right time. (POLITICAL ZING!)

Anyway, I hope on this “Dia de Dar Gracias,” as it were, you not only give thanks for what you have, but that you can do something for someone else that will make them want to thank you. Even if it’s just acknowledging another person’s presence as a fellow human. And hopefully, I’ll do the same. But first, I need to break in what might be a new tradition of my own —  a Thanksgiving Peruvian chicken dinner.

Two dollars of heaven…

Happiness is not something you achieve.

In other words, happiness is not an epic mullet. It is not something you can grow and achieve like the fanciful curls of an omnipresent South American coiffure. It cannot be tended to, taken care of or swept ever-so-gracefully into a sophisticated chignon, if you’re feeling so inclined. Happiness, unlike a mullet, is intangible.

Which is why when anybody ever refers to “the key to happiness,” I cringe at the faulty logic of this English-language cliché. To proclaim such a “key” exists is to objectify the un-objectifiable. (And yes, you can quote me on that word, Merriam-Webster.) It’s nonsense. And even more so, it seems to me that to think of happiness in such a way will inevitably lead you to another unfortunate English-language cliché – the proverbial pit of despair.

I mean, think about it, what’s worse than a wild goose chase? (Besides that phrase, I mean.) Not much.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that happiness doesn’t exist. Au contraire, Grumpy Care Bear. (Shut up; it rhymes and if I used “mon frère,” that would’ve been my fourth ironic cliché in just as many paragraphs – unacceptable. Everyone knows three is the limit.)

Indeed, happiness exists. However, it exists in a much different format than a glorious mullet or even delicious llama meat, which I was lucky enough to find out last week is seriously tasty.

But scrumptious camelid flesh skewers aside, what I’m getting at here is that happiness is a feeling, which means, just like any other feeling (sadness, anger, boredom, excitement, lust), happiness is temporary. Nothing, at least on this planet, can ensure you’ll be happy all the time because the realistic fact is, when feelings, emotions and all that other bullsh*t are involved, there are no guarantees. Even llama meat is no guarantee.

Of course, at the same time, we’re not helpless when it comes to trying to maximize the possibilities to feel happy. For example, for me, I seem to feel the most happy when I’m making people I love smile and vice versa (ah, shucks). So, why not just do that forever and, ergo, be happy forever too? Well, because these same people with whom I’ve shared and still share so much joy, also have the ability to make me the most angry and depressed I’ve ever been.

And don’t think that’s just me. This happens in fiction as well, so clearly it must be fact. Uh, or something. Take, for instance, this passage from Isabel Allende’s The House of the Spirits, in which family patriarch Estaban Trueba attempts to recapture a happiness of yesteryear to no avail:

“The distant mountains disappeared behind the clouds of a shrouded sky; only the snowy peak of the volcano could be seen in all its clarity, outlined against the landscape and lit by a timid winter sun. He looked around him. In his childhood, during the only happy time he could recall, before his father slid utterly into ruin and abandoned himself to alcohol and disgrace, the two of them had gone horseback riding in this part of the country. He remembered that he played during the summers at Tres Marías, but it was all so long ago that memory had almost erased it, and he did not recognize the place.”

See? There is no one person, no one environment, no one delicious meat shish-kebob, as it were, that will make a person feel happy permanently. There is no one anything. There is no key.

Sure, various nouns (that is, people, places and things) can contribute to moments of pure happiness for all of us (Estaban has his childhood horseback riding, for example, and I have my delicious llama meat), but to attribute happiness entirely to some object or some thing that exists outside your psyche seems wrong.

In fact, even writing this pseudo-manifesto on happiness seems wrong because I’m pretty sure, that much like searching for some sort of mythical “key,” overthinking why and how we, as humans, feel certain ways at certain times doesn’t really do anyone any good. In fact, during the time I’ve wasted composing this post just thinking about happiness, I may have missed out on some fleeting moment of it because I was too busy trying to use the functional slice of my brain to theorize about something that will never fit neatly into a theory. And although the width of said slice of brain is about the girth of a lowercase “L,” I’m still convinced even the smartest person couldn’t will a feeling of happiness through even the most logical of analyses. Instead, I think happiness is something we just feel when we happen across it, however and whenever that may be.

And on that heart-barfing note, you’ll have to excuse me. I must now go take a shower to wash the waft of dirty hippie off myself. Indeed, I’m hoping being clean and free of the stench of patchouli will allow me a few fleeting moments of happiness. But even that is no guarantee.

Life is beautiful, well, except on my camera.

Last week was pretty weird. In a rare moment in my mechanical heart, I felt feelings. Like, bad ones. But then, as if I spilled a bottle of delicious Pap (short for “papaya” and not “smear,” although it doesn’t taste like it) on my motherboard, everything sort of short-circuited for the better and I had a couple of extremely glorious moments. Indeed, even with the downs (both the feelings and the syndrome) it still feels good to be alive.

And I suppose I have Chile’s Atacama Desert to thank. Did you know it’s “the driest desert in the world?” I didn’t until about 100 Chileans told me. Repeatedly. (Apparently, along with Pap, this is a major point of national pride.) However, driest desert in the world or not, there is still a fair amount of water there. But instead of boring rivers and lakes, the Atacama Desert boasts THE HIGHEST GEYSER PLAIN IN THE WORLD!

Although, to be honest, that sounds more exciting than it actually was. I was expecting 1,000 Old Faithfuls combined with that nice drunk feeling one gets when dealing with altitude, but really, all that was there were about 1,000 bubbling craters of sulfur water and I felt completely sober. Hmm.

Anyway, finally after a couple hours one ended up spitting out about seven feet of water. Yay? But whether the craters spewed water or not, I guess, didn’t really matter. Instead, I was just happy to be in the desert. I’ve never been in one before so seeing the terrain was like being on another planet for me. Not to mention, the nice breakfast of eggs boiled in some hot-piping sulfur water was pretty sweet too.

And speaking of other planets – literally – later that day I went to the “observatory,” which I put in quotation marks because it ended up being some middle-aged French dude’s backyard. I gotta say, it was a pretty f*cking impressive backyard, though, being filled with dozens of $150,000 telescopes and all. At first I wondered how this freaky home French fry was able to afford all this science, but he answered my question preemptively by telling me that, thanks to a hook-up from the old actual observatory he worked at near La Serena, he got some pretty heavy discounts. Indeed, this man’s mega tight astronomical deal skills were second to none.

Even tighter, though, were the views. I saw three different galaxies, not even including our own Milky Way, which in the clear desert atmosphere showed itself so vividly that it almost looked like morning fog lingering in the late-night air. Wow, check me out getting all f*cking poetic and sh*t!

But, apparently, the most impressive star system I saw was something called the Tarantula Nebula 2070. I was told it will make nerds soil their pants. (My pants had already been soiled by a bird.)

And while I’d love to be able to exhibit some choice photos that I took at this point, considering I’m working with a broken down 2005 Nikon S1 Cool Pix, this was the best I could do:

Um, breathtaking? So, instead, let’s just jack something illegally from the Web:

Ah, that’s better.

A bird just shat on me.

In Russia when a bird drops a deuce on you it means you’re going to be rich. In Chile, it just means your pants are dirty. Which is awesome (sarcasm) because I’m about to get on a series of buses for just about the next 24 hours in attempt to border cross.

Indeed, I am leaving Chile. And I can’t say I’m necessarily that happy about it, mainly because I feel my work here has barely begun. I feel like I just arrived. More importantly, because of a customs snafu that I will write about when I leave the country and hopefully not get arrested, I didn’t have as much time to travel here as I had originally planned on.

Sucks.

But to be quite honest, backpacking kind of sucks. I’ve never done it before and it’s a very dirty, kind of shambly way to travel. I can see it working out if you had an unlimited amount of time, but considering I have a reservation to hike the goddamn Inca Trail next week, I have no choice but to scurry ahead north and start crossing some borders.

It also sucks when you’re alone, as I’ve recently found out. I was Skype-phoning with someone the other day who told me after he let me complain for a good hour (thanks, by the way) that some people actually “crave” this type of lifestyle. “Yeah,” I answered back. “Dirty, socially inept hippies.”

Seriously, what I’ve been able to non-scientifically conclude is that backpackers, for the most part (although not the few who may read this blog), are a bunch of douches. A bunch of dirty douches who care less about where they’re going, what they’re seeing and who they’re meeting  (that is, interacting with the local culture), and instead seem to care more about just pushing pins into a “Look where I’ve been!” map. The more pins on your map, the more dirty hippie douche-cred you have, it seems.

Technically, I suppose I could run for queen dirty douche, as “the sh*tholes I’ve seen,” as my friends and I affectionately call our former-Soviet territory adventures, would top most of these peoples’ forays into Western Europe. But, unfortunately, it seems the one position I’m qualified for (besides President of Awesome, that is) is the one I really have no inclination toward.

In all honestly, being a “backpacker” is just not me. I don’t like hopping in for a day or two. As my friends and family know, I prefer to overstay my welcome. I guess that’s why when I go abroad, I prefer to live in the place I’m going to rather than just visit. And if I’m vacationing, I want to have some good friends, a smaller bag of more fashionable outfits and a base to which to return when it’s over. Because right now, I’m more or less just a well-off homeless person with bird sh*t on my pants.

And that’s why I’ve made the executive decision to detour for some time in Cusco before and after my Inca Trail experience. And if my latest cockamamie (that word is totally underused) plan works out, until mid-December when I have other plans afoot, I’ll be living once again with a host family and taking more Spanish classes, this time four hours of private lessons a day. I’m hoping by the end of this stretch of lessons I’ll be able to curse to the heavens in Spanish next time a bird soils my pants. Because, goddamn, if anyone’s going to soil my pants, it sure as hell better be me! Seriously, f*ck you bird.

Uh, at least I’m feeling better?

For those unlucky enough to have read my brand of idiot-savant-esque drivel over at The Anti DC, you may remember a little segment I did called outfit amour-propre, which was basically me writing about how awesome my ensembles were. Duh.

Well, I didn’t really plan to revise that on this particular journey, as I only had a limited amount of space to pack said awesome ensembles, but after venturing out of doors today dressed like, well, a Shambles P.I. victim, I felt I had very little choice but to come clean on my self-recognized regression into fashion disaster-dom.

Seriously, what the f*ck is that?

I’m dressed like a butch lesbian big game hunter.

I mean, really, who else besides a butch lesbian big game hunter and, well, me, apparently, would simultaneously don a camo hat, a pair of newly purchased Gortex hiking boots and a shirt, which just so happens to boast an image of a postmortem elk wearing a chain of gold feathers on it? (Oh, Japanese designers, what will you think to print on a T-shirt next?)

As if being a gringa who seems about the height of a Harlem Globetrotter wasn’t enough to make me feel a bit self-conscious. Now, I went and made it eleventy times worse by dressing like a complete asshole. All that’s missing is a crossbow, although I’m assuming most people probably thought I had one as several ducked and cowered in fear as I tromped by in my heavy-duty footwear. Yes, tromped; I’ve had to shelve my usual devil-may-care saunter to navigate in these cinderblocks.

But beggars can’t be fashionable choosers on the road. And until the laundry lady gets back to me with my 2.5 kilos of less murder-ready clothing that she’s amazingly agreed to wash, dry and fold for the extremely reasonable price of $3.00, I really have nothing else to wear.

(That’s a lie!)

In all honesty, I suppose I could’ve shelved the hardcore sh*t-kickers in favor of, um, Tevas (oh my God, I am so ashamed right now for having just said that…), but considering I’ll be using these bad boys to hike the entire Inca Trail in a couple of weeks and hopefully Cotopaxi in December, I figure I better start breaking them in now. Blisters are never in style. (Oh snap!)

But alas, while this may seem a trivial point to anyone without an OCD-like dedication to outfit planning and implementing, to me this is a pretty damn big deal. Why? Because I’ve just done what I never thought I could — I chose function over form. Indeed, hell just got a little bit colder today. But my feet didn’t! Zoinks!

Functional outfit details: Hat — Russian Army issue; T-Shirt — Uniqlo; Jeans — Habitual; Hiking Boots — Patagonia.

This is what happens when you write on Nyquil.

If you ever want to feel what it’s like to be completely on your own, I suggest you go traveling solo for an extended period of time. In one word, I’d describe the feeling as “weinly,” uh, which sounds a lot sicker (for once) than what I’m really trying to say here.

“Weinly,” as I’ll go ahead and define it is a mash-up of weird and lonely. But don’t be fooled. While lonely usually has a negative context, in this case, when combined with the word “weird,” its definition is more manic. That is, sometimes I’ll be walking along with a giant smile on my face, just enjoying the fact that I have two legs that can take me to any cool place on the face of the Earth I feel like going. But then sometimes I’ll be sitting down to eat something that’s probably covered in mayonnaise when suddenly I’ll feel this bizarre wave of sadness. And not just because I’m being forced to eat more mayonnaise, as embarrassingly, in what seems like a throwback to Moscow 2003, I’m really beginning to love this stuff again…

But controversial condiments aside, during these sad-lonely times I always find myself looking around hoping to find someone else there sharing these experiences with me (not all of which have to do with mayonnaise, mind you). For instance, last week I watched the sunset over some rocks on the edge of Lake Villarrica in Pucón. Alone. Sure, it was lovely (and probably dangerous, as it’s probably not healthy to stare at the sun for an hour — I got there early), but at the same time, it was a bit depressing. It was such a beautiful moment, but I felt it could’ve been even more beautiful if I had some others there to share it with. Or at least someone else to look at the cloud formations and decide if what I was seeing really was Mickey Mouse knocking over a bowling pin while trying to make out with a hamster…

Don’t get me wrong — I’m not a totally pathetic freak — I’ve been meeting people here and there along the way, some of whom I know I’ll definitely keep in contact with (and not just through the social pasture known as Facebook). But inevitably, we’re all going our separate ways. And my way, well, at least until mid-December, is all on my own. I wake up alone, I decide what to do with my day alone, I eat alone, I go to bed alone, although I’m alternatively with Norm Coleman or Vladimir Putin in my mind…

Um…

But honestly, this whole vagrant hobo thing is much more taxing on me than I originally thought it would be. In fact, since I’m sort of a definitional introvert, I thought this would be really easy. I’d have time to think, ponder, really get to know myself. But the thing is, thinking is hard (duh), and really, after 30 years of doing what I want, when I want, I’m pretty sure I know myself by now. I don’t need all this time to myself. More importantly, I don’t want it. I miss the drama of compromise. I miss being able to blame someone else if something goes wrong. Most of all, I miss having an automatic audience for my hilarious quips about life on the road.

But I suppose that’s what the Internet is for. Skype, this blog, email — they’re the few e-strings holding me up from falling into a vortex of complete reclusiveness. More importantly, they’re my only connection to my narcissistic need to constantly have attention. When you’re living here or there for only a few weeks or days at a time, it’s hard to find those constants who can tell you how awesome you are or how necessary you are to their lives. When people come and go, they’re anonymous. They’re good for trading travel tips over a mayotini (I’ve got a patent out on that, by the way). But real friendships and relationships take time to build. Like I said, I’ve met countless people along the way, but probably managed to only cultivate two or three true friendships out of the bunch — and those were either people I hung out with in Santiago on a regular basis or they’re 80 and they were my host grandmother. But now that I’m a non-smelly version of a hippie backpacker, I’m pretty sure the German couple I met yesterday who told me where to stay in Iquique won’t remember me tomorrow. In fact, besides that we’re both traveling for indefinite amounts of time, they really don’t know anything about me that would make me memorable, nor do I about them. We’re all simply transient caricatures to each other.

Which is why I’ve really come to appreciate the Internet like an actual human being. It knows me, which allows you to know me (well, at least e-know me). More importantly, it keeps me in touch with my family and friends who keep me from going all Ted Kaczynski (minus the mail-bombs) on your asses. Being so damn dependent on the Internet may sound pathetic, but considering it’s really the only constant in my life right now, I don’t think I have much of a choice. Gotta keep the darker side of weinliness in check.

And especially today, as I think some sort of cerdo flu may have sneaked its way into my organism. Which means, Internet, right now, as I lay in this spongy bed sweating under with too many mismatched blankets, I’m depending on you even more to keep me from going absolutely nuts. Now, if only the Internet could make me chicken soup…slathered in mayonnaise…

Is that sulfuric gas I smell, or are you just happy to see me?

So there I was, having the typical Wednesday, you know, letting Tay Zonday’s classic “Chocolate Rain” circle endlessly in my mind like it was 2008. “Chocolate rain! De de de de de de-de de-de…” Oh, and did I mention that I was also hiking up a smoldering active volcano that just so happens to be covered in a glacier?

Because I was.

And sure it looks like a delicious Hostess Snowball® from afar, but last time I checked, you didn’t need an ice-pick and crampons to climb up a delicious Hostess Snowball®. Quite the contrary. In fact, I don’t even think you need teeth to attack a delicious Hostess Snowball®.  But Volcán Villerica? Unless you like the taste of hot lava in your mouth (Eso es lo que ella dijó!), this 9,340-foot goddamn volcano is not meant for shoving in your (possibly toothless) pie-hole after you’ve smoked copious amounts of weed. Not that anyone’s ever done that… Besides, I have teeth.

But seriously, to walk up this giant, you need to: 1) Brace yourself for 70-plus mph wind gusts that numb your lips; 2) Prepare for a great deal of sunshine that’ll burn the underpart of your nose since an ice-covered mountain is like a giant reflector and you’re too stupid to realize that; and 3) Walk up walls of ice wearing these:

Indeed, next to getting high (on life!) and eating Hostess Snowballs®, trekking up this bitch, which is located just outside of Pucón in Chile’s southern lakes region, might be the most awesome thing I’ve ever done in my life. Although that one time I bowled a 122 was pretty sweet too…

But satisfactory bowling scores aside, let’s get to the nitty-gritty, or as I like to call it, the ass of the matter. Besides clamoring around like a spiky-shod monkey on ice, I was also hanging on for dear life as this sh*t reached angles of more than 70 degrees at times, which for those of you who are unaware, is the technical term for, “pretty f*cking steep.”

Moreover, it takes a good seven hours to stagger to the summit, which spews out a throat-burning mist of sulfuric gas.

Mmm, looks like this volcano’s been eatin’ beans! But be careful. As enticing as I just made that sound, the crater is actually quite dangerous as it’s kind of impossible to know when the snow gets thin enough to fall through. In fact, after reaching the summit I got a little too close to the crater’s edge, which my Chilean guide, whose name was somehow “Jason,” beckoned me from with a wag of his finger, a.k.a. the universal gesture for, “Step back you stupid bitch or else you’re falling into the sulfuric pit of destruction and I’m far too smart to try to save you. Plus, this sandwich I’m eating right now is delicious.”

And so I stepped back, which was a good idea because after snapping a few choice photographs, including those I posted above and at the end of this post, I got to sled back down to the bottom. And by “sled,” I mean we donned a special butt cover, or “nappy,” as I heard a British person say, and then sat on the snow waiting for gravity to have its way with us. Needless to probably say, my nappy did little to keep liquids out of my pants, but then again, I suppose nappies are really only for keeping liquids in your pants, which by the way, mine did splendidly. (Just kidding, next person who has to wear my nappy! I sweated too much to think about urinating. Plus girls don’t do such things. Ever.)

And on that note, please to view these lovely photos!

This is some other volcano that is 40 percent in Argentina and 60 percent in Chile.

Ice paws?

At the top, taking in all the fresh, sulfuric air!

The sun the volcano sees through the gas. Que bonito! And poisonous!

¿Podría jugar con tus pelotas?

Um, can I play with your balls?

Yeah, I suppose that sounds dirty in English, too, now that I think about it.

Because it certainly sounds dirty in Spanish, or so I found out when my professor laughed in my face as I said the title of this post in one of my classes as an example of how to use ¿Podría? properly. For the record, my sentence is grammatically correct. It’s just not, um, that logical, as it were, within the premise of my imagined situation — being at the tennis court and needing to borrow someone’s balls, ahem, tennis balls, perv.

Anyway, turns out in that situation, it’d be better to say, “las pelotas” (the balls), but whatever. Making things awkward is my specialty and it’s a little bit complimentary that I can suddenly do that in Spanish. Now I just need to find some tennis courts. I’m coming for your balls.

And, in fact, I’m thinking of turning the awk-factor up a notch by bringing a street dog with me: ¿Podría mi perro poner tus pelotas en su boca? Si? Bueno? Gracias!

Apparently, I’m an optimist.

Yep, just when you think I couldn’t come up with a more provocative way to introduce a post than my allusions to racism and abortion, I go ahead and type that. But it’s true: Apparently, I’m an optimist.

Admittedly, I’ve never used that o-word to describe myself, although I’ve been known to use other o-words, such as “odd,” “old,” and “occasionally irregular” (by the way I had beans last night for the first time all month and nearly j*zzed in my pants). But in my defense, I didn’t bestow this new label on myself. Nope, instead, it was another person who first called me optimistic. And not one of the several personalities who just live in my head, mind you. Seriously, I’m talking about a real-life, actual homo sapien here. He said, “Marissa, you’re an optimist. I wish I could be that happy.”

Of course, being the asshole that I am — or osshole, rather (you know, to keep with the “o” theme) — I, of course, answered with a sarcastic “thanks” and added a “you dick” for good measure. (Just because someone is an optimist doesn’t mean they’re necessarily nice…)

But when he repeated his statement again without using the same bitchy voice inflections that I usually opt for, I realized he was serious. Somehow, I had fooled this kid into thinking I was an optimistic, happy person.

Needless to say, I was intrigued. “Really?” I asked. “What makes you think so?”

“It’s just your energy, the way you talk about stuff. It’s bright.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I thought to myself, realizing that maybe he was actually right. Could this person who I met just moments ago know me better than I know myself? Maybe I am an optimist! But just when I was about to convince myself, I started thinking maybe this dude was just trying to get in my pants. And then he actually told me he just wanted to get in my pants, which made me puke en mi boca a little, shrug my gringa shoulders and think, “Yeah. Optimism can go f*ck itself.”

But then today happened.

I found out that a package my mom had sent me from the States via FedEx is being held in Chilean customs for inspection due to a mislabeled invoice. After being forced to walk an extra 45 minutes because the FedEx office location had inexplicably changed according to a sign on the door, the woman behind the counter told me that I’ll have to wait for FedEx to send me the required paperwork, which I will then have to physically take to the Department of Health, where I will have to wait for a stamp and pay some fines. After that, I’ll have to take that paperwork all the way out to the airport where my package is being held so that I can pay more fines. And only then will I possibly receive my sh*t. Of course, the chances of this being all done by the time I originally planned to start traveling (Sunday) is now highly unlikely. Indeed, all this nonsense has put a damper on my day. Or has it? According to my Spanish professor, that’s not true. According to her, I’m “a person who is able to see the positive side in any situation. Que bueno!”

Wait what? Was she trying to get in my pants too? Luckily no (although she was better looking than the aforementioned dude…). And moreover, I was able to figure out pretty easily why she would assume I’m an optimist. After explaining the entire situation to her ad nauseum I ended with this short series of phrases, “Por el otro lado, esta problema es muy bueno porqué estoy aprendiendo muchas palabras nuevos. Tambien, necesito hablar mas en español, y ahora puedo practicar!” (On the other hand, this problem is good because I’m learning a lot of new words. Also, I need to speak more Spanish and now I can practice!)

And unlike most of the verbal poo that escapes my mouth in English, I don’t yet have the ability to be a sarcastic osshole in Spanish, so I realized I must have meant every single word of those two short sentences. And that’s when it hit me: Uh, did I just see the proverbial plata lining? Is my vaso half-full? ¡Ay, Dios mio! I am an optimist, after all!

When did this happen? I mean, it was only just over a couple of months ago that I held the self-appointed position of Resident Hater in DC. But looking back (which I like to do because, well, I’m my favorite writer), I’ve realized that most of my hatred for DC was superficial. It was a love-to-hate relationship, which actually brought me a lot of joy at times, although maybe that’s because I knew I’d eventually escape at some point…

Which brings us back to the present moment. I am happy. Sure, several aspects of my life can be better, as I’m a believer that the second you stop wanting to improve yourself whether it be through learning, trying new things, finding deep connections with others, reaching for new goals, making someone else’s day better, etc., is the day you might as well die. But overall, I’m happy. Life really is beautiful in all its incarnations, well, unless you’re getting murdered, raped, tortured or being forced to watch a Two-and-a-Half Men marathon. But if you’re not being forced to do something against your will, such as believe Charlie Sheen is legitimate actor, I’m convinced there’s no reason not to be at least a little bit optimistic.

*crickets*

“Hey, osshole!” someone yells from the depths of the Internet. “What about war and genocide and famine?”

Um, OK. Yes, I hear you, e-person, and you have a point. But rest assured that, of course, I’ve thought about those things. A little. You know, like, just now….um…but hey! At least I can say those things in Spanish! La guerra, el genocidio, y la hambruna! Oh my, life is grand.

The most common question.

One of the most common questions Chileans love to ask gringos is why we chose to travel to Chile and not Argentina. At first I thought that was a bizarre question because, duh, have they not realized you can trek in the mountains and swim in the ocean on the same goddamn day? But now, after spending more time in Chile, I’m beginning to get it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that Argentina is to South America as the United States is to the rest of the world. That is, everyone sort of views them as arrogant assholes, but secretly kind of wishes they were from there. (And yes, I am probably the titular head of U.S. American arrogant assholes for saying that. And yes, I just said “U.S. American.” Whatever.)

But getting back to what is my latest unscientific assumption that a good majority of Chileans are simultaneously resentful and awestruck by Argentina, I think it gets even more specific. That is, when someone in Santiago asks, “Why Chile and not Argentina?” They really mean, “Why Santiago and not Buenos Aires?

No one questions Chile’s breathtaking natural terrain, which is why when I provide my usual answer (see above) to that question most Chileans just press further: “What else?”

“Uh…no sé?”

“Do you like Santiago?”

“Uh…”

Yup. It’s because everybody knows Santiago is kind of a sh*thole. OK, that’s a little harsh, but as far as major cities go, well, Santiago is no Buenos Aires. And actually, trying to compare the two is like trying to compare a greasy hot-dog slathered in mayo to the finest cut of filet mignon. And, sadly, I mean that literally.

At the same time, having just come from Washington, DC, I’d opt for a mayonnaise-laden sausage any day over Ben’s Chile Bowl. I still don’t see the appeal…

But I do see that legitimate typo I just made while spelling the word “chili.” Which can only mean one thing: I’m beginning to have feelings of discontent for Santiago, as well. Clearly, anything I associate with the food at Ben’s Chili Bowl can’t be that great. (Seriously, am I alone here in thinking the chili in that place tastes like overcooked Hormel?)

Greasy meats aside, it’s not that I hate it here. God no. Like I said, at least it’s not DC. But I think I’m just ready to get out of cities altogether and do what I really came here to do — travel.

And while last week I was having major crazy-person anxiety attacks about this, which made me make a series of bad abortion jokes, I finally sucked it up this weekend and figured out where I want to go. And now in place of the nervous twitches, I just feel surges of sheer excitement running up and down my spine. Or maybe that’s the tapeworm I’m pretty sure I ingested because, despite that my carb intake has trebled, I’m somehow not gaining weight. (Sidebar: God bless tapeworms?)

But rest assured, Chileans, I’m not ditching you for Argentina. Your mullets are far too dear for to me now.

Instead, I’ve decided to head north. First, I’ll explore the Elqui Valley where I’ll get crunk on pisco by day and stargaze at one of the best observatories on the planet at night. Then I’ll head up to San Pedro de Atacama and get lost in the mountains, while getting crunk on pisco. Then after that I’ll go to Iquique, where I’ll probably only learn to pronounce the name of the town correctly just as I’m scheduled to leave…with a bottle of pisco for the road. And finally, at the end of the month, I’ll find my way to Cusco, Peru, where I’ll be HIKING THE MOTHERF*CKING INCA TRAIL and comparing Chilean pisco to Peruvian. And after that? Who knows. Plans are for organized people who aren’t crunk on pisco right now losers.

In other words, cheers to life! And pisco…! (See, Chileans? Argentina doesn’t have that either! You win!)