Day two...Higher learning

            I’ve come to notice that whenever someone asks me who I'm going to Peru with, and I say I'm going by myself I always get the same reaction. It starts with a moment of silence, as they stare at me in what looks like a mixture of shock, pity then turns to joy and envy. It all seems to register on their faces in one quick, fast forward moment, while I stand there grinning like an idiot. Then when the answer they weren't expecting to hear finally registers, their response is either: "Really?" and/or "Wow, that's amazing. I'm so happy for you! (Beat) But, aren't you scared to go by yourself?"

“Well, no. Not really.”

But, now that you've said it like I should be...I am starting to worry. Sheesh. A little confidence please. I’m always excited to do new things or travel to new places, but worry, fear and sadness? Those feelings only seem to follow after it’s too late to turn back. They’re like waves in the ocean, one extreme feeling falling over the other, until they’re foaming at the shore, nipping at dry land just before a departure or landing. It makes me feel brave to venture out and do something I don't know much about, especially when I’m on my own. But, don’t get me wrong, it can also be very scary and at times, sad as well. Especially when you begin to think about how vulnerable you are if something were to go wrong, something unexpected happens, things go off course or something goes horribly out of your control. That’s when you realize that there’s no support system or a smile of reassurance at your side if you need it. With that being said, as the days before my departure were drawing near, I had been riding this roller coaster of emotion, but I tried not to hold on too tightly to any one of them. Because, in the end, that’s all it is,...emotion. Nothing solid that I can truly ground myself to, and nothing I can count on.

            The fourteen hours it took me to get to Peru had kicked my butt and a small headache was beginning to form right smack between my eyes. When I woke up from a short nap it was still there, but I didn’t want my first day in Peru to go by sitting in a hotel room. My stomach was telling me it was hungry so I went in search for my first Peruvian meal. The holes in the walls are usually the best spots. There you can typically find the real deal, authentic food at a great price. But I also wanted to ease myself into the culture with a place that was a little closer to the types of establishments I was used to seeing in New York. Today, I went to a place my guide recommended, called the Inka Grill. To Cusco, this place is as fine dining as you'd find here. The food was Peruvian with a classy flare.

            When I walked in only two other people were dining inside. They sat together in what looked like a first date. So, they paid no attention to anyone but themselves. Good for me. I hate eating with people wondering why I’m sitting alone. I chose a small table by a window facing the inside of the restaurant. I knew exactly what I wanted when I opened the menu. I was craving seafood and the trout sounded amazing. With that I ordered a beverage I didn't realize was alcoholic but it was delicious and I couldn’t stop drinking it. The concoction was something similar to a mojito or a Brazilian caipirinha, which is made with muddled mint, fresh squeezed lime juice, sugar, and what I assume was rum. The only difference was that this drink included muddled passion fruit as well. It was strong but full of flavor. I probably drank it a little quicker than I meant to and my cheeks felt like they were on fire. In no time, my grilled trout with olive oil soaked potatoes, diced tomatoes, sliced olives, grilled fava beans, a topping of fresh basil leaves and a drizzle of a lime vinaigrette, arrived in all its beautiful smell and color. If I were to order this culinary work of art in New York, it would have easily cost me a good thirty to forty dollars. In the Peruvian Sol it was equal to about twelve dollars. That’s cheaper than a value meal at Burger King these days. My plate was devoured in as civilized a way as I could manage without disturbing the couple sitting across from me on their date. I was at a comfortable full when I finished the plate but I couldn't leave without trying at least one local dessert. So, I chose a flan called crema volteada. It was so creamy and rich with flavor, I wanted to cry it was so good. If I were in the privacy of my own home, I would have licked the plate clean.

            When I left the restaurant, not only was my stomach bulging, but so was my head. Although a little dizzy from that drink I decided to walk around for a little while and take in Cusco as the sun was beginning to set. After a little trek around the Plaza De Armas my head was pulsing at a DEFCON level four. It was time to end my adventures for the day. It was either that or I was going to end up in the fetal position next to one of the lamas on a street corner in another hour without some kind of medicinal help. At the hotel I downed two cups of steamy coca tea and passed out watching an episode of Mad About You in Spanish.
            This morning I woke up at seven a.m. like a new person, at least in comparison to how I felt last night. When I looked in the mirror however, my eyes were as blood shot as I’ve ever seen them. I don’t know if it was because of the effects of the change in altitude or if it was all that coca tea I had last night. Either way, I sure looked like someone who had a long night. I need coffee.

            One of the biggest attractions in Cusco is a 16^th century cathedral called Santo Domingo. This was the first Christian church to be built in Cusco and it took a hundred years to build. They don’t make buildings like this anymore. When I entered the Gothic structure, a mass had just started. My intention was to just look at the beautiful architecture and appreciate the artwork, but when I got there I felt the urge to sit with locals, the few tourists scattered about, and listen. Looking around at the people who clearly lived there, I noticed how tired and over worked they all seemed. These people came here for peace, hope and belonging in a world of so much drudgery. And in some way, maybe that was why I was there too. On nearly every corner I turned in Cusco was a beggar in ratty clothes or a shop clerk with a sunken face trying to make a little money. Even the dogs ran around looking at me with their sad eyes, hoping I might have a scrap of food for them. Most of the strays slept in the sun too weak to even beg for food. It broke my heart. It was either middle class or dirt poor from what I've noticed all day. I'm sure there were many upper class people, there always has to be that balance. But they were probably lawyers, diplomats and real estate tycoons, like everywhere else, and didn't hang around these parts for very long. They were probably hiding in their offices or heading back to their centrally air-conditioned homes by now. I may have worked hard for everything that I have in my life, but these people have worked that much harder and have so much less to show for it. In the short time that I've been in Cusco, I felt grateful for what I have and what I haven’t had to suffer, like many of these Peruvians. I felt the need to thank someone for this and God seemed like the best place to start.       

            When I got back to the hotel at the end of the day, I couldn’t wait to take a shower. It was going to be the last time I would have a chance to feel clean for the next four days so it was now or never. And after a day of walking around the streets of Cusco, I needed one. When I stepped into the closet sized shower I noticed that the only thing dividing me, and the people in the next room, was a wall that stopped at the height of my chin and a frosted window that could be opened on both sides. And behind that frosted window was the shower to the next room. If someone was in that bathroom at the same time we would be able to wash each other's hair. I was just grateful it was a couple and not a room full of frat boys. As a few strands of water came spraying out in ten different directions, I had to remind myself not to swallow any of the water. I had been warned not to drink from the tap or even eat fruits or vegetables that have been washed in it. One of the travel journals I read before coming to Cusco, about a young woman who visited the city, wrote about being painfully ill with symptoms similar to food poisoning for three days after she at a salad. That scared me enough to keep as far away from fresh fruit and vegetables for the last two days. Taking a shower is another issue. Water that comes cascading over your mouth can be very difficult to deter. If some of it managed its way into my system, I’d probably only feel its effects tomorrow when I was climbing a mountain and my only bathroom was a hole in the dirt. God help me.

To be continued...

Day one...Excess baggage

            Apparently, it seems to upset nature whenever I decide to leave home base at any given time now. This is the second time in the past three months that I’ve had to outrun a hurricane to reach my destination. Either I’m supposed to stay put, or I’m supposed to get out of Dodge before the metaphorical shit hits the fan. So I don't know if my timing is good luck or bad luck. Although, that the fact that I'm going on this trip tells me that I won't be pursuing a new career as a flight attendant anytime in the next few months. But, the good news is…this trip to Peru is happening and seems as though it was always meant to be.

            Just two days ago I was sitting at home slightly panicked over the packing situation, and although I was given a basic packing list through my agent, this list was a little too basic and didn't specify what I might need for the time of year that I'm entering Peru. Here in the states we're on the cusp of fall turning into winter, but in South America they’re on the cusp of spring going into their rainy summer season. Then there's the altitude to consider. There will be times when I'll be as high as 14,000 feet from sea level! I remember freezing my butt off from 10,000 feet in the middle of summer in the Hamptons last year. This was while I was falling to my death from a perfectly good single engine plane, attached to a man I hardly knew with a parachute defining whether I lived or died, but it was still quite far up there. What will 14,000 feet feel like?

            I spent the better part of the morning stuffing all of the must have items from “the list” into this one bag. I'm the worst last minute packer. Dina was nice enough to let me borrow her man sized hiking bag. Mind you, the bag is nearly the same size as her. I honestly don’t know how on earth that little five-foot woman was able to move with this thing strapped to her back. When I tried to put the thing on my shoulders I fell backwards with its weight. I’m just grateful I had the sense to place it on my bed and then sit INTO the bag because just as quickly as I sat up, I went right back onto the bed like a deep-sea diver falling into the ocean. Let’s try this again. The second time I was prepared for the weight and my legs were beams of steel planted on the sound foundation of the floor below me. With the hip belts snapped around my mid-section, shoulder straps in place, I bid my sweet cat adieu and dove into the unknown world before me.   

            I left for the airport a little sooner than I probably needed to but my fear was that if I didn’t get there sooner than later, the flight would have changed on me and I wouldn't have been aware of it, or been canceled all together and sitting at home in anticipation was never one of my strong suits. If it was the former than I would be prepared for the change of plans, if canceled then there was nothing I could do and I would just head back home. However, in some strange way, being at the airport made it seem like a cancellation would not have felt like an option. If was already there, then somehow, I would be going, hurricane or not. Ha ha, you’re too late, I’m here, now take me to Peru. When I got to the airport nearly every flight on the board was either canceled or delayed…all but flights to and from Chicago or Miami. What luck! Miami was my first stop and then it was an overnight to Lima to follow. As I sat by the window in front of the gate for two hours, I could see that what was just a slight breeze not so long ago was turning into gusts of wind. Dark grey clouds were beginning to roll over the airport with greater haste as the ground crew held on to their flapping orange vests for dear life. Oh man, maybe this wasn’t such a stroke of luck like I thought. Will this be the day that I die? When the plane rolled into the terminal and the bridge was attached to the side of its belly I decided to do a little storm tracking on the internet. This was probably not a good idea, but it did put me at ease when I saw that the worst was to come tomorrow and not in the next two hours.

            When I boarded the plane I found myself in a window seat next to a couple who looked to be somewhere in their mid forties, heading home to their kids in Miami. The wife sat next to me in the center and her husband, wearing his shiny brown and blue striped shirt, sat in the isle. His shirt reflected not only a glare of light but his fun personality as well. Like a little boy on his very first flight, headphones plugged into his ears, arms perched up on the seat in front of him, he watched the people enter the plane with a large smile on his face. Everyone else on the flight looked tense and serious, including myself, except for this guy. He just sat in the back end of the plane with the rest of us singing–“You can go your own way” to the music in his ears. His wife nudged him after a few minutes, probably used to his spectacles, but felt she needed to remind him that he wasn’t singing in the shower at home. I was actually enjoying his serenade. In fact, I don’t think I was the only one feeling his soothing effect when I looked back and noticed the smirks on the rest of the passengers sitting in the back end of the plane with us.

            For the next forty-five minutes we continued to sit in our seats while traffic was clearing the runway. At one point I had a great view of the baggage crew loading my massive backpack onto the plane. As it climbed unsteadily on the conveyor belt one of the crew watching it wobble off the edge caught it before it plummeted to the tarmac five feet below the ramp. Nice save Mr. Baggage claim man, I salute you! I need a Bud. Once the plane finally took off, the winds were merely a breath, but with the force of the plane going against the wind I was sure the wings were going to rip right off the plane before my very eyes. As it continued to climb, the ripples of the wind currents seemed to only grow stronger and with my seat positioned just behind the right wing, I had the best view of the effects it was playing on it. I had a front row seat of the spectacle it would be if they did decide to rip off the plane. Lord, help me. I love flying, but taking this trip alone to a foreign country I’ve never been to, at night and during a hurricane, was a little too adventurous...even for me.

            Soaring at 28,000 feet instead of the usual 30,000, there were times that I could see from one end of the peninsula of Florida to the other while heading over Miami. It was an amazing sight at night. The city sparkled and stretched across the horizon like a reflection of a clear and starry sky below us. The couple I sat next to on the next flight from Miami did not seem as excited or as social as the last. In fact the woman sitting in my seat was not happy that she had to move to the seat next to her dozing husband in the isle seat. I was so tired at this point I slept through most of this ride but for the first time in nearly a decade I was not only provided with a warm meal but also a pillow and blanket so my head wasn’t snapping up and down the entire journey. As we flew over the city of Lima, it was then that I got a little apprehensive about the whole idea of coming to Peru. After seeing the splendor of Miami in all it's glamour and glory, Lima looked like a sparse model of a city covered in dust and dirt in comparison.
            At the Lima airport, my watch told me I had forty-five minutes to get to my connecting flight and another half hour before taking off to Cusco. Plenty of time...so I thought. My verbal Spanish is very basic, but my reading comprehension is close to fluent, so although I was nervous about this foreign country, I was confident I could get around without too much difficulty. As I got off the plane, with my international customs form filled, ticket and passport ready in hand, I disembarked the plane and made my way through the terminal at a casual pace, reading every sign carefully so that I was not going in circles in search of baggage claim and my next gate. After I found and retrieved my pack I made my way to the entrance of the gates. There I was greeted by a man who was collecting custom forms from nonresidents. When I handed the man the only form I was given, he glanced at it and shook his head pointing me to the table showcasing the proper form he needed from me. Lugging myself over to the table I filled out the form and got back in line. The man looked over the form I thought I had filled out correctly, but with another shake of his stupid head, he asked me if I had come from a LAN flight, and replied that I wasn't. "I'm going ON a LAN flight." Apparently, the flight number I put down was not supposed to be the departing flight but the arrival flight I just disembarked. The form only asked for a flight number but did not specify an arriving or departing flight number. Ha ha, silly me. I giggled uncomfortably at my mistake, trying to keep the mood light, but the man was not amused by my sense of humor. Back to the table I went, massive pack on my back and all, to fill out another form. When I finally passed the man’s inspection and went to check in my pack a petite woman at the desk looked at my ticket and told me I had missed my flight.

"WHAT?" I pulled out my cell phone reading 5:25 a.m. as the local time. "There must be some mistake."
"The flight is closed and your bag is too large to carry on the plane."
"But I have five more minutes to board the plane and another half hour before takeoff."
"Let me look at your bag again, maybe you can just squeeze it into the overhead compartment." Yeah right, sure. Just get me on that plan. I’ll throw some things out the window if I have to. A minute later she hands me my ticket and tells me to get to gate 13 as fast as I can. Fudge. I grabbed my ticket from her and made my way through the terminal replicating the scene much like that of Home Alone, while ripping my belt off my pants and holding my laptop in my arms ready to throw down at the gate for inspection at the security check point. When I reached that area I thought the game was over. Before me was a mass of Peruvians scrambling and snaking through a line as long as the ones you would see at Six Flags for the Kingda Ka coaster. Good for me that their security was not as locked down as it is in America and everyone wearing shoes below the ankle were spared the process of taking them off. That was one less thing I had to do to get me on that plane and every little moment counted. I was planning on going to the bathroom before entering the next plane but that was out of the question and I was beginning to feel the pressure on my swelling bladder before I even cleared with security. I’m surprised I didn’t pee my pants between nerves and the need, but I got to the plane in the nick of time. Of course, my bag was too big as a carry on and it was taken under the belly of the plane for loading before takeoff, but I made it and they had no choice but to accommodate me...and my bag.
            This last flight was only an hour long and in no time I was looking out at the most beautiful scene I’ve ever witnessed with my own eyes. As the plane began to gradually descend it flew right through massive mountains that looked like sleeping giants covered in suede the color of milk chocolate. We looked to be clear of the peaks but from behind the wings one could never tell. I let my faith in the pilots do as they must and I just sat, nose pressed against the window, looking out at the majesty before me. It was so beautiful, I nearly cried. 

            When the plane landed the only thing on my mind was a toilet. Luckily the baggage claim was located right next to the facilities. Grabbing my pack I ran to the restroom and squeezed myself into a stall only to find out, after it was too late, that the toilet paper was located outside of the stalls. Good thing I grabbed my pack first because one of my essentials on "the list" was toilet paper.

            With Cusco sitting at 11,000 feet above sea level, I was already feeling the ear-popping effects of the altitude level and the shortness of breath. When I reached the Hotel Midori, just around the corner of downtown Cusco, my head was starting a slow throb, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle, so far. I was fascinated by hotel’s warm and humble, Spanish style architecture. With narrow alleys and stairs climbing a series of ups and downs from the outside of the property leading to the rooms, it felt as though I had walked through a time warp or a fairytale. My room was like stepping into a hobbit's home. The old wooden door that lead from a second floor balcony took me into a room with a double bed and low ceilings that stood just short of two feet from my head. The room was neat and clean with furniture that looked hand made by the locals. It was cozy and beautiful and something old-world. After the bellboy left me to my room he was back a few minutes later with a tray of coca tea for me.

"You should drink. This will be good for you."

“Muchas gracias por el te.”

From what I've read, the coca leaf is supposed to help with altitude sickness. They're also the same leaves that make cocaine. Although the effects are clearly far from the finished product of cocaine, it does provide the benefits of alertness and energy that a lack of oxygen can seep away from a person. Although, if I were to take a drug test within the next month, it's likely that traces of cocaine may be found and raise a flag. In other words, I'd probably fail. Perhaps it's best that I don’t look for new job anytime soon...just in case.

To be continued...

When it rains, it pours

            One of my favorite holidays of the year has always been Halloween. Of course, when I was much younger Halloween was as good as Christmas in my eyes. It was the only day of the year where I knew I was going to be able to restore my long depleted candy stash, which was not a regular fix in my household growing up. Cookies, cake and candy were reserved for special occasions and so our sweet tooth cravings could only be slightly satisfied with the likes of fruits and Flinstone vitamins otherwise. My parents didn't much celebrate Halloween like most American families do, with the orange and yellow lights streaming from their balconies, carved pumpkins sitting by the doors or scarecrows in display on the front lawn. This was mostly because it was a new holiday for them. Halloween wasn't something they celebrated in Portugal, at least not in the way they do here in the states, and so they were just then getting to know the new sense of the holiday through their American-born children. Also, I'm not sure if it was a money issue for them or they just plain didn't care for costume shopping at the time, but I remember it always feeling like pulling teeth to get them to finally go with us to Caldor's or Bradlees, which in Massachusetts was the "Wal-Mart" of the time. Every year was the same issue. With only a few days left before Halloween, my parents would pack my brothers and I into our little van and drive over to the nearest store, only to find the shelves half empty, with the only remaining costumes being the discarded rejects that were thrown haphazardly on the shelves after the other kids in the neighborhood ransacked the pile and picked out all the good ones like vultures. I was always slightly taller than average so my cheap plastic costumes would always float above my ankles like high waters and the masks would always sit on my face slightly askew with the holes never aligning right with my eyes. So I would usually be walking around, looking at the world through one eyehole praying that a car wasn't coming from the other direction, because I would never have seen it in time to dodge it.

            One year I decided I was going to just make my own costume. I was very creative at a young age, thanks to my grandmother (and MacGyver), although, I didn't have many materials to work with at the mere age of seven or eight. Therefore, I decided to use what recourses I had available to me and that I knew how to work with best, construction paper. I don't know what gave me the idea to be a flower, but the four colors I had in my stash ruled out many other possibilities and a flower just seemed to fit the mold. It took nearly a week to construct the masterpiece but every night after school I went to work on the design in my head until it was constructed to perfection. Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, I had cut out, taped and stapled each one into their proper place. When it was finished, eight large purple petals attached to a band surrounded my face, two large green leaves protruded from my midsection, which were attached to a green sweatshirt and green sweatpants, and I had in my hand, a long brown staff made from a collection of empty paper towel and toilet paper rolls that I had salvaged that week, with an array of smaller green leaves attached to it. It was a royal accessory I added, like Poseidon's trident. I had shown my hard work to my mother as it had progressed throughout the week, but the finished product was not seen on me until the day of Halloween. That would be a surprise.

            As the sun was setting that evening and dinner was consumed, my brothers and I ran to our rooms and got ready for the nights adventures. I was so excited and couldn't wait to show everyone the fruits of my labor. When I walked down to show my parents, they didn't laugh but they had smirks of amusement on their faces that I took at the time to mean that they were just as amazed by my work as I was. But now when I think back on it I think those strange smirks were their attempts at not letting bursts of laughter explode from their throats. I don't remember how my brothers reacted to the costume but I'm sure it wasn't any different than the slapsticks I had to endure on any other given day. I was on top of the world. I made my costume with my own two hands and I saved my parents money they didn't have and the trouble they didn't need...until, minutes into our trick or treating, it began to pour like a tropical rainstorm that didn't let out for the rest of the night. My poor perky purple petals were plastered over my face just as soon as the rain started and my sad little green leaves were as wilted over my soggy green sweats. I was so sad at the state of me but I just kept right on knocking on those doors. That year, I had collected more candy than I ever remember having in my lifetime. I think everyone I greeted felt so stinking sorry for me in my pitiful state that they just kept loading my bag with handfuls of candy, hoping that it would keep my spirits lifted and keeping me from feeling discouraged by my attempt in the fashion world. I had collected so much candy I had to grab a new bag from my parents, who where following us in the van with my cousin Donaria and her husband, Fabio.

            Last night I was having a hard time falling asleep so I decided to organize a few things in the apartment. While putting together a few pictures of my most recent adventures, I came across some old albums of my childhood that my mother had given me some years ago. As I was time traveling through those pictures I was reminded of those long forgotten Halloweens growing up and began to feel a little nostalgic. I yearned for some tradition. I've been so busy preparing for my trip to Peru next week that I've nearly bypassed one of my favorite holidays without so much as a thought about it, until now. I couldn't have that. Holidays were meant to be celebrated, and in my eyes, it's not a holiday without sweets to much on. So, at two o'clock in the morning, under a veil of rain, I ran over to the corner bodega, bought myself a bag full of candy, sat in front of my massive dinosaur of a TV and watched a marathon of scary movies until I was in a candy coma. It may be a little early for celebrating Halloween, but since I won't be in my homeland on that given day, I figured I could just start my celebrating now while I could.

In the palm of my hand

            By the time I had left work yesterday, the sun had already sunk off the edge of the earth and I was schlepping my achy feet back towards my apartment for the day. Around the corner from me is this fortuneteller that I see everyday on my way to work and sometimes on my way back, if I walk the same way. I see her always sitting in same rickety chair by the door, either just inside the frame looking out through the glass when it's cold or raining outside or she's on the sidewalk during the warm, sunny days. She usually waits until I make eye contact with her, then like a shadowy wraith from a Wes Craven film, she lifts one of her hands, palm up, and waves it slowly, in a circular motion moving towards her, beckoning me into her lair. It happens so slowly and fluidly that it almost seems as though she were underwater and I'm always in a trance just looking at her movements. Once I'm able to snap out of my usual stupor I give her a rueful smile and hurry past at speed walking pace. She never says a word but when I break eye contact with her she just rests her hand back on her lap and continues to look off into the distance, or at me, I couldn't say, because I never have the courage to look back at her after I've rejected her services. As I was walking home last night and about to pass her abode, I decided I would go in and give her a try. I was curious to know what this mysterious woman has had to tell me for nearly two years since I've moved into the neighborhood. Maybe she has answers I don't quite even know the questions to.

            It was late in the evening, even for scary fortuneteller woman to be sitting in her chair, looking out by the sidewalk at nothing in particular, so I wasn't expecting to see her sitting in her usual spot when I walked up. Her neon light was still on outside and her chair was still positioned just inside the door, but the closet sized space she had looked eerier than usual without the daylight shining in from the glass windows and I nearly kept on walking. However, I noticed that the back door was slightly ajar and light was seeping through the crack behind it. Apparently, she was still up. So I rang the bell and less than a minute later she was at the door. "Welcome, welcome. Come in and sit down."

It was the first time I had ever heard her speak, but for some reason I wasn't expecting a fluent English, New York accent from Olga. I suppose I expected her to have a thick foreign accent, because she never uttered a word of anything before now and I assumed it was because she wasn't sure if I would understand her tongue. So I was slightly taken aback by this realization. When I walked in and sat in one of the three chairs surrounding a small wooden table with a plump crystal ball at the center, I could see in the back room behind the door. Apparently, the back room was her home and she lived there with a little girl who was standing by the couch, with one of her fingers in her mouth, looking at me with mild curiosity. It seemed that the office space was divided in two and the little room I was in was separated only by a partition that didn't even reach the ceiling. That's one way to shave off your taxes.

            Once I sat down she closed the back door and we were alone. I was hoping she wasn't going to ask me why I was there because I really had no idea why I was sitting in front of her. When she made herself comfortable in the seat beside me she began to tell me the different kinds of readings she offered and I sat listening to the options. I was always curious about tealeaf readings but she didn't mention that one from her list and I knew she did them from the sigh outside. When I asked her about it she was surprised I was interested in that. Apparently, not too many people went for tea-leaf readings, but when she told me it was a whopping hundred and twenty dollars for this "complicated" reading I understood why that was the case and I nearly dropped my jaw on the table next to her crystal ball and bid her adieu. Bummer, I was very interested in those tealeaves. Another day, another scary fortuneteller I suppose. That's when I decided I would just take her up on the thirty-dollar introduction palm reading she offered. I won't loose my rent with that one. Once that was decided, she asked me to put out one of my hands and gave her my left one. She folded my fingers into my palm and asked me to make a wish. I knew exactly what I wanted, and with the power of thought I phrased it in my mind like a prayer and made my wish. Sorry friends, I'm not telling. No way Jose. When my wish was made she opened my palm with her warm right hand and held my hand in hers. With her other hand she traced a long, neon pink, nail along the inside of my palm and told me, without hesitation, that I was going through a lot of change. More change in the last few months than I have experienced in a long time. Hmm, check. Then she asked me if I was thinking of moving in a few months. This question kind of floored me because for the past week I've been contemplating this very thing. In fact I've been stressing out about it because my lease is up in March and I usually get my new contract in November. My rent has stayed the same for the past two years but I'm certain that it will go up this next turn and if it does, I may have to uproot. Check. The next thing she asked me was if I was in a relationship.

"No."

"Have you ever been married?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any children?"

"No." She looked up at me when I said this, as though she didn't believe me. Then she asked me if I had ever had an abortion and I repeated with an assertive "No." You're three for three Olga. But your negatives are outweighing your positives. You're beginning to lose your credibility here.

"You grew up very lonely but you had many people around you."

Hmm. Check. That tends to happen when you grow up in an old world culture with three male siblings and you're the only girl.

"Your mouth smiles but your heart cries."

She's a poetic fortuneteller.

"Have you ever worked in the medical field?"

"Sort of. I wasn't a doctor or registered nurse, but I was a counselor for group home of adults with mental disabilities for four years."

"Because I see you with a white coat."

No, not a single white coat in my closet, just a whole lot of black ones in there.

"2010 was a very difficult year for you."

My eyebrows perked up with this one and my head seemed to nod in agreement at it's own accord while memories of that miserable year came flooding back to me. That year I was living at home with my parents, trying to "find myself." Where I lost myself, I don't know, but it certainly wasn't under the bed. That same year my mother was diagnosed with cancer, my parents lost their house and both of my dogs died. If that sob story doesn't make for a good country song, I don't know what does. 

"There's a man in your life that you're interested in."

"Nope." Again with the look. Why does this woman not believe me? Is it so strange to not be interested in anyone? I just haven't come across anyone that has sparked my interest...in a long time. Apparently, she seems to be confusing me with the typical women who walk in there, hoping to find true love or the teenagers who ask her for love potions or spells.

"You're going to meet someone in four years and you will marry him."

Blank stare.

"You're going to end up with four children."

Eww.

"But you will not give birth to these children."

Hmm. Interesting. I'm not sure that I like this foretelling. What happened to the people who DID give birth to these four children? I do have four Godchildren.

"It's possible that the man that you marry will have these four children."

Now why would I EVER get myself into a situation like that? This woman clearly has me all wrong.

"Are you working on a project? Something to do with writing?"

"Yes!"

"Have you been doing this recently?"

"A few months."

"It will be notable, but you won't write another one."

Hmm. Again, I don't know that I like this prophecy.

"I see two instances where you almost died."

Confused face. Have I almost died before?

"The first time was when you were a young girl."

Hmm. At this point I told her about the premonition I had on my tenth birthday and she shook her head from side to side.

"No. This will not happen." Then she knocks on the wood table for luck.  Why on earth was she knocking on wood? I thought she KNEW for sure that my prophecy was wrong? If she did know then why was she knocking on wood? That's for people who DON'T know what will happen and who HOPE for the best. Really Olga? You don't think so? Because you were right about half of your predictions about me so far. Give me back my thirty dollars dang it!

            Before the reading was over she kept repeating the change I was going through and that what I was doing now was going to effect that change even more so in the next few months. This much I can say is pretty accurate and this memoir has already been a testament to that statement so far. As she concluded the session, she folded my fingers back into my palm and gave my hand a warm little squeeze and a smile, then wished me luck. I was nearly expecting her to knock on wood again but she passed on it this time. In a haze of thought and her words still swimming in my head, I thanked her for the service and walked back into the night. With the neon light pooled around me on the sidewalk, I looked down at my hand, trying to make sense of all that she said, then stuffed my cold hands into my pockets and made my way home, to the only child I never gave birth to, my cat Gizmo. Maybe that much will come true. I could very well see myself the mother of four stray cats and name one Husband. That way I have something to tell people when I need an excuse to slip away. "Oh, sorry to leave so soon. I have to go home and feed my husband. He really likes my tuna casserole and gets a little hissy if I'm not around. Nice meeting you, bye." Hmm, that does have a nice ring to it, better than the alternative anyway.