Miami to Bolivia

The Air BnB I stayed in for my one night in Miami was almost like a hostel. I did not realize this at first as I had spent most of the afternoon with the host and assumed I was the only one there. That evening, however, I was joined in my room by a medical student from Argentina. She had just completed rotations in New York and was going back home before stating her residency. She had traveled Bolivia extensively and was able to share many places I should go, though she was less familiar with the area I am staying in.

We talked about the people and the culture here. I told her I was aware that many of the people, who grew up with a melding of Incan and Catholic history, held to superstitions.

“Not like they think you are going to steal their souls with your camera,” she clarified, as if that was what I had intended (!!). “But yes.”

That just made me laugh.

Last time I left Miami was at night. During the day, however, I was able to face my fear of flying over open water full on. That fear seems to have abated. Instead, I was fascinated to study the southern coast of Florida.

I have often told people of my love of coastlines – in my personal history, I romanticized the coast as the furthest you could run. When newly minted with my own vehicle, even up until recently, there are drives I would take to the coast just to relieve myself of pressures or problems. I would send them to the sea when I had run as far as I could. In that moment as I left Miami and I started at the Florida coastline from the air, I realized that the coast is not the end, just another beginning.

Yes, my mind waxes sentimental on these sorts of ideas way more than I typically prefer to admit.

The further I got from the US, the less English was used on the plane. I had been frustrated with DuoLingo for teaching me the phrase, “Juan eats an apple.” I felt this was going to be a useless phrase. But sure enough, as I transferred planes in Panama, the first broken Spanish phrase I was able to mutter was to ask the stewardess for apple juice on the plane. It wound up being the only drink I had a loose phrase stored in my Spanish bank that allowed me to order.

You can laugh, but I was both embarrassed and proud.

My plane didn’t land until after 10 p.m. Going through immigration with no language skills on my own was a bit alarming. I apparently seemed harmless as I was one of the very few passengers that cleared all gates without being searched. Clearly, if someone is to pose a threat or going to smuggle farm animals and vegetables across the border, they would not appear as wide-eyed and confused as I was.

The city has changed a lot (Hey, dad! There is even a brand new Honda dealership!), but as we neared Montero, I was surprised to recognize some of the city from nearly a decade earlier.

I was shocked that one of the boys was there to open the gate at what had to be after midnight at this point. I was greeted with homemade gifts and the sweetest most gracious welcoming party to show me to my room, get me towels, and settle me in.

The group has built an apartment on the property for Papa John – not the pizza, but the good doctor who has made this place a possibility. In turn, I am allowed to use that apartment while here. It comes with two luxuries I did not realize were going to be luxuries -- hot water and air conditioning.

There is more. There was a lot I thought about on the plane like how I detest Hemingway, the entire history that led me to this point, and the irritation I have for the proposal to allow people to use cell phones on airplanes, but for now, I am going straight to sleep.