¡¡VOTE!!

This is my hand. My hand holds a pencil. The pencil allows me to fill in a bubble on the absentee ballot form. The absentee ballot form counts as one vote.

One vote represents a right and a civic duty.

This is me exercising my right, fulfilling my civic duty.

This is me voting.

Inspirado por Almodovar

A veces, cuando me siento livianita de humor, voy al almacen de al lado y les cuento a los dueños, en un tono imperioso, que mi disertación doctoral se tratará de la alcahueta Almudena de Al-Andaluz que alcanzaba alimentarse exclusivamente de alfajores y alcohol, sentada todo el día sobre una almohada de algodón, cuya forma parecía a la de una alcachofa alucinante, desde dentro de un gran palacio real, que se llamaba: alcázar.

Se miran el uno al otro, y finalmente, sin decir ni mu, se me extienden la mano para que les pague, para que me calle por una sola vez.

¿Será que no les agrada

la aliteración?

Did I forget to mention I went to Machu Picchu?

After my stay in Arequipa, I took an overnight bus ride to Cusco, Peru, former capital of the Incan empire. I heard the change in altitude could cause nausea and shortness of breath, so I prepared myself by sucking on coca candy throughout the night. The indigenous remedy worked, but I still felt sluggish my first day in this ancient city of just over 400,000.

That didn’t stop me, however, from touring the city, getting a quick bite of adobo (a traditional Peruvian dish consisting of… well, I’m not really sure what, but it’s good), and purchasing a ticket to Machu Picchu for the next day.

Cusco, located high in the Andes, is actually several hours from the most recent addition to the Wonders of the World, which is unofficially considered a gateway to the Amazonian jungle. Taking advantage of daylight hours, we departed Cusco around 7am and made our way along the treacherous pass leading to the lost city of the Incas. Six hours later, the terrain had changed radically, and the temperature, too. Mountains green with vegetation now surrounded us, banana trees, and mosquitoes. After a short train ride through the mountains, we arrived to Aguas Calientes, where we spent the night.

No earlier than 4:30am, our guide came knocking on our doors to make sure we were awake. Wiping the sleep from my eyes and dressing quickly, I made my way to the bus that would slither up the side of Machu Picchu, which means “Old Mountain.” When we finally arrived, the ruins were draped with a dense fog, adding to its air of mystery.

Machu Picchu, which served as a kind of university for Incan elite and then as a secret enclave after the Spanish invasion, is made up of hermetic stones, which speak to those who know how to listen.

And excites the imagination of those who visit.

Machu Picchu is more than just an image on a postcard. It’s the flight of a condor, the pulse of a heart, and the last effort of an empire to conceal its riches from sight, from inevitable plunder.

This is an electric baby Jesus I found in one of the cathedrals I visited in Lima, the capital of Peru. I toured the city briefly before heading home to Buenos Aires and then Montevideo.