When Pizza Cures Writer's Block

“Algún día en cualquier parte, en cualquier lugar indefectiblemente te encontrarás a ti mismo, y ésa, sólo ésa, puede ser la más feliz o la más amarga de tus horas.”

— Pablo Neruda

Last night, I ate a pizza.

A glorious, way-too-big, way-too-cheesy, way-too-yummy, pizza. We probably, most definitely, made the cashier wish we had walked into a different pizzeria, asking him to make the Hawaiian pizza vegetarian because we really just wanted the piña y queso, taking way too long to decide what we wanted to drink, laughing and debating between 8 porciones o 12 porciones, repeatedly sneaking back to the counter to grab more ketchup and salsa and napkins.

Last night, in a small town in Bolivia, I sat in Napoli Pizzeria listening to Latin music over the speaker while sipping on a coca cola and wondering why the heck we thought we could finish 12 porciones de pizza between the three of us. I chomped on my slice, lathered with salsa picante while listening to the crescendos and decrescendos of the Spanish that enveloped my body, whispering to my brain which (so happily) has stopped having to translate what I hear to English in order to understand.

Way too excited for our pizza!

Last night, I sat in a truffi bumping along dirty and rocky roads, with full tummy and drowsy, droopy eyes, when the pounding bass of a fiesta with saxophones and rainbow lights filled my eyes and ears. I watched the young, slender bodies casually leaned up against old, rusty cars in the street, bopping their heads to the beat of a party that spilled under and over and around its walls, shouting to friends and laughing and singing. And I smiled to myself, happy to know that the weekend is a celebration everywhere.

Last night, I walked back to our temporary home with hopefully not-so-temporary friends, looking up at the perfectly clear night sky, perforated with bolts of lightning, while eating a vanilla donut with chocolate icing and sprinkles cut in half and filled with vanilla cream like a sandwich. Is there anything more American to be found in Bolivia?

*****

There is a man who strolls down village streets in Quillacollo and Aluthgama with a loudspeaker selling anything from fresh produce to jugo de naranja to mattress repairs (although the latter is mostly just South Asia); in museums in Ushuaia and Shanghai, I examine the intricate weavings and clothing, and the similarity of patterns in Indigenous communities; the smell of street food in Penang and Xi’an intrusively enters my nostrils, making me forget that food poisoning could ruin me for weeks to come; somehow, no matter which city, I always seem to get caught in the 5 o’clock metro rush of everyone trying to get home for dinner, for their families, for their evening television fix.

These tiny similarities tell me that, perhaps, the reason we all look at the same night sky is because it reflects the similarities of the earth below.

*****

The past two days at Pachamama Universal, I’ve been working in the tremendous, jungle-like garden under the relentless Bolivian sun. Juan Pedro tells me which plants are flowers and where we’re going to re-plant them, which is all well because here in Quillacollo I can’t tell the difference between a plant and a weed. (Although Ivonne confirmed that she thinks we’re planting weeds, too. Alas.) We take the weed-flowers out and remove the weed-weeds and put the weed-flowers in new ground, watering it and hoping they will grow come spring. Waiting, watering, hoping. Esperando, esperando, esperando…

Last night, I thought about the ways that my identity has been cut in half, folded, and burned these last few months. But also, how I’ve learned to remove it from old ground, plant it in new soil, and water it. I thought about how my understanding of myself has been lost and I felt the ground fall out from underneath me, but how I’ve learned that even weeds can become flowers, only if you choose to search for the beauty in it, water it, and wait for the spring for it to grow.

Ivonne, a fellow volunteer at Pachamama, asked me the other day, “how can minorities in the US have pride in their country when so often their government and their neighbors are the ones attacking them?” For the umpteenth time on this trip, I didn’t know how to answer.

A permanent candlelight vigil for those who lost their lives during the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile, a dictator put in place by the United States government.

Latinoamérica has been a journey of many sorts. I’ve been learning to separate myself from the identities that have been placed upon me. Often times, I have failed to connect with individuals when they realize I am from the States, and I struggle under the weight of the destructive pain of being villanized for belonging to a nation that continues to villanize me. But, still, I remember that I can recognize my privileges while understanding that I am more than my collective identities, that I am more than what frames my existence, and that I must also grant this same leeway to those that I meet, whether they are Bolivian, Chinese, or my fellow Americans.

Last night, I ran through the streets and alleys of Quillacollo with Ivonne and Larissa, marveling at pizza and empanadas and pastries after a week of vegan-ism, praising the universe for the beautiful gift of dairy. I thought of the incredible conversation we’d had the night before, along with Lynn, after watching a bootleg version of Suffragettes, discussing how our families and backgrounds had hindered, inspired, and framed our self-empowerment as women.

Last night, I felt present and grateful and moved by all that I have been able to experience, be, and feel these last few months. I was reminded that growth is a process in which we must unlearn and unlearn and unlearn. And finally, after removing all the weeds, we will have room for flowers to grow.

¿Algo más?

Laid back is not really my style, which is quite evident to anyone who knows me even the tiniest bit. It’s why, before I started Bonderman, I assumed I would spend most of my time in cities and urban jungles, just like the way I hope to spend my “post-Bonderman life.” But within a few weeks of my fellowship, I realized that, in order to truly connect with individuals, disconnect from Western influence (as much as possible), and immerse myself in the experience, cities were not the way to go.

South America has put that to the test even more. Even in the largest city on the continent, Buenos Aires, I found myself wandering through sleepy, residential streets, on edge because of the incredible, pin-drop silence of this “bustling metropolis.” I was shocked by the way that, even on the major streets, strangers said hello to each other, people stopped for conversations. Meals stretched from one hour to three, as waitstaff took their time getting to the diners who took even more time. Life has seemed to move in slow motion these last few weeks, but it has allowed me to try to slow my mind down, as well, as I enter my final two months abroad.

A traditional past-time in most South American countries is a post-siesta gathering amongst family and friends, usually including cakes (four in this case), and endless coffee and tea.

Another obvious statement: right now is a scary time to call the United States home, and it is even more painful each time I hear it from another person not from the States. Every individual seems to have an opinion on our upcoming election and who the new leader of the not-so-free world should be, which I have no qualms about since they will all, undoubtedly, be impacted by the policies of our next President.

I have had earnest strangers ask me whether I really think Trump can win, what I will do if he is, am I scared? I assure them that I have faith in my fellow Americans, trying to convince myself as much as them, while we ironically drive by the Trump Towers that’s being built in Punta Del Este, Uruguay.

During one of many lazy afternoons, accompanied with maté, lemonade, and snacks, I found myself deep in a conversation on politics, world affairs, and religion. The best way to remember your Spanish? Try explaining a religion most South Americans have never heard of to them, and then answer their innumerable questions. About an hour into the conversation, I realized my tone was different, that their tone was different. This was a conversation I’d had countless times (albeit in English) and yet it all felt…different.

Rather than me feeling that I had to defend, explaining and giving excuses, I was sharing my honest opinions, my deep beliefs and fears, while the people across from me probed honestly, lovingly, with pure curiosity. The beautiful, and sad, difference I’ve found between the North and the South of the Americas? Only in one of them do people truly care about their neighbors, the strangers they’ve just met, their fellow humans. The 2016 elections have only been an even clearer reminder of this ugly truth.

Making a delicious, vegetarian dinner with two of my beautiful Uruguayan hosts.

Each time I’m finishing my meal, the waitress or waiter always, always, asks, “algo más?” Do you want anything else? Times when I’ve eaten quickly, in a rush to get to my next destination, it’s generally with a hint of surprise, unsure of why I am trying to leave so quickly. What’s the rush? Only a few weeks into my time here, and I’m constantly reminded of the ways we live our lives on fast forward in the States. Hurrying, scurrying, rushing, running to beat the rat race and be first. Always first.

The longer I’ve traveled, the more distant I’ve felt from home, physically and mentally. I certainly don’t feel that I have all the answers I left to find, but the problems in American culture have become increasingly clear to me as I immerse myself in the cultures of others. The United States was built upon the bones and blood of Indigenous communities and slaves, our engines and motors run on the sweat and tears of the working class and the poor, our skyscrapers look up at the clouds but down upon the slums and ruins of those who have been wronged by our justice system, our government, our people.

Between the trees and buildings, American air whispers to us, beckons to us to continue stepping on the shoulders of our neighbors to grasp at the clouds for ourselves. We continue scurrying in our rat race, never looking up until we reach the end, realizing we forgot to look at the scenery along the way. When I spent my summers in the big cities, the promise of the States, I was constantly told and reminded that my Midwestern manners would get me nowhere. Translation: being nice to my fellow citizens was not something to try. When did we develop this mentality? Why are we letting it run our country, choosing our politicians based on how quickly they can dismiss the validity of another human’s life?

I’m not claiming that South America, nor Latin America, has all the answers. I’m only just starting my journey here, and there is plenty to learn and unlearn. But, the one thing I know for sure is that they still remember that, in order to learn, you must listen. And sadly that seems to be a thing that we, in the good old USA, have forgotten.

One of my favorite days in Uruguay was spent in the countryside, riding horses and drinking tea.