Que le Vaya Bien

As soon as we arrive in DC later today we will be back to the race that is our life. Tomorrow we begin the moving process as we attempt to install ourselves into a new house. I go back to work on Monday. The kids return to school the week after that. Then it will be one long string of steps in our routine: lunches, school, work, PTO, baseball, gymnastics, etc. Peppered with great meals, good friends, time with family, small adventures close to home, of course. But there will be nothing to compare to this summer we spent in Mexico, for a long time to come.

Before we left Oaxaca we sat down with the kids and watched a slide show of our first six weeks in Mexico. We talked through each place and experience, trying to stitch them into memory. It is hard to believe that the days we spent sweltering in Merida were just over a month ago. We have packed so much into this summer, it seems to have expanded into ten. Our challenge will be to remember it. We have to accept that much of this time will be lost. Even last night Josie said to Jasper, “Remember the pizza we had at the top of the hill, with the pool?” He had no idea what she was talking about. That wonderful dinner, with the hippie Italians, of wine and pasta and pizza, while the kids swam in the infinity pool and the sun set over the Pacific, at Mazunte. That pizza place. “Oh yeah!” he said, unconvincingly.

Remember that summer in Mexico? Oh yeah, THAT summer in Mexico. That rich, full, fascinating, fun summer in Mexico. When Jasper was eight, and Josie was five, and their parents remembered why they were married ten years ago.

Que le vaya bien, Mexico.

And, si Dios Quiere…

Hasta luego.

Puebla

We are on our way home. After a stunning if not stressful drive over the mountains from Puebla, we miraculously found the Alamo Rental Car lot (after being stopped only once by an officer who falsely claimed I ran a red light and threatened to take my license), and had a smooth transition to our hotel by the airport. Over a late dinner of hot chocolate and salad last night, Jasper said earnestly, “This is like staying at the Ritz.” Our last three days in Mexico have served as an appropriate finale to a most remarkable summer.

We left Oaxaca on Saturday after saying goodbye to this delightful city and promising to return. It was a long drive through cactus forests and over mountains thick with pine, and we arrived in Puebla only at sunset. We were there to visit the family of Joel, the husband of my dear friend Denia. Joel left Puebla when we was 14, and has not returned in these 16 years. Two of his brothers have since come to the US and returned, but we are the first friends to visit. We arrived under strict order to spend at least three days and let his family take care of us.

After getting lost and several confused phone conversations, Joel’s oldest brother, Candido, found us at a Pemex station in downtown Puebla. He would escort us to his taqueria for dinner and this to his house to stay. Joel’s family (all eight brothers and sisters, his parents, and his 27 nieces and nephews) live in Tlaxcala, a suburb of Puebla, which would be difficult to find on our own. So we followed Candido, along with his brother, Carlos, and his son in law, Israel, in their VW Jetta back towards the highway. After some difficulty finding the right road out of town, Candido’s car stopped dead on the highway in the middle of a bridge. Peter jumped out and helped the brother and son-in-law push for the next 30 minutes, in heavy traffic, over the bridge, past the exit, on to the main artery to Mexico City and to the closest gas station. Our adventure in Puebla had begun.

We spent the next two days being completely pampered by Joel’s large family. We ate at Candido’s taqueria, of which he is extensively proud, and his brother’s taqueria, and his parents’ taqueria. They are all called Tacos de Guero (which means White Guy’s Tacos, more or less), because the family has lighter skin and has long been referred to as “gueros” in their neighborhood. The entire family participates in the business, an operation which demands their attention from 8 o’clock in the morning when they go to the market to purchase meat, vegetables, spices, sodas, until 1 am when they close up the shop. We spent many hours hanging out and watching everyone help out, from the ten year old grandchild to the 60 year old grandfather. Jasper was particularly impressed. Josie impressed us all by devouring a tongue taco. We ate so many tacos in those two days that Jasper, who never talks in his sleep, blurted out in the middle of the night, “Tacos.” We all dreamed of tacos.

In addition to eating a lot of tacos, we spent a lot of time hanging out. Candido has built a large and growing modest cinderblock house for his family, which currently houses him and his wife, three of their children, two son-in-laws, two brothers and their wives and children, and his parents. They gave us an entire room with two double beds for our convenience and comfort. It was amazing for me to watch Jasper and Josie immediately relax and make themselves at home. Candido’s thirteen year old daughter, Yessenia, was fast friends with Josie. Jasper immediately fell into playing with Yovani, who is ten years old and whose father spent the first seven years of his life in the States. The kids were happy to watch one of the three TVs that were constantly on, or play with the many toys in the house. They could have spent three happy days in the confines of those cinderblock walls.

But we also saw many of the sights of Puebla and vicinity, of which there are many. Everywhere we went we traveled with an entourage of siblings, nieces and nephews. We piled six people into a car, abandoning seat bets for laps. Candido said Joel told him to take us as close as possible to the volcano, Popo, which has been particularly active recently. After the assurance that it was 40 minutes away, we drove for an hour and a half across the valley and then up and up the flanks of the volcano, finally arriving at a small town that is known most for the delicious trout that are farmed there in the fast, cold waters of the snowmelt from the volcano. We toured the fishery and rode horses and felt humbled by the volcano. We also went to see the cathedral in Puebla, the center of Tlaxcala, and the many churches and ruins of Cholula. I was tickled to see Candido yawning in the car beside me yesterday afternoon. Apparently taking care of a bunch of gueros is more tiring than running a restaurant.

Peter took off on Sunday for his final week of field work up in Chihuahua. On Tuesday we finally bid our goodbyes, after a meal of homemade mole on their roof top, amid many tears of appreciation for the time together, and more promises of return, four hours later than planned, and started our journey to Mexico City and home. We pulled into our hotel late, hungry (for something other than tacos) and exhausted, so glad to have spent time in Puebla, and so happy to be heading home. 

Un Dia en la Vida de Oaxaca: Segundo Parte

Today is Sunday. It is Peter’s last free day in Oaxaca, so we intend to make the most of it. We start by sleeping in, waiting until the sky outside is fully light and quiet has returned to the garden after the din of daybreak brought by the feasting (and fighting) parrots. There is no rush on a Sunday like this. We have learned to have confidence that whenever we get there, good things will happen. In Mexico.

After a breakfast of pastries from the bodega on the corner (that are miraculously warm and crisp), eggs and coffee we send the kids off to play in the garden. There are two other American families staying in this complex. One of them has three boys between the ages of five and 10, and the other has a nine year old boy from Richmond, Virginia. As soon as they have eaten, Jasper and Josie disappear into endless games of super heroes and experiments with fire and fruit. Over another cup of coffee we thumb through the guidebooks and pick out a few most-recommended excursions. There are more than we could accomplish in a day, or even a week, but in the end we decide on: biggest tree in the Americas, best Sunday market in the region, most fun ruins to play in, and best Mezcal tasting road. By the time we get our things together we have about 10 hours until sunset. We can do this.

The family from Richmond (an Anthropology professor at VCU and his wife and nine year old child) have been to the ruins before and would like to return, so we make a plan to meet up with them at a good market along the way in a few hours. We pile into the rental car and set off on the road to Mitla. We have hardly left Oaxaca when we see the sign for Tule. A short drive down an access road and we come to what feels like a dead end at a parking lot so we park and get out of the car, leaving all water and food since we are here to see the largest tree in this hemisphere. How long can it take to see a tree?

The town is quiet with clean manicured lawns and gardens. There are many artisan items for sale, indicating a strong tourist economy. It is not difficult to find the main attraction. To the left of the main square and next to the cathedral we can see an expansive canopy towering just above the two story buildings in between. As we round the corner and approach the Arbol de Tule we understand immediately why people are drawn to come here. It is massive beyond imagination. Far shorter than the towering redwoods (no taller than the cathedral beside it), it is the girth that impresses. Over 1,000 meters in diameter, the tree could fill the footprint of a small city block.

We pay the ten peso entry fee and spend over an hour basking in the serenity of this colossal organism. There are forms and images in the burls and crags of the trunk and limbs, which a team of ten year old girls in official green shirts describe in loud voices using mirrors to indicate each feature. There is the face of an Indian, the reclining body of Christ, a deer’s head, a bird… We take pictures, gawk, snack on grapefruit and pomegranate from a roadside vendor, chat with other tourists. “Why aren’t there more trees like this?” Peter asks. While I wonder, “How is this one here?” Why was it not taken like the others? We are humbled by its existence and only leave once the kids remind us it is time for lunch.

After a snack of quesadillas and sodas we get back into the car and head a short ways up the same road towards Mitla, pulling off at the town of Tlacolula where we have been told the Sunday market is vast and fun. We weave through tiny side streets, following our noses and asking for directions, until we find a parking place near what feels like the town center.

It is hard to imagine how this market could be much different or better than the market in Oaxaca, which was intense. But as we approach the main streets, which have been shut down to traffic for the vendors, we immediately understand. There is a friendlier, small town tone that is bustling and welcoming. We do not find our friends at the church, but after another meal of taquitos and pulque we run into them magically among the throngs of people. We take another hour to shop and wander through the food market, taking in the sights and smells of raw meats, fruits, fresh bread, hot oil, smoke and chilis. The kids impress me by sampling all sorts of delicacies, from pigskin to tacate (a chocolate drink), encouraged by the older and more gastronomically adventurous nine year old. It is after three o’clock when we decide we should head to the next item on our list: the ruins of Yogul.

Yogul is a smaller ruin a bit off the beaten path, nestled into a high desert ridge near a string of caves where the oldest evidence cultivated squash (10,000 years old) was found. It was a smaller town, perhaps some sort of annex to Monte Alban. There are no large pyramids or monuments, but the site hosts a handful of restored dwellings, cave like crypts, mysterious ritual areas and a ball court. The most attractive feature is a network of stone walls that create a veritable maze, ideal for games of hide and seek and scrambling. There are no guides or guards to enforce rules (it was not apparent that there were any rules at all), so the kids are free to run and scramble over the ruins like their own private playground. It is late in the day, so we have the ruins more or less to ourselves. We take the time to hike up to the ridge, and are rewarded at the top with a spectacular view of the  ruins below, as well as the expansive corn fields and surrounding mountains. We descend and depart only once we are summoned by the piercing whistle of the only attendant on the property. It takes me a while to find Jasper (who has run off with his father and friend to explore a tomb on the far edge of the property), so we are locked into the parking lot. The attendant willingly lets us out, and we are free to move towards our final objective: Mezcal tasting.

The road to Mitla is riddled with artisan Mezcalerias. These are small Mezcal plantations that produce small batches of this alcoholic drink (from fermented cactus) using traditional methods. Most operations offer a brief tour with the tasting, and it feels like the Napa Valley of Oaxaca. We are eventually headed to the town of Mitla for dinner, but decide to make a quick stop at a roadside Mezcaleria that seems to be ready for tourists. We are not disappointed by the private tour and detailed description of each step of the Mezcal process: harvesting the cactus, roasting it on coals for six days, grinding it in a horse powered mill, fermenting, distilling, and, of course, drinking. In Mezcal, Peter seems to have found his new “palm wine”; he is thoroughly enamored. To me the drink tastes and burns much like tequila, only with more subtle flavors and a smoother buzz. I quickly become the designated driver, and we soon leave for Mitla, but not after buying a few bottles for the road.

In Mitla the sun is setting and the town is quiet, almost deserted, as the shops close down for the night. We peek at the ruins, which are next to the town center. There is more shopping, feasting on tlayudas (a large flat, crispy tortilla smothered in mole and cheese), and Mezcal tasting before we call it a night. We drive home in the dark along the single highway, straight west, back to Oaxaca, rapidly retracing our steps from the day. Traffic thickens as we approach the city which  is wide awake with the sounds of Guelaguetza: fireworks, marching bands, marimbas, horns, voices. But we are too tired to go out again tonight. And we don’t need to. Because in Oaxaca there is always tomorrow. 

A Day in the Life of Oaxaca - Part I

It is Saturday. Our only plan is to head to the Church of Santo Domingo de Guzman and adjoining museum and botanical garden, which are an easy walk past the Zocalo. The kids are not excited about this idea, but they consent to come along because I have promised to look for dowels which can be used as arrows for the bows they bought at the market yesterday. With the modest objectives of getting to the museum and craft store, we leave our house with the walled garden on foot at about 10 am.

It is about a 20 minute walk downtown with the kids. On the way we peek into shops, look for Volkswagen Bugs (Jasper is doing a photo essay of these ubiquitous “bolchos”), and greet most people with “hola” or “Buenos Dias.” The kids often get hungry on the way, so we stop for a juice or bag of chips to hold us over. As we approach the Center the sidewalks begin to fill and the traffic picks up in the street. There are more hotels, restaurants and “artesanias” for tourists. We feel like we are moving towards something fun.

At some point I happen to look up and notice that we are outside the Museum of Textiles, which I have heard is wonderful but have never seen. It is an inviting and beautifully renovated, large, airy building with exquisite weavings hanging on the walls and an open courtyard with several women demonstrating the art. We spend a few sublime moments drifting through the quiet galleries before the kids become antsy and begin playing hide and seek behind the tapestries. I remember that a friend of a friend has recommended the San Pablo Cultural Center, which she described as being right next door. We walk 30 meters down the block to another elegant, more modern building in which there is a touring Calder exhibit for children. “El Circo (circus) de Calder.” We spend nearly two hours playing with wire and balance, making tiny people out of corks and paperclips to play on tiny circus equipment, and watching videos of Calder working (playing!) with his little wire inventions. When Jasper and Josie refuse to leave, Peter and I sit in the café in the courtyard and drink mochas with Oaxacan chocolate.

When the kids finally agree to leave (after securing the promise that we will return next week), it is after 12:00 and time for lunch. Instead of heading uphill for Santo Domingo, we turn left towards the markets. There are two large covered markets downtown: Benito Juarez and 20 Noviembre. The first has acres of artisans selling their wares, the second specializes in all kinds of food. We are in search of food, so we walk briskly through Benito Juarez, past rows and rows of people selling bags, cloth, curtains, shoes, belts, toys, DVDs, jewelry, shirts, dresses, pants, pillows, and anything else you can imagine.

Then comes the food. Handmade cheeses, fish, tortillas, tamales, chapulines (toasted crickets), mole of every color (mole negro, colorado, amarillo, verde, chichilo, coloradito, and mancha manteles), pastries, nieves (colorful, flavored ice)… and meat. We turn down the meat aisle into a room filled with smoke and noise. Two long lines of grills give off intense heat and aroma as attendants call to each potential diner, promising them a good price and great cut. Deep red strips of steak, richly spiced sausages and tender strips of pork lay out in front of each grill, raw and waiting to be selected for lunch. Every stand seems identical, but the throng of shoppers bustling up and down the aisle with baskets in hand are scrupulously inspecting the meat before pointing out the one of their choice to be grilled before their eyes. One stand actually has booths and we collapse into the first seat we see. We agree to purchase a kilo of meat for 120 pesos, having no idea what that will entail. The waiter soon brings us a sizeable platter of grilled meat, several hand made tortillas, and little platters of pico de gallo, cucumbers, onions and guacamole. The meat is tender, not too spicy but flavorful. It is fantastic. We savor every morsel, crossing our fingers we will not regret taking such liberties with “street food.”

After lunch the kids and I head home for our siesta and Peter walks up to Santo Domingo to actually see the museum we had intended to visit. Jasper and Josie spend a blissful hour crafting arrows out of the dowels we had managed to find at a craft store on the way home, while Peter learns about all the cultures and history of Oaxaca and enjoys a few unique hours on his own.

By early evening it is time to head downtown again. It is the week of Guelaguetza, a massive cultural festival that draws dancers, musicians, and tourists from all corners of Oaxaca (and people from all over the world). Peter has found a free outdoor marimba concert and saved us seats, so we hop into a cab only to go six blocks before realizing it will be quicker to walk. The streets are clogged with traffic. We get out and walk towards the Zocalo and beyond Santo Domingo, through sidewalks that are teeming with people. Many are in traditional dresses (some performers, many not), others are dressed up for various events (many to do with the festival, some not), the rest are obviously tourists and revelers, here to appreciate all that Oaxaca has to offer.

We find Peter in the front row of a concert that has just begun. Ten children, ages 12 to 18, are expertly manipulating the mallets on two exquisite marimbas. They are the regional prodigies, winners of a national scholarship to study the marimba in order to preserve the art form, They play through several traditional songs, and with each new piece the audience gasps in recognition and delight. Some of these songs we have already come to recognize after only a week here. Jasper and Josie are rapt for only a song or two and then squirm out of their seats to go practice shooting their toy arrows against the church.

After several songs we pull ourselves away to tend to the kids, walking towards a street a block away that seems to be hosting a parade. Standing on our toes with the children on our shoulders we watch as a dozen or more delegations from towns and ethnic groups all over the state dance down the road, accompanied by large marching bands, gigantic puppets, stilt walkers, fireworks. The costumes are all bright, colorful and replete with flowers, and food fabric, but they are each unique to the region, as are the dances. It is well past dinner time at this point and we know we should be feeding the kids, but it is difficult to pull ourselves away.

Finally, hunger dictates and we move back down to the Zocalo in search of dinner. It is difficult to move through the park past the endless sea of bodies, but we manage to find a table at an affordable restaurant right on the square. We settle in to drink, eat and watch as more dancers, more musicians, more performers of all kinds drift past. Women and children approach the table again and again, selling scarves, necklaces, candy, toys. It is nearly 10 pm when we finish our meal of tlayudas and decide to call it a night. But not before picking up ice cream at one of the three “Michuacana” ice cream shops on the square. The Zocalo is still crowded, with no signs of slowing.

At home we collapse into bed, exhausted, dirty, sticky with the remnants of so many treats, our heads buzzing with the noise from the day. And we wonder if every day could be like this in Oaxaca.

Oaxaca

Oaxaca is good at any time of day.

At 7 each morning a flock of parrots arrives to feast on pecans and awake the dead. The air is cool, around 70 degrees, and the sky gray but promising.

Our apartment is in a small complex of about ten units nestled in the garden behind the house of Dona Teresa. She advertises her rooms as “An Oasis in the City,” and it is an accurate description. The simple, clean apartments, surrounded by a stone wall and lush vegetation, are filled with tourists and ex-Pats, mostly Americans, who are here for more than a week and less than a few years. There are two families in the apartments adjacent to ours who have children between the ages of five and ten. They have been here for a couple of months, one spouse conducting research while the other holds down the fort. We leave our doors open and the kids dart in and out of kitchens, play with the adopted street dog, snack on fruits and vegetables doused in salt, lime and chili. One family is Mexican- American and based in San Diego but very experienced, connected and astute at navigating Mexico. They have already escorted us to the markets and told us the best places to get a cheap meal.

After a morning of tending to breakfast, shopping, laundry, cleaning or whatever needs to be done, we can wander up to the Zocalo (main square) for a meal or just people watching. This week is the Gueladuetza, the annual cultural festival which draws musicians, dancers and artists of all sorts to the city to perform and exchange ideas. Lovers make out in the shade of kapok trees. Ancient women pedal crafts, small children push candy and cigarettes, and men of all ages circulate with guitars and marimbas playing for pesos and selling self-produced CDs. We could spend all day moving in and out of churches, galleries, and markets, sampling sweets and savory fried pastries. But eventually we tire and return to the apartment for a siesta.

At the hottest time of day it is still quite pleasant, but warm enough to warrant a retreat indoors. Josie sleeps, Jasper reads and I write. We rest as much as possible in a place with so many ready distractions. I insist on an hour of “quiet time,” which is usually easily extended into two, as we gather strength for the evening.

On our first night in Oaxaca we walked to the Zocalo, about 15 blocks or a 15 minute walk. Nothing prepared us for the throngs of people we found there. Families, couples, tourists, vendors, musicians, students. It seemed like everyone was out, eating, playing music, listening, talking, dancing, with no particular objective or destination. The plaza in front of the cathedral was crowded with vendors selling balloons. For ten pesos you could buy a 6 – 20 foot long cylindrical balloon. Dozens of children ran back and forth in front of the church launching the balloons into the air and chasing them before they crashed into an unsuspecting passerby. Our kids purchased two and joined in the fun. We then bought beers and ice cream and sat on the main square listening to a marimba duo until the kids seemed to fade.

The following night we struck out again, this time for an exquisite dinner of black mole at a recommended restaurant (La Olla), and then a walk around town. We came across a free jazz performance outside the Santo Domingo cathedral, a demonstration of didgeridoo in an artisan gallery, fireworks, dancers, stiltwalkers and endless streets filled with crafts and musicians with plenty of visitors to revel among them. Again we returned home only once our children could no longer stand on their own.

We are here for over a week and will doubtlessly continue to explore the city of Oaxaca in a similar way, with no danger of running out of things to do. We will also go to Monte Alban, and Teotitlan del Valle, a mezcal tour through the countryside, more ruins, and other attractions within an hour's drive, of which there are many.

When it is time to go, we will be ready but hardly finished. Doubtlessly we will have to brace ourselves for the shock of returning home to a world without flocks of parrots or Zocalos, where time races instead of standing still.  

Travel Fatigue

We have been in Mexico for 33 days. In that time we have slept in nine hotels and two apartments in 10 different towns. We have visited three Mayan ruins and four beaches. We have swum in six swimming pools, two oceans, two rivers and one cenote. We have driven more than 3,000 km over the course of more than 30 hours. We have eaten out at least 60 times at more restaurantes, comedors, cocinas economicas, and cafeterias than I can count. I don’t even want to think about or admit how much money we have spent.

 So we are tired.

The kids have been skeptical about this whole travel thing from the start. They sensed our enthusiasm and were willing to go along for the ride, but it is clear they would have been just as happy hanging out at the PG pool all summer. I have been so proud of them, trying new foods, optimistically packing up bags and looking forward to each new destination, jumping in to each new body of water no matter how deep or murky. But every outing and adventure has taken a bit of cajoling, usually ending with enjoyment and gratitude that we made the effort. Josie has consistently taken more convincing and has a lower tolerance for things like sand, wind, sun, heat, cold, bugs, etc. However, in the end even she has come along for the ride stoically and delighted in the journey when all is said and done.

But we are tired.

The kids talk mostly about home these days. Josie and Jasper have been intensely planning her birthday party (which will be in October), putting together lists of guests and a schedule of events. Jasper continues to perseverate on what pet he wants to get when he gets home (how he has decided on an iguana), where it will live, how he will take care of it. Every time we mention a family member or friend they say, “I can’t wait to see them! When are we going to SEE them?!” We have been looking at pictures from home every day. Before we left we had been “homeless” for a month, so they are really ready for a space they can control and a routine they can predict.

Peter continues to work relatively long days. He had four days of vacation with us (during which he worked a bit every day), and during the trip down to Chiapas he was able to relax and enjoy the journey, but it has been a long stretch of balancing work and family. He is looking forward to riding his bike to work, getting caught up on emails and other projects that demand his attention, digging into analyzing and processing the work he has done here. It will be good to have separation of work and home again (not to mention just HAVE a home).

With the exception of one delicious four hour stretch in San Cristobal, I have been with my children for 24 hours a day this entire vacation, many nights sleeping in the same room or bed. At Mazunte the other day Peter and the kids were happily engaged in building a sand castle, so I said, “I am going to go out and swim alone for a bit.” What decadence! By the time I made it beyond the breakers I heard a delighted, “Mama!” as Jasper came bounding out to join me, thrilled to have his Mama to himself. Sigh. This time has been a gift, and I have enjoyed nearly every moment with them, trying to soak it in and store it up for the year to come. But I could use a little time to myself, or at least to something else. My mind has started to drift back to my classroom, my students, setting up the new house, getting the kids set for school… I am starting to transition.

And yet, we have two more weeks. And there is so much more to see and do.

We arrived in Oaxaca two days ago, and there is so much more to say on this topic. The city is both soothing and stunning. Every moment is met with a new encounter with a fascinating person or beautiful artifact or delicious experience. The temperature is perfect. The streets are clean and quiet while being filled with people and music. We have just begun to scratch the surface of exploring this place, and I have been told we will never want to leave.

My greatest challenge now will be getting the kids to continue experiencing and appreciating where they are now and not get caught up in where they want to be: back home with their friends, family and things. How can I keep this place from getting lost among the others? How can we all make sure we remember?

I guess I’ll just keep writing.

"My Kids"

They are growing before my eyes.

At home I hardly have time to notice my children. I spend every week day focusing on my students and measuring their growth meticulously. I take pictures, write notes, and record scores for 25 students, ending the year with a lengthy narrative description of each child’s growth. For my own children I am lucky if I remember to ask them what they did at school each day during the short car ride home from aftercare before I start making dinner and urging them to do their homework. On the weekends we try to take pictures with the hope that someday we will have the time to sit down and appreciate them. Once in a while I am stunned by what my kids are able to do or say. How did you learn that? As everyone warned me, I feel time speeding by with increasing velocity.

But this summer I can pay attention. I am with them. While Peter routinely puts in 12 hour days between field work, meetings, and keeping up with email, I am with my children 24 hours a day. I have one in each hand as we walk through the streets of each new town. We can snuggle first thing in the morning, before bed, and any time in between. I can talk about what they want to talk about (Jasper has been preoccupied with “bunnies” and wants to spend hours thinking about what kind of rabbit hutch he is going to build when he gets home… and Josie continues to be obsessed with Avatar.). When they ask for help, I say “yes” and oblige. We play card games. Read books. Craft lengthy stories about mermaids trapped in glacial lakes. Since we are travelling and staying mostly in hotels, there are no meals to be cooked, no dishes to do, no laundry to be washed. I do not talk on the phone with friends. I read and write only when they do, or when they are sleeping. I am available. We are together.

Usually when one observes something continuously it is difficult to notice subtle change. But this morning I could perceive each child as taller, thinner, and more solid than they were yesterday. Their hair is longer, their skin darker. The lilt of their conversation has become more complex and mature. Jasper complains constantly of growing pains, and it’s no wonder. He is shooting up like a weed. And Josie is keeping up with him, threatening to overtake him in height and weight if he doesn’t eat more. She now runs for pleasure, racing back and forth in whatever hallway, street or field she can find. Jasper swings his machete like a true campesino. They have both mastered the crawl and breast stroke. I swear Josie hardly knew how to swim in June.

So I watch them. I am free to just sit and observe, like an anthropologist, trying to commit to memory their words, trying to interpret their facial expressions and gestures for some deeper insight into the secret society of siblinghood.