On the metro it’s fairly common to have someone’s head in your armpit while you accidentally spoon the rider in front of you because so many people crammed onto the bus. It was under such situations that I had the following conversation:

Slightly Creepy Middle Aged and Balding Man: So, where are you from?
Me: The US.
SCMA&BM: Do you like it here?
Me: Yes, Lima’s great.
SCMA&BM: Do you have a husband?
Me: Yes. (Never say no. It leads to instantaneous marriage proposals. Also, have someone in mind to whom you can be married in case pressed for details.)
SCMA&BM: Do you have kids?
Me: No.
SCMA&BM: Do you want them?
Me: Someday, that’d be nice.
SCMA&BM: Are you practicing?
Me: Um, I don’t think that’s a question I should answer on a bus…

I spent a week in Joras, sitting on a bench that was built of mud and a part of the foundation of the house. There were no other chairs. I sat there, under the eaves on the front porch, and watched as life passed in front of the hedge flanked garden gate. People would wander by, herding children or stopping to gossip with my host mother. One of the two trucks that connect the village to the outside world might slosh past, wheels spinning and chased by boys giggling as the drivers throttled the engines and coaxed the four wheel beasts through sticky mud. Often though, there would be nothing. A hen might carefully pick its way past, going to locations unknown both to me and the chicken. A pig, its Y-stick carefully tied into place, would wander along the road, appearing around the edge of one bush and disappearing behind the next, and I would sit there, perhaps with a cup of hugely sweetened tea, perhaps not. I sat and watched and thought. I didn’t think of anything in particular. I was not meditating or trying to have epiphanies. I was just sitting. It takes some practice to just sit, and of practice, I need a lot.

Por Ayabaca

The bus winds up a well maintained dirt road, barely clearing soil outcroppings and skirting a long, tumbling fall of hill on our right. Every time we hit a bump, I land into my seat and a little poof of urine-scented air escapes the cushions. I spend five and half hours debating ‘would I rather be in this extremely comfortable seat that smells overwhelmingly like pee, or on a clean but uncomfortable wooden bench?’ Every time I think I’ve settled on the comfortable recliner, we hit another puddle, the stench assails me again, and the thought of a numb tailbone sounds better and better. We keep climbing higher, the bus stalling when our driver shifts gears as the vehicle crawls into la sierra. The views are strangely familiar – rice paddies terraced into the mountains, the small white houses clinging to places barely flatter than a ski hill, corn growing in fairly straight rows. A few banana trees are scattered here and there, but I can’t find any elephantine taro leaves. We pass a vulture. He and I are on eye level because his tree roots somewhere down the cliff, so his perch barely clears the road’s altitude. A brown river rushes by, carving the valley ever deeper. There’s a proper bridge crossing the chasm, but next to it is a small zipline with a one person pulley attached. It looks equal parts fun and terrifying. We cut through a village; eight houses clustered on both sides of the road, and guanabana and popcorn are sold to los pasejeros through the open bus windows. We start off again, zigzagging up a series of switchbacks. All I can think, when I’m not debating the comfortable urine seat v. the clean wooden bench, is ‘please, bus, don’t tip over.’ I spare a moment to think about what would happen if we flipped into the hill on our left instead of the empty space on our right. It’s patently obvious that the right wheels would barely leave earth if we leaned against the cliff, so steep is its ascent from the hard packed dirt of the road. The power line cuts a cleaner path up the gorge and we crisscross underneath it. The lowest line is covered in air plants, happily perched on the metal and soaking up the sun. Occasionally, we sidle past cows, horses, or burros hanging out on the side of the road. They hear the honk of the horn and scatter to the edge, ignoring the autobus careening by. Trees are silhouetted against the skyline and suddenly we’re inside a cloud. I revert to childhood whenever I’m in cloud, and, tickled pink, smile to myself. ‘I’m in a cloud’s belly!’ The mist grows thicker until I start praying that the bus driver can see better than I can, because to me it looks like the road ends five feet in front of us, and he’s flooring the gas. We cross the spine of the mountains and suddenly it starts raining. Welcome to Peru’s microclimates. The temperature drops from the mid nineties to the low sixties and I’m very glad I packed my chaqueta in my daypack. Suddenly, we’re headed down and I’m irrationally upset. ‘All that work going up and now we’re just going back down?’ But that’s it. We’re here, and I suddenly become self conscious. Do I smell like urine now?

You see, technically, there was internet access in Joras; it’s a 3G cell-based signal from an antenna on top of one of the nearby mountains. When something got in the way of a direct line-of-sight to the antenna, the internet (and cell service) didn’t work. Small children often got in the way, but I could ask them to move. The cow, on the other hand, which was halfway up the mountain? The cow didn’t move.

With the cow blocking the internet signal, I was in a bit of trouble. My school registration period changed, due to technical difficulties in New York and suddenly I was in the middle of the sierra with a cow-blocked internet signal and I needed to register for my fourth year medical school classes.

The first day, I caught a ride with the profesores back into Ayabaca, the provincial capitol, to use an internet cabin there. Of course, then my school’s website was down and an email told us they would notify us when registration became available again. Receiving said notification, however, would require internet.

Back we went to Joras, and the amazing disappearing internet signal. Two days later, the cow herd moved long enough for me to check my email and find out, “Surprise! You have to register for classes ASAP! Or you won’t get what you need and then you won’t graduate.”

5:00 am the next morning, I was catching a ride back into Ayabaca to try to register for classes again. And then, my personal profile doesn’t work on the school website. Often times, a profile problem takes several hours to fix, and I had about forty minutes. I emailed IT and said “Please help or a cow will block my internet again.” I can only imagine that they appreciated that comment, because magically my profile was fixed and I was able to register for classes.

When we got back to Joras, it started raining and then the internet started working. If anyone knows why rain makes the internet work, I am interested in hearing theories. Maybe the cows went inside?

But truly – I was late registering for med school because a cow blocked the internet. Beat that excuse.

Joras, the community in which we worked.

To get from Lima to Joras, the town I worked in, is a bit of a journey. Joras is in northern Peru, not far from Ecaudor, so the first step is a 16 hour bus ride up the Pan American Highway from Lima to Piura, which is the capitol city of the department of Piura. From Piura city, I caught another bus 5 hours to Ayabaca, which is the mountain capitol of the province in which Joras is located. From Ayabaca to Joras is another 45 minutes to an hour in a pick up truck – there are two trucks that make the trip to Joras every day, so if you miss one, you’re out of luck.

This is the cloud rainforest you pass through on the way from Ayabaca to Joras.

I had a fabulous time in Joras with the other biologists and the Peace Corp Volunteer with whom we worked. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of stool samples, a bonfire, and gallons of sweetened herbal tea.

Dulces de Ayabaca

There were a lot of good moments. Riding in the back of a truck in the sunshine, having a fresh lemonade, a cat falling asleep on my lap, the mud being so sticky it nearly pulled my shoe off, pineapple juice, learning how to make a traditional Peruvian potato sauce, staring at the rain for hours on end, discussing knitting with an old Peruvian woman, seeing a Peruvian Paso. I enjoyed my short adventure out of Lima.

Last night, a friend asked me what I liked about being in Peru. This is how I responded:

This isn’t what I like about Peru (that’s another post), but what I like about being here.

Dos de Mayo is a surprisingly pretty complex, set around a giant sunburst of a building with far-flung, pastel plastered outbuildings clustered in every direction. I know, because I walked the whole property. Twice. Arriving 40 minutes late to my meeting, the doctor informed me that the nurse I needed to see wasn’t there and then asked me to wait. So I did. For 4 hours. I learned how to play Snake on my phone. Also something called Riches. I think they’re games from the early 90s since they were the only ones preloaded on my super-cheap Peruvian phone.

When I eventually got home, I was bored, starving, and ready to speak any language but Spanish, so I made salad.

From HKWF

This is a super light, delightfully festive dinner. The dressing is tart and puckery, so use a sweet assortment of fruits and make sure to include some cheese or cured meats to provide a balance to the lime and greens. The limes here are the small, slightly bitter, aromatic limon sutil but any lime will give you an approximation of the flavor.

Salad with Lime Dressing
Allow 15 minutes. Serves 2 for dinner. 

Dressing
2 tablespoons lime juice
1 tablespoon white vinegar
2 tablespoons chopped white onion
1 teaspoon honey
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons olive oil

Salad
1 head of lettuce
1/2 cup each chopped papaya, starfruit, avocado & pepino melon
2 tablespoons passionfruit seeds
2 tablespoons goat cheese
2 slices of jamon serrano or prosciutto
Lime wedges for serving

Dressing
In a blender, combine all the dressing ingredients except the olive oil and pulse until well blended, with just a little bit of chunkiness from the onions still remaining. With the blender on low, drizzle in the olive oil. Taste, and adjust with honey, salt, or lime juice as needed.

Salad
Tear up the head of lettuce and divide between two plates. Evenly divide the fruits, cheese, ham, and passionfruit seeds over the lettuce and drizzle with the salad dressing. Serve with lime wedges at the table.

Today, the web is littered with articles titled “How to Give an Impressive Handshake” and “The Perfect Business Handshake: How to Shake Hands Well & Why It’s So Important” – vital information in a digital era. My daddy taught me the correct handshake nearly twenty years ago, back when you still waited for a dial-up tone from your modem and pantsuits were not symbols of power, but worn only be secretaries.

He told me, “Taryn, a handshake is your introduction to the world. Make it count.” Then he took me to his high-powered office in a tall, shiny building and had me meet his colleagues. I learned how to shake hands correctly. It served me well in later years – when I met the judges of competitions, interviewers for med school, patients and expensively dressed Wall Streeters. Sometimes, I got compliments on my handshake, as if the other person couldn’t believe that I was a skinny, blonde girl. Usually, though, I just smiled to myself when I remembered my dad’s admonitions. “Grip firm, shake briefly, make eye contact, be friendly.”

How many people go around teaching their eight-year-old daughters a business greeting? I’m pretty sure that I was incredibly blessed to be given my particular dad. I know most parents grapple with how to raise their children, and I’m sure my dad did, as well, but I never saw it. All I remember, from my entire childhood, is my dad treating me like a person. I hesitate to say he treated me like an adult, because it was more than that. No matter how old I was, he always listened to me. He had me make my own decisions. He supported me in my choices (even when those choices included some atrociously bad fashion combinations.) When I had doubts about my faith, he sat down with me and we academically studied contentious issues. When I had to choose a high school, he told me it was my life and I better figure out what I wanted from it. He had a knack of knowing what I wanted to do and then insinuating that ‘of course’ things should be done that way. I wanted to take a year off from med school but was afraid of the delay in graduation and the expense? Before I even voiced those fears, he commented, “Take a year off. Best plan I’ve heard all day.” And that settled that. I only remember him telling me I couldn’t do something once, and that was because we happened to be in the middle of a blizzard.

I don’t know if my daddy consciously set out to treat his children like people, but I do know that his instructions to a little pip of a daughter in a red plaid dress have stayed with her. “Taryn, a handshake is your introduction to the world. Make it count.”

Daddy, you were my introduction to the world. You made it count.

Hot chocolate! Slush. Snow angels! New York sidewalks. Central Park! Wet socks. Massive snow wars! Faulty radiator. Pretty pictures! Empty grocery stores. Buttered rum! No snow days at my hospital. Ever.

So while the Northeast is digging out, I’m busy working on my gorgeous and completely awkward runner’s tan. However, Sister of Mine recently asked for an easy bread recipe to go with her pot roast. During that phone call, I told her to buy a loaf, but she really wanted to make it herself. I think I talked her into the supermarket route that night, since it was already pushing midnight, but for next time, here’s an easy-peasy and relatively fast yeast loaf.

From HKWF

Notes: This bread fairly quick for a yeast bread and turns out a moist, fine grained, and somewhat dense loaf which is perfect for accompanying a savory main dish. It’s best eaten fresh, but fares pretty well with a turn in a toaster or microwave followed by a schmear of butter and your favorite jam. If you’re going to keep it overnight, wrap well in plastic wrap or store in a Tupperware.

Place the warm water in a large bowl and sprinkle the yeast over the water. Allow the yeast to dissolve for about five minutes.  Add the oil, sugar, salt, and two cups of the flour to the yeast and water, and stir well to combine. (You can stir by hand or use an electric mixer for one to two minutes.) Add the last cup of flour and stir until smooth. The dough will be very sticky.

Cover the bowl with a towel and allow the dough to rise for 1/2 hour (the dough should double in size.) Preheat the oven to 375F. Stir the dough down a few times, until the dough is smooth again, the spread the dough evenly in a greased loaf pan.

Bake the bread for 45 minutes at 375F, until the loaf is lightly golden on top and the crust is firm when tapped with a finger. Allow to set for 15 minutes, then slice and enjoy warm.