This week, the motherboard on my computer broke.

I’m not even sure what that statement means. Not since I cracked my ulna the summer after second grade have I broken something, suffered a large amount of inconvenience as a result, and still barely understood what was broken in the first place. The good news is that the motherboard is now fixed, and waiting for me at Rand’s office.

And no, I still don’t know what a motherboard does.

Since my computer has been out of commission all week, I haven’t been able to post about any of my most recent trips – to London, New York, or Barcelona (I’d yet to upload the photos to Flickr when my computer died. I reacted to this like any reasonable adult would. I cried and then ate a bunch of Oreos). This initially stressed me out – Have I been rambling on about Peru for too many weeks now? Are my readers getting incredibly bored of hearing me talk about eating guinea pigs and not flushing my t.p.?

Hopefully not, because there is still so much I have yet to tell you about our journey to South America. And so many photos to share – ones that, thankfully, made it up to Flickr in one piece. Here are ten of my favorites from the trip.

1. Creepy little skull sculpture, the Larco Museum, Lima.
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   Doesn't he TOTALLY look like the guy who was guarding the Holy Grail in the third Indiana Jones movie?

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The city of Lima: plenty of cabs, plenty of chances to haggle.

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Haggling is an art form, and my mother is Picasso. Analyze her technique too closely, and it will fall apart, but stand back far enough, and a masterpiece emerges. I’ve seen her haggle in retail stores. RETAIL STORES. With success. She will take an item up to the cashier and note that a thread is coming loose – would they mind giving her a discount? Or she’ll point out a popped button, a fraying hem (all things which she can fix in a matter of moments) and ask for a ludicrous percentage off.

AND SHE WILL GET IT.

I thought about her a lot when I was in Peru. Not only is haggling a way of life down there, it’s institutionalized – nothing seems to have a fixed price. Not even the cabs. That’s right: you haggle for cab fares in Peru. None of the vehicles have meters. You simply talk to a driver and negotiate the price before getting in.

For me, this was incredibly nerve-wracking. I didn’t inherit my mother’s knack for seeking out a bargain. I tried once to get a deal on a sweater that was – I kid you not – coming apart at the seams. The cashier offered me 10% off. I stared at her blankly before putting it back on the rack. My mother would have been paid to take it off the store’s hands.

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Hey folks – my apologies for the blog being so thin lately. I’ve been on the road – a lot – and I can’t seem to justify spending my days sitting in a hotel room blogging. We’ll return to daily posts next week, I promise. In the meantime, read on about Peruvian foods you must try. And for your own safety, do not consume this post on an empty stomach. 

As some of you may have noticed, I don’t really do much research on my travel destinations, except when it comes to cuisine. I left for Peru with a vague understanding of who created Machu Picchu, but I was able to rattle off the local desserts like an expert. This concerns me slightly. I have this fear that, should aliens ever abduct me (and let’s face it: this is a highly probable likelihood) they will ask me all sorts of questions about other parts of my planet. And most of the time, I WILL HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO SAY right up until the topic of food comes up, at which point I will be some sort of savant. Governmental structure of Peru? No clue. But they have these fantastic dulce de leche sandwich cookies called alfajores (I’ve eaten enough in one sitting to risk diabetic shock). Iceland? I can’t remember anything about my trip there except for that yogurt dessert they kept feeding us. And my usually reply to when anyone mentions the U.K. is to drool and mumble “sticky toffee pudding” with a glazed look in my eye.

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When I met Rand, he was living with one of his guy friends.

Their apartment was a quintessential bachelor pad: it had two bedrooms, smelled of Old Spice deodorant, and was furnished with enormous black leather couches and geometric prints. There was an abundance of electronics, and not a single framed photograph of a loved one.

When Rand later moved in with me, the transition must have been somewhat traumatic. The bathroom was filled with all sorts of foreign items: straightening and curling irons and a crimper that I kept around in case of emergencies (having since thrown it away, I now live in fear that someone will have an 80s party, and I won’t be able to attain big hair). There were multiple laundry hampers, with specific instructions as to which items could be placed inside of them. There were weird things like low-fat yogurt and almond butter in the fridge. In the early months of our co-habitation, we fought over stupid things, like where the dish sponge should go, and important things, like where our alarm clock should go.

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I like how the marquee reads like a weird birth announcement: "Congratulations! A school!"

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Elementary school was not an easy time for me. I know, you’re shocked, right?

I mean, who wouldn’t want to  be friends with a 70-pound girl with an adult-sized nose? (Quote from my friend Peter: “You must have looked like a pterodactyl.”) Plus, I was awesome. My incomplete Babysitter’s Club book collection, my gender-bending hairstyles, my failed knitting projects (I could make a scarf. Provided your definition of scarf is “a slowly unraveling trapezoid”.)  I only wish I was that cool now.

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It’s been an eventful week. Yes, the pioneer of modern personal technology died, but perhaps more significantly (at least, in my world) one of my friends lost her mother, while another became a mother. I suspect there’s nothing that wraps up existence more succinctly than that. Just when you are getting to the party, someone else leaves.

If you are less inclined to sit and contemplate existential ideas such as these (and believe me, I do not blame you), please enjoy these links – an act which, I promise, requires very little philosophical thinking.

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It’s fall. You know what that means, right? It’s decorative gourd season, motherf*ckers!

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Sigh. When I was a kid, I remember loving this Pepsi commercial starring Michael J. Fox. Twenty-five odd years later, and I still get a kick out of it.

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It seems so odd that I’m doing a round-up of photos from Florida, of all places. I lived there for years. I might as well do a photo round-up of my own house. Actually, come to think of it, I have done that.

Aaaaaaaand on that note, here’s ten photos from that strange and magical place I used to call home.

1. I show my enthusiasm for Jews for Jesus. And vacation rentals.
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   I'm also fairly intrigued by Boston Nails and New Wave Fitness.

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2. I may have screamed when I saw the license plate on the car in front of us – it read “Pastry Chef.”
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   Pardon the quality of this photo. My hands start to shake whenever I think of dessert.

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Hi – I’m back! Forgive the lag in blogging. I blame Peru. That place is magical.

I’ve loads to tell you about that trip – and heck, I’m not even done telling you about Kansas or my trip to Lake Placid, Florida (please try to contain your excitement). But all of that will have to wait, because presently, I want to take a piece of sandpaper or, failing that, a cheese grater, to my ankle. It’s covered in bug bites attained at Macchu Pichu, and it’s positively killing me. While I’m blessed to not suffer from allergies (unless, say, I shove my face directly into a cat and breathe in deeply, which I’m sure we’ve all done once or thrice), there is one thing I am severely allergic to: mosquito bites. They usually swell up to the size of a quarter, and have literally woken me from a restful sleep with the sting.

I took a photo of my bug-bitten ankle thinking it would be impressive, but instead it looks disappointingly normal, so I now seem like a huge wuss. Behold:

The cropping on this photo is excellent. You can see neither my hairy legs nor my wonky toe. Huzzah!

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