One year ago today I landed in Seattle after 160 days traveling Latin America and 173 days away from Seattle. Happy Returniversary, Carlos. Thanks, Drew.

Good then, appropriate, that I saw Grupo Do-It. (I am endlessly drawn into the circular and cyclical.) Our fearless leader, Eric, was not in attendance tonight: he moved to Palo Alto with Carla last week. I settled in Seattle, eventually, and Eric and Carla left. Who'd have guessed?

One year ago today I had just finished a funny week in Ecuador with Eric. Funny in that the weather and surf were poor and in that Montañita was a weird and unhealthy little beach town. One week was sufficient—I wanted to be done traveling. I wrote End of the Line in Montañita, just prior to my return. Still, I had no idea, then, that I would I stay in Seattle. What did I expect? What did I want?

My personal journal entries from June 13th, 2010 reveal much, but not all. I tried to predict how I would feel in my return, how people would view me, how I would adjust. I reiterated some bit of philosophy constructed in the course of travel:

The world is larger and more complex and wondrous than I can ever hope to understand or experience fully, but I can find love and beauty and connection anywhere, all the same.

I always repeat words in my head; I construct fantastical conversations and act out improbable situations. A phrase can become an ephemeral mantra, unforgettable in some period but then lost completely if not inscribed. So was my consideration of complexity and wonder and so attached to the process and result of my tattoo in Chile. Sometimes I cannot lose a lyric. (Every day I see my dream.)

Lately I twist no philosophy but write poems about carrots, the original never sent to its inspiration but instead lost and deconstructed. Once, “earthbound dreaming ... of the fully bounty of summer.” Now, “chop chop chop chop, fuck you.” Oh, silly me.

For the first time, in this very moment, I realized that I know I will be in Seattle one year from today. Yes, yes, no one ever truly knows anything. And maybe I'll be out of town at a wedding or Taiwanese dog convention. But I want to be living in Seattle in a year, no matter the status of any carrots or the sunshine in Costa Rica. My dog likes it here. I like it here.

Team Grupo Do-It asked me, over our delicious Ethiopian cuisine, whether I preferred these last twelves months or those prior. I didn't pause too long in consideration. No matter the lack of grand adventure and passport stamps, I preferred the last year. I have been happier; I have had less emotional upheaval. I believe—I hope—that my life bends toward a more peaceful and tenable happiness. I could find happiness anywhere, perhaps, but I would like to build happiness here.

Welcome home, Carlos. Many happy returns, Drew.

Today is Friday the 13th; I returned two months ago to Seattle from Ecuador and all. I have spent the last two months fully tangled up in work. I have spent the last two months up and down emotionally and, overwhelmingly, trying to puzzle out who I am now. I am some version of Andrew.

I was driving up I-5, all the way from San Francisco to Seattle, on no reasonable schedule at all. The time was five in the afternoon, perhaps, and I was nowhere close to the Oregon border. I had been seeing signs for Mount and Lake, all Shasta and gorgeous and northern California.

California was good—so good. Claire, Whit and I ate In-N-Out for our first meal back in the Golden State. I saw my cousins and I saw my aunt and uncle: love. Maren and I drank so much good coffee and ate so many delicious foods. (Brioche doughnut holes at LaMill Coffee are for real.) I had drinks and hugs and laughs with the incredible community in San Francisco.

Whit and Claire's couch felt like home. Sparkle Motion felt like home.
I was good, glorious ol' Drew.

So I was on I-5, right? And I saw the bridge approaching, and I started thinking, Am I the same, the same boring? Driving to Seattle without any magic or perspective?

What am I leaving? Where am I going? Fuck it, I need to jump in this lake!

I crossed the bridge and pulled off the highway, winding my way down a dirt road and nearly bottoming out a few times. Funny that, how I make poor driving choices on country roads whilst in fragile emotional states.

I parked. I made my way down through the brush to the rocky shore and slipped out into the cool milky blue. I am still traveling.

Modest Mouse - 3rd Planet

The universe is shaped exactly like the Earth
If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were

Passing by the exit for 210 East felt wrong—not heading to Claremont, for once—and so did listening to some random indie-folk as I elected instead 405 South. I changed up The Tallest Man on Earth for Mika; "We Are Golden" felt like Los Angeles no matter the singer's origins. And then I changed again, to the 2004 Braineater Pump Up Mix. "F*ck Wit Dre Day" was just right.

I'll be staying with my aunt and uncle in the Valley for the next few days, catching up with friends in the area and working as much as I am able. Los Angeles... California... what are these places?

I spent the last three days staying near Palo Alto with my cousin Cindy, her husband Jay, and their sons Adam and Eric. I played with Bionicles and regular-type Legos, drew pictures, sprained my ankle, went to the beach, and generally fulfilled duties as cool-older-cousin. So apparently one of the themes of 2010 is catching up with Bolivian family: in other words, being a better person.

On I-5 South, just a bit south of Gilroy and early in my drive today, I noticed first a black plume of smoke up ahead of me. It wasn't the smoke monster from LOST. I reached eventually a mess of brush fire and fire trucks on the opposite side of the northbound lane. Traffic was backed up for over three miles but at the front of this jam were half a dozen people or so, dancing and singing in the median with a trumpet, accordion, and tuba.

My aunt and uncle's street in Woodland Hills smells of sunshine and eucalyptus. California!

We stayed in Portland at Claire's parents house; George and Hansine were most gracious hosts, as always. Our time was spent seeing friends and family, drinking wine and beer, watching World Cup—¡Que viva España!, eating delicious food, and playing lots and lots of cornhole. And I suppose Whit and I worked a good bit.

Of particular note, we caught with Hannah and Ryan; Giselle and Gavin; Kelly; Hilary; and Spencer, Michaela, and Sebastian. The last two are Spencer's twins and Whit and Claire's niece and nephew: super adorable.

Portland has a few favorite spots and revisiting them did not disappoint. We met Giselle at Bridgeport Brewery: their beers and happy hour food were so great on a hot afternoon. My first time here was with Dave, following some Portland summer Ultimate tournament.

Whit, Claire and I ventured to Powell's bookstore, where I wandered around in a happy daze and finally purchased four titles: Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, Manhood for Amateurs, The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, and a novel for a friend.

Hilary, Hannah, Ryan and we three ate lunch at Pok Pok, which is likely my favorite Thai restaurant. Their chicken wings are incredible and we also devoured a summer special: fresh corn-on-the-cob cooked and glazed with coconut milk. So good!

So that's what I've got for now! Off, I think, to find some San Franciscan lunch and then keep on the work.

Seattle lasted me a good three and a half weeks before I felt that pull again, before I picked up and went elsewhere. It's not you, Seattle, it's me...

You see, I have a lovely little Civic at my disposal; I am reunited with Sparkle Motion. Of course I drove south to Portland with Claire and Whit. I am still a traveler, a vagabond, a rolling stone.

A month has now passed—four weeks—since I returned to the United States. Work has continued apace. I have discontinued my morning photographs, at least for the most part. I reunited again and again with dear friends. I played Potlatch.

Last night, after a day of flower picking and cornhole and delicious miso-peanut-butter chicken, I reclined in the living room of the Fisher house, with a little glass of port in my hand and Hansine, George, Claire and Whit all about me. We discussed my future. George declared me a complex person: a rare honor?

A hummingbird rests on the telephone wire out stretched across the blue sky beyond me, still but for a bit of head swivel, a bit of observation and consideration. I look down for a moment at my computer; I look back up and the bird is gone.

I was surprised to be caught so off-guard. Eric and I were sitting at Eugenio's drink stand on Cocktail Alley in Montañita, Ecuador. Every night this lane running to the beach would get busy, young folk stationing themselves in plastic chairs at carts filled with fruit, copious limes, and bottles of every conceivable hard liquor. We were drinking mojitos, naturally, and sitting across from Kate and Marie, two young women from England.

Marie repeated, "You guys talk like We Are Scientists."

I was astounded and delighted.
"You know We Are Scientists?"

"Of course: they're big in England."

"Um... I went to university* with them. They played on campus all the time. We were obsessed with The Creeper, you know, from their first album."

"Really? The Creeper? I've never heard of that song. I don't think that's on their first album..."

"Safety, Fun, and Learning?"

"With Love and Squalor?"

Le sigh. See, I don't blame the girl. We Are Scientists like to pretend that "Safety, Fun, and Learning" doesn't even exist. Boo. Therefore, I'm sure the guys, er, scientists won't mind my posting "The Creeper" here.

We Are Scientists - The Creeper

Kate and Marie thought we were, perhaps, 25 years old. Hah! Yeah, not so much.
We asked if they were 22. Nope: 19.

"Right, you would have been 11 years old when Safety, Fun, and Learning came out." And I declared, laughingly, "You definitely don't pass the half my age plus seven rule."

Eric and I switched to drinking Scotch. The Creeper, indeed.

* I am well aware Harvey Mudd College is not a university. One must speak thusly to be understood by English girls. University, not college.

Well it's alright, riding around in the breeze.

Well it's alright, if you live the life you please.

Well it's alright, even if the sun don't shine.

Well it's alright, we're going to the end of the line.

Eric arrived one day late, on Friday; his bags have still not arrived. Midday before his arrival, I was treated to a rare glimpse of blue sky and sunshine while walking to town for lunch. Otherwise, we have seen neither sun nor star—so we are treated by Ecuadorian winter. Montañita is warm, all the same, and the ocean water feels good, but the sea has been choppy and messy and no good for surfing. Oh, well. We persist happily all the same. There is relaxing and eating and drinking to do, and we are damn good at it all.

I will be in Seattle in one week. What have I been doing? How has this time passed so quickly? Part of the answer are the multiple thirty-hour bus rides I braved to make my way up the Pacific Coast. What else, after Buenos Aires?

I spent just over a week in Mendoza and, despite some sickness between weekends, managed to enjoy wine tastings with friends, relax in hot springs, and fall in love with one concierge at my hotel.

Uspallata offered a stunning taste of autumn in the Andes and a welcome time of peace and simplicity.

I never felt fully connected in Santiago and did not stay there over long. I did enjoy some delicious food and a lovely sunset.

Valparaíso had far more character, I thought. The city was beautiful, with all the colorful houses and hilltop neighborhoods and even perhaps because of the dilapidation and decay.

Arica treated me to delicious seafood stew and charming port town atmosphere and vistas.

Some bits of Peru felt like a happy return to Bolivia. Arequipa had a lovely small town feel, despite being quite a large city, and I think I could have stayed there happily for weeks.

As in Bolivia, I took any chance to drink chirimoya juice from the markets in Peru, and even converted to worship of this wondrous fruit a few travelers I met in a hostel there.

I even became instant friends with a group of locals drinking at dusk in the square of a hilltop neighborhood. Hugo (pictured below, center) and Mathilde offered me a place to stay in their home whenever I return to Arequipa.

I headed from Arequipa to Lima to meet with my mom, Melanie. We delighted in good food together and she made friends with cholitas and baby llamas in Cuzco.

And then—no big deal—my mom and I went to Macchu Pichu. Yes!

And now I'm in Ecuador.

I have, in the time spent writing now, lost track of bites suffered and mosquitoes slain. Time for bed, I think, safely away from their appetites. But still: how wondrous this life! And how happy I am in consideration of the good times past and the future coming in Seattle (and beyond).

Jump for joy!

My mother, Melanie, joined me in Lima on Tuesday night and is staying through next Tuesday night. ("Technically," she says, "it's Wednesday morning.") We were most sad that my father was unable to join her in this visit—work travel denied him such opportunity. Still, without our darling Fico, my mother and I are having a great time together experiencing Peru.

In Lima, mostly we ate. Sure, sure, we walked around downtown and saw a totally beautiful cathedral but the most important parts of Wednesday were surely the causas and ceviche at La Mar, a well-known and quite happening cebicheria near Miraflores.

After Macchu Pichu, my mother and I will return to Cuzco for a night and then fly back to Lima. Following her return to the United States, I will head north into Ecuador to begin my final week and a half on this adventure, Adventure 2010. I will meet Mr. Eric Mattson in Guayaquil and venture out to Montañita for sun, surf, and relaxation.

Granted, this time together is somewhat dependent on the (literal and metaphorical) fallout of the eruption of the Tungurahua volcano in Ecuador. The Guayaquil airport, presently: closed. My fingers are crossed... for Eric. Me, I'm taking a 24 hour bus from Lima to Guayaquil at one sixth the price of a flight.

I might have mentioned that I am quite excited to return to Seattle? I sure hope the Guayaquil airport has international flights departing by the 12th. 14 days, and counting!

How wondrous to watch the shadow of one's own airplane slip across the fields and homes below. How can I guess what effect has this darkening? Were it slow enough, would a dog chase it, staying always in this cool patch I cast down from above and arriving finally and inadvertently in my same destination?

A glass Coke bottle from above: the gods must be crazy. A metal tube thrown by faith and ultimately magic into the sky, to cast its shadow out over the land and lost in the clouds: the passengers must be crazy.

And crazy we are not to rejoice and exult: we are strung up in the heavens, delicately balanced by the shape of a wing and the thrust of an engine. I am but a feeble man but set my wallet to vibrating and the gods of the sky accept me as their own. I fly.

I fly to Buenos Aires, to Argentina and away from Bolivia. Would that I could make this journey within the warm savory crust and stew of a salteña. A final goodbye to this fair and complex land.

But my airplane invokes the magic of metal and light and wind, not of whimsy and spice. Truly, I am an airborne god but surely they will serve me only a middling sandwich. Better they should light a grill in the mess and char a red bloody Argentinian cut. Bring me a glass of Malbec, steward, and some llaqwa for my steak.

In the face of everyday wonder, how impossible becomes the everyday. Yes, we will glide over the spine of this continent, but no, we cannot offer passable fare. I should calm my stomach and mind, awaiting whatever culinary offerings that come.

Forgive me and understand only that I tire in this station as a god and that already I feel the ache of absence of Bolivian soup and meat and rice and potatoes and llaqwa. I tire, indeed, every day in contemplation of and immersion in a decidedly unordinary life.

I never wanted to be a god. I never dreamed of this but instead a warm home, a place that smelled like forever, and a dog to follow my shadow and a partner in whose arms I could soar to the heavens and return to earth every day, every moment.

Better I should be a man eating soup at home than a god lost upon every wind and shore. Homeward, wherever that may be, but not quite yet.