drewd The Adventures of Carlos d'Avis

Orange roofs and white walls were enough. A week was not enough.

Sucre was gorgeous and peaceful and just right. I stayed in a little hotel called Hostal de Su Merced and drank fresh orange and carrot juice every morning at breakfast. I worked from my hotel room and from cafes. I wandered the lovely city and met two new friends from New York City.

I ate well in Sucre. El Huerto offered a peaceful courtyard dining experience and perfect renditions of typical Bolivian dishes—I had Picante de Pollo. La Taverne was a welcome dining contrast, being the restaurant run by l'Alliance Française. For 42 Bs ($6), I was nearly defeated by a veritable tower of filet mignon wrapped in bacon, with mushroom and wine sauce.

At the other end of the spectrum, at least by price standards in Bolivia, were Pension el Marfil and Siete Lunares. I happened upon the pension one day when I was quite hungry and yearning a bit for the Cochabamba family lunches of soup and segundo. For 12 Bs, I received soup and a drink, then rice, potato, beet salad, steak and a fried egg. Naturally.

Still, one of my favorite lunches in Sucre was even simpler. Chorizo. Sausage... and some bread and salad and a passion fruit soda. So greasy, so authentic, so good. Siete Lunares is particularly well known for their chorizo and they did not disappoint at all. Furthermore, they sit just outside the market, so I completed the meal with a fresh chirimoya juice from within. Yum.

Sucre has an interesting balance of culture and people. Founded by Spain in 1538, Ciudad de la Plata de la Nueva Plata was the original home of the rich and educated who moved away from the mines in Potosí. The city was eventually renamed for revolutionary hero Antonio José de Sucre and served as the home of Bolivian independence. In fact, Sucre is the constitutional capital of Bolivia, although no significant business is done there now. Still, the combination of universities, historical significance, natural and architectural beauty, and Bolivian prices draws in a fair number of foreign students and travelers. Having lived only in Santa Cruz and Cochabamba prior, I was surprised by the volume of gringos.

But no doubt existed that I was still in Bolivia. To wit, I was lucky to be in Sucre when the entire youth population turned out to celebrate the arrival of Don Bosco's remains—he is venerated for having revolutionized the education system in South America. People go NUTS.

Yes, that is a glass coffin. And, no, I have never seen so many people in a church.

I visited La Casa de la Libertad and was offended by (1) the guide's repetition of everything in Spanish and English and (2) his tendency to touch, repeatedly and consistently, all the historical artifacts. Still, here was the the birth of the nation!

I worked well in Sucre, whether in my hotel room or on Joyride Cafe's ("No solo para gringos") faster connection... or with no connection at all, above the city at Cafe Gourmet La Mirador, off La Recoleta. I sat outside in an uncomfortable wooden folding chair at a thick slab of rock (also known as a table) and ordered espresso and licuados and eventually beer. I considered the city and I pecked away at code on my laptop.

I won at life. Ahhh...

All good things must end. One must always return to the source. So it goes. Wipe your nose.

I am back in Santa Cruz for a limited engagement, having flown in from Sucre on Saturday. I leave Bolivia on Thursday for Buenos Aires, Argentina. I will be, for the first time on this trip, entering a country so far unknown to me.

Where have I been? Wait, shoot, right: where have I been? I went from Santa Cruz to Cochabamba to Sucre to Potosí to Sucre to La Paz and there I reunited with Trina, out and about on her own southern adventure. We kicked around La Paz. We rode mountain bikes down the world's most dangerous road, known affectionately as "La Carretera de Muerte." We visited Lake Titicaca and La Isla del Sol and La Paz again and Uyuni and its surrounding wonders and then to Potosí and Sucre. And I am here and she is there and soon we will be elsewhere.

I love Bolivia. Am I surprised? No... well, maybe a tiny bit. I would not say that Bolivia has a particularly strong reputation with people from the United States. Before Christmas, I was in Elliott Bay Book Company at the checkout and I said something in passing, to my companion or the cashier, regarding my upcoming time in Bolivia. Another customer, head on a swivel, turned abruptly to me and demanded if I was scared for my life to go there. No, no I was not: Bolivia is not all cocaleros and Scarface, actually.

Still, what did I expect? I truly had no idea—I had not been here in twenty years. I was caught a bit off-guard by the incredible warmth and hospitality of my family here. And I was not prepared, at all, for the wealth and diversity of the land and culture. Dude: this country has salteñas and chorizo and it has rustic little islands that would be just as well at home in the Mediterranean, you know, if not for all the llamas and 12,000 feet of elevation. What a wonderful thing, to have passed two months and discovered that I actually love Bolivia, my father's homeland.

I am not sure that I could ever live here permanently but I hold no uncertainty that I will be sad to leave, and that I will return. Bolivia visit: success!

Trust I will be featuring many more specific stories from Bolivia as I work through my backlog of photographs.

How do I even begin with this day?

The day was Thursday the 4th of March in the year 2010.

I love Cochabamba. It happened suddenly—that morning, I think, in fact, yes. I love Cochabamba. I don't know how to describe this sentiment really. I don't even know how to describe this city fully. But it's a good city.

I put a good amount of pavement under my feet that day and the day previous. Perhaps I was finally connected?

Mi tia drove me a bit into town, on her way to art class, and then I walked a good length of blocks to reach la Plaza Colon, stopping to photograph whatever and walk my forehead into a low-hanging branch. I considered blonde, naked mermaid mosaics in a fountain and visited a gorgeous church. I installed myself at Cafe Casablanca for orange-carrot juice, cappuccino, laptop work and a friendly connection with Nima. He was wearing a Red Sox cap; he is Iranian and has family in Boston and a brother in Tehran and two years of residency in Bolivia. We chatted about the relative merits of countries and government and he offered me the cookies baked there, in this Italian-founded cafe. What a small, wondrous world.

I caught a taxi to my cousins' house for lunch, joining Mauricio, Nicole, Natalia, Pablo and, of course, mi tia Tuti. They served me richly, of course: salteñas, menudino, pan, and a delicious meringue, whipped cream and strawberry cake. They offered insight on Bolivia and brilliant recommendations for my time in other parts. I took photographs; we said our goodbyes.

Mauricio dropped me off at la casa de Simón Patiño. The mine tycoon was at once one of the five wealthiest people in the world. He and his wife were building a new house in Cochabamba but, sadly, the house was never completed before he died. After his death, and the passing of his family's time in the house, it became a museum and the seat of an arts foundation. There was beautiful (modern) Bolivian sculpture all throughout the grounds and in a special exhibition within the house.

I saw a piece of art there and the image and title of this work were a not-so-metaphorical representation of recent events in my life. And I laughed in joy and surprise: I felt stronger for the first time.

The house closed at four o'clock, so I walked down to la Recoleta for a refreshing maricuya frozen at Juice'Zen. See, Mauricio and some associates started an ice cream franchise—this specific shop was owned and run by his mother. I then called the cab company and secured a dedicated driver for the next few hours of my afternoon.

El taxista picked me up at la Recoleta and we were off—he drove me first to Cristo de la Concordia. I had gone the Sunday before, wanting the chance to climb inside Jesus, which you can only do on Sundays (duh), but was completely thwarted by the rain. I could neither climb inside nor see a damn thing of the city.

But I was back and it was a beautiful day.

Cristo de la Concordia is the tallest statue of Jesus in the world, beating out Rio by a few meters. He sits atop a hill in the middle of the city, with gorgeous views of everything in the surrounding valley. I was more than happy to sit and walk in the sun, considering the huge friggin' statue and the changing light and vistas of Cochabamba.

I considered staying for the sunset but there was limited light remaining for my final stop.

I was heading to Calle Carlos d'Avis.

So, my name is Carlos Andrés d'Avis. This is a good name. This was the name of the father of my father—mi abuelo, who tragically died when my father, Federico, was quite young. But Señor d'Avis was a famous doctor in Bolivia and once even the mayor of Cochabamba. He lived a good life, maybe even a great life? So he has a street; it's only three blocks long. How long is your street? You don't have a street? That's what I thought.

El taxista found it without problem—I had, in fact, been there once before, late at night with Mauricio, but without my camera or sufficient light to photograph. I walked around my street—the street of my namesake and grandfather—and I felt connected. Here was proof of my life and of the history of our family and of the lasting impression and memory of a bit of good work.

I was leaving Cochabamba the next day. I had a sight or so to see, and mi Tio Carlos y Tia Ida with whom to lunch, but I felt that I had found my heart of Cochabamba. I was happy and I was triumphant and it was a good day in Cochabamba.

I arrived in Santa Cruz de la Sierra late late on February 5th, or perhaps early early on February 6th. By three in the morning, I had completed a visa application, paid $135 US, collected my luggage and gained entry into Bolivia. My dear cousins Sergio (Ovando d'Avis) and Yovana (Ovando Eterovic) were waiting patiently for me and drove me through the night city to my home for the next two weeks—their lovely house, in fact.

That is not their house. That is a cathedral.

Santa Cruz de la Sierra is a modern city of 1.5 million, in south central Bolivia. The economy and population have grown rapidly in the last few decades and the city has expanded outward in concentric rings. This expansion and the focus on commerce have not resulted in the most beautiful city, I will admit, but the center plaza has its charms. Also, I enjoyed a wide range of delicious food, at family's tables and at restaurants, in cuisine local and international. And there was one case of both at mi prima Claudia's restaurant, where I ate excellent salteñas and pique macho.

The Ovando family originally lived in Cochabamba—as did the d'Avis family—but relocated some years ago to Santa Cruz. (Gabriela Ovando and her husband, Jorge Barrero, live in Florida.) I was so pleased to reconnect with Sergio, Yovana, Jaime y su familia, Claudia y su familia, and of course the family matriarch, Doña Florencia. I had not been in Bolivia or seen any of them for twenty years! Their kindness and hospitality were overflowing and I am so thankful.

Jaime, pictured above, took me four-wheeling near Porongo one Saturday afternoon. We may have almost gotten stuck in the mud, but I had a brilliant time with him and his friends. Zooming along dried-up river beds was particularly great, as was the sunset from such a locale. The countryside surrounding Santa Cruz is lush and verdant and just gorgeous.

Yovana and Sergio likewise took me out into the country on the Monday of Carnaval. We drove up into the mountains and jungle to reach the town of Samaipata, at an elevation of 1600 meters. After feijoada for lunch at El Pueblito restaurant and resort, I photographed the surrounding hillsides and my hosts had a bit of a lark.

Regretting our lunch beers a bit, we hauled our full bellies up a few hundred more meters to visit El Fuerte de Samaipata. The main local attraction are these Incan ruins, marking the furthest east extension of the Incan empire. We tried to see the carvings worn away in the stone, imagined the layout of the community, and were unimpressed by the depth of the prisoner hole.

Overwhelming, the countryside was just gorgeous and completely different than I expected from Bolivia.

I suppose that is all I have for now? I was able to work quite a bit in Santa Cruz; I was not particularly busy socially and that was actually good. I am keeping some record, as I am able, of food and wine in my written journal and I will try to put together a summary soon. Family, friends, more food and drink, and more work here in Cochabamba are occupying me presently. Sometimes there is too much life to recount. Sometimes there are horses to stand in, yo.

Signing off, for now, this is Carlos Andrés d'Avis, Rey de Caballos Oscuros.

* I cannot presently offer the photographs from my single night out in Santa Cruz during Carnaval—they do not yet reside on the Flickr. In summary, I drank beer, saw a parade and got shaving cream on my head.

I am, of course, no longer in Costa Rica. I have, in fact, been gone from its fair shores for over two weeks. I would like, all the same, to attempt some consideration of my time there, my January.

I write this first and with certainty: I was home in Tamarindo. My apartment with Sarah in Seattle no longer existed, at least as our home, and my stuff—the greater weight of my life—resided in storage. A piece of my heart always remains in Hamilton but I have not lived there for nearly ten years now. So, how long did it take for me to settle in a new life, with less than 100 pounds of possessions? Less than a month, apparently—I would guess at two weeks or so. Sure, I was sleeping in a twin bed with shark sheets and sometimes found a scorpion in my laundry pile, but I did not at all doubt my stay in Tamarindo. Home, truly, if only for a month!

I was at peace—I dare say I was happy. I had a rhythm of life that was manageable and understandable and good. I had friends at hand, good friends indeed in the same house. I surfed; I ran, but not much. I worked as much as I wanted. I ate simple food that nonetheless pleased and satisfied. And there was sunshine and there was the ocean and did I mention that I surfed every day? Do you know how good life is when you have surf and avocado and fried plantains every friggin' day? Also, ceviche and sunsets.

We discussed a bit on our trip why Costa Rica is the happiest country in the world (supposedly). I returned, again and again, to the matter of simplicity, at least in my life there. My life in Seattle was busy. I am not at all saying that life was bad—I did love it—but it was full and I am one to be overwhelmed, if you were not aware. In Tamarindo, there was simply not the same quantity of choices and of people about whom I cared. What could overwhelm me? What could disturb this idyllic life?

Well, we all know the matter is not actually so cut and dry, especially so close to ocean—you get hit by waves all the time. But seriously, I do not necessarily assume that I would find a life in Tamarindo, or anywhere in Costa Rica, fully challenging and satisfying. I wonder, more so, how to carry wherever I go a bit of that peace and simplicity and joy. How do I settle in a home?

In truth, I did not leave Tamarindo in peace. How could I leave home in peace—neither did I so leave Seattle. The final week was different and hard but indeed still great. Eric and I had two days by ourselves, between the departure of Theo and Tina and the arrival of Natalie. We enjoyed those two days of relative solitude (and discussed possible enforced "quiet time" next year). We worked hard; we did not dine adventurously.

And then Natalie came and I spent five joyful days with her, walking the beach one day and the next climbing a volcano, against the rangers' orders, in the strongest winds I have ever experienced. We saw countless coati in the jungle and I did not photograph a single one successfully. Natalie started paddling into and catching waves and standing up—glory! We did crosswords in the pool, and we ate and drank and talked and laughed as we always had. These were good times.

The three of us had one final dinner at Carolina's, Friday, before Eric's departure and after the day of the volcano adventure. I was exhausted; I barely had the energy to savor the meal or make conversation. Life! So much life! Eric left for home in Seattle, and Saturday passed peacefully at home and happily in the surf. We cooked dinner and listened to Ben Kweller. Natalie and I awoke Sunday morning and she packed her few possessions. I made raisin bread French toast, with kind thanks to the famous German baker of Guanacaste, and we listened to Rilo Kiley.

Natalie and I said goodbye.

And then I was alone in this big house, and I was alone. Why did you all leave? Jerks. Why did I have to leave, and why did I have to be alone? Departure was so difficult to accept, despite the absence of any remaining friends—I was finally stepping out into the unknown. My trip was entering the new phase of doubt and mystery and solitude.

So... so, I bought a bracelet my last morning in Tamarindo. I bargained the woman down from 4000 colones to 3500 but neither of us had any change so I just paid her 4000 anyway. I felt silly, but the bracelet was comforting around my wrist (and still is). I ate one final lunch of casado from "Green Chairs." I rented a car (which I later nearly lost in a ditch five kilometers lost down a glorified horse path) and I left home.

I drove to Nosara to spend two days with Kristi, Angela and Ella, friends of the Ganzells in Maryland. I surfed a new, better break at Playa Guiones on a new, better board. I caught a glimpse of a different Costa Rica and I was blessed to share the briefest moments with their beautiful family—my many thanks. I rode the bus to San Jose, I spent a single night staying in a "Roman Holiday"-themed hotel room, and then I flew to Bolivia.

Now, I am here. What is life but a series of these realizations, that now I am here? And, of course, in so realizing, I state that I am not there and that you likely are there. Or, well, you're not in Tamarindo but you are somewhere. Neither am I in Tamarindo, nor am I in Seattle. I am not home. I am here—I am somewhere—and I will, someday in some place, be home once again. I hope there are avocados there.

Packed away in some box in the basement of my childhood home is a well-worn copy of The Paper Crane by Molly Bang. I loved this book as a child and could rightly claim that I still do. The story was classic and darling and, perhaps more importantly, I have always loved art in cut and torn paper.

And so, I have been delighted lately to encounter contemporary bands employing this style in their music videos. I would like to share a few I have enjoyed of late, and I would love to receive any recommendations for other music videos or art in this style.

First, I offer the recent song "Oslo Novelist" by Grand Archives, depicting the adventure of a mustachioed spaceman slash novelist. What a job description! Did I mention he drinks red wine in a rocket? Winner.

Next, I present, as I have likely presented before, "Furr" by Blitzen Trapper. The video depicts the song's tale with original art, found illustrations and photographs. Be still my heart! As an aside, their album "Furr" has a handful of simply brilliant tracks and, despite lacking consistent quality, is absolutely worth a listen or two.

Lastly, I recently found "Camilo (The Magician)" by Said the Whale. I am reasonably certain the little boy, who is always catching on fire (1:47 is AMAZING), is rendered with computer graphics but the style is the same.

Enjoy, and please share!

I miss the sunset, and the sundowners.

I miss the surfing, and I miss two sundowners.

And I'm sorry, Ashleigh, but the mustache was brilliant, and I miss that, too.

We Grupo Did It, Grupo Do-It.

Hold me, Eric, and tell me we can always go back.