“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” --Mark Twain
I know so many people that travel in a bubble, isolating themselves from the authentic culture that surrounds them: it’s so much easier to insulate oneself at the comfortable five star resort, venturing out into the community only from the isolation of the fully chaperoned and air conditioned tour bus.
It’s so much more convenient to accept the Disneyland version of a place, complete with all its stereotypes than to have to deal with the authentic version with its smelly, noisy, nitty gritty messiness.
Not that I advocate going out of one’s way to be uncomfortable, especially on vacation; after all, that’s why we spend all that hard earned vacation money, to pamper ourselves and to relax. No one wants to vacation in a slum.
But there’s a lot to be said about fully connecting with the essence of a place and to experience the foreign as fully as possible, if even for just an afternoon, or just for an hour.
Go ahead.
Tuck into that “iffy” little restaurant. Smile and simply order a coke. People watch. Look open to whatever happens. Venture down that dusty little narrow street off the beaten path. So what if you get lost for awhile? You’ll discover that even with a language barrier, most human beings are friendly and delighted that you’ve been willing to explore their little corner of the world. You just might find, that in spite of a language barrier, most people are as curious about you as you are about them. You just might make a friendship in the bargain.
"Those actions or statements by a teacher that are designed to help students bring things together in their own minds, to make sense out of what has just been taught."-Madeline Hunter
“1. Leave home; 2. Go alone.” --Paul Theroux
People were always fascinated that I was traveling alone, without family. In fact, it was inconceivable to them. They lived with or very near to multiple generations, they slept crowded into single beds in tiny apartmentos or casitas, and they would do so their entire lives. For them, every night was a group get-together. I envied and was repelled by this at the same time.
“Where is your hombre?” asked a grinning toothless Bolivian man in a spotless white North Dakota Soybean Council polo shirt. “He let go you here all by yourself?”
“No”, I explained, “I mean, no man.” I replied, smiling.
“Where your family?” asked a cholita in a bowler hat. “Working, my daughters are working.” “No más.”
Whispers. “Insólita”. Looks of pity.
“Insolita”, that multilayered Spanish word that conveys so much more than being single, implies a person unhappily alone, lonely, sad, a thing to be pitied. How do I explain a philosophy of travel, of life, of kismet, to people who have never ventured more than a few miles from home and never, ever by themselves? I decide not to try.
“You like girl?” I knew this one was coming. “No. not like that.”
“Where your man, then?” “Why no man?” “Not safe for lady travel insólita”. “Nice Bolivian man?”
“No.”
“Where you go next?” “Not safe for lady travel insólita”. “Yeah, I know. It’s OK.” “I’m going back to La Paz.”
More whispers. Incomprehensible buzzing in Aymara. Concerned looks. More pity.
I’d been raised in such a different situation and was used to so much personal space and privacy. The chasm between me and everyone staring at me made me feel that much more alone and hungry for a genuine connection that I certainly wasn’t getting much of this gypsy summer. I became immediately homesick.
Even the most remote parts of FoldintheMap are connected by highways, cell phones and the Internet; they are how I define the world. But there are millions of people who live in tiny hamlets like this; no roads, no electricity, nothing but clouds and mountains and llamas and scrub brush. And each other. Day after day, through good and bad, they always have each other, no matter what.
The villages of rural Bolivia were tiny universes as far removed from the Internet and the rest of the world as Mars. I was a loose neutrino, ricocheting around the planet. A teeny tiny speck on the face of the earth. A bug on the windshield. I just wanted to go home. And soon enough I would be there.
The Altiplano. The high altitude plains that begin their incline at 13,000 feet above La Paz in Bolivia. This land of llamas and cholitas is home to my sponsored daughter Belinda and her family. I’m in Bolivia at the end of a South American Fulbright exchange to finally get to visit her face to face. I’ve been sponsoring and writing her since she was five: she’s now twelve.
We’ve been planning this meeting with the sponsoring organization, Plan International, for six months; the kernel of the idea came a year ago. I knew if I got an exchange to South America, come hell or high water, I would somehow get to Bolivia and meet her and her family face to face.
I had been told that Bolivia was an unstable and dangerous country, especially for a woman alone; and that there were robbers and murderers and narcotraficantes and worse on the highways of the Altiplano, especially in the area where I was headed on the border of Peru and Bolivia. I was advised all manner of things, from packing a handgun illegally purchased from the black markets of La Paz, to hiring ex-marines as bodyguards to accompany me.
I am greeted at my hotel in La Paz by Maria, a volunteer translator for Plan International. Although I speak Spanish fluently, the community where we are heading speaks Aymara, an ancient native language dating back before the Inca. Maria introduces me to Norma, the field representative and to Fernando, our driver. No one speaks English. We clamber into an aging Toyota four wheel drive and begin our adventure.
We fight our way through the congested streets of La Paz, dodging pedestrians, garbage, dogs, road construction, more garbage, discarded furniture and rocks. One way streets that are meant to have two lanes are compacted with five; no one pays attention to traffic lights or stop signs. Children shoot out from between parked cars as if daring the oncoming traffic to hit them. Garbage falls from open pickup truck beds into the streets. Packs of feral dogs scavenging for a meal, oblivious to the oncoming traffic, dart into the street risking their lives for a scrap of food.
We stop at what I think is a convenience store but turns out to be in Bolivian terms a supermarket; I’ve asked if we could find a place to buy some gifts for the family. We roll out of the Toyota and into the market, throwing provisions into the tiny toylike cart. Rice, powdered milk, salt, flour, sugar, pasta, all become part of the gifts I’m bringing for Belinda and her family. Wait. School supplies. How about some scented lotion? She’s twelve now, after all. I toss a pair of berry flavored chapsticks into the mix before paying and heading out the door. The bill for ten huge bags of food and gifts is less than $50.00 US. There’s enough here to eat for a year, I think.
We rearrange ourselves back into the Toyota. With all the groceries, there’s not enough room in back for Norma and Maria. Fernando and I take a few bags up front but Norma and Maria still have to share a seat. They do not complain. It feels like they’ve done this before. No one has working seatbelts.
Into the Altiplano. Bolivia has about 27,000 miles of highways but less than 1,200 miles are paved. Highway travel is arduous and dangerous. Many still do not have guardrails, lighting, shoulders, fencing, and other safety features. Signage is minimal. Gas stations are few and far between. But the worst danger is other drivers. It is common to speed, to pass on curves and blind spots, to drive at night with no lights, and in general, exhibit a blatant disregard for anyone’s life.
Outside are brown fields. A few mud houses. Bare trees. The snowcapped Andes look cold and foreboding in the distance. What if the narcotraficantes stop us? I wonder. I try not to think about it and try to engage everyone in conversation. We talk about Belinda and her family. We make small talk, tell stories, and share memories.
We stop for a bathroom break and a Coka Quina in the tiny town of Laja. Literally a one horse town. We are driving the only vehicle. I am told in Laja there is only one public telephone. We find the only store, stretch, and cram back into the Toyota to resume our adventure.
Shortly thereafter, we turn off the main highway and begin to drive deep into the Altiplano. The road turn to gravel; unhurried farmers herding their livestock to the fields look annoyed as we lumber down their road.
Look! There’s Humberto! shouts Norma. Humberto is Belinda’s father. We have arrived.
Bolivians have a very indigenous and superstitious culture. This is one country that the conquering Spaniards never really were able to win over. To this day,native beliefs continue to thrive right alongside modern ones. A family will have their new baby baptized by a priest, and then visit the Mercado de las Brujas, or the Witches Market, to have a yathiri, or medicine woman, construct an offering to Pachamama to bless the new arrival.
Curious, I wanted to see the old 1500’s cobblestone Calle Linares and the famous Mercado de las Brujas, or Witches Market. On this street, Medicine women, or Yathiri in Aymara, sell medicinal herbs, llama fetuses, dried armadillos, and all manner of potions and talismans for every malady and condition imaginable. There’s a puzzling assortment of statuettes and cloudy old yellowed bottles with potions concocted from animal parts like boa constrictor heads and bat feet.
One of the most popular items is a cholla, or an offering featuring dried llama fetus to bury underneath any new construction for protection.
I bought a pachamama (earth mother) statue which the Yathiri inexplicably wrapped in yellow and red yarn before giving to me.
I also bought an Ekeko to show my students. The Ekeko is a little statue of a traditionally dressed Andean man completely loaded with bags and baskets of food, household objects, currency, and basically anything that a person is thought to need to have a comfortable and prosperous life ; He is said to evoke a full year of prosperity. Every Bolivian household will have an Ekeko in some corner of the home.
Little did I know how much these indigenous beliefs would touch every corner of my visit to Bolivia..
La Lucha Libre is Bolivia’s professional wrestling with a twist…the contenders are women who wear Cholita dress: a multilayered skirt, flat shoes, shawls and traditional bowler hat. The matches take place in El Alto, the poorest and toughest district above La Paz. For 25 bolivianos (about $3.50 US) you get a ringside seat, a drink, snack, souvenir, and two passes to the rest rooms across the street--and some of the best Sunday evening entertainment in La Paz. Lucha Libre is a lowbrow slice of Bolivian culture that few gringos get to experience.
I’m next to a Canadian father and son who heard about the Lucha Libre from a poster in their hostel; the father is having a blast; Son looks like he would rather be having a root canal. They’ve been trekking the Andes together for two months and will be heading back to Quebec soon before Son has to start university.
We try to get Son to embrace the moment; he can’t get past the tackiness of it all to have any fun. We give up and join in with the locals who emphatically throw the remains of their snacks at the characters in the ring; “good” cholitas and “bad” wrestle for cash prizes. I get chucked in the head with a rib bone and respond with an orange peel in the offending direction.
The food fight becomes a full fledged fracas when it becomes evident that the referee has been bribed by Juanita the Bad. The crowd emphatically hurls insults and the remainder of their lunches at the referee; I translate the swear words for the Canadians; Son perks up a bit. Finally, Rosa the Good slams the crooked ref into Juanita the Bad and the match is over.
Five more matches go on like this--sometimes it’s difficult to tell who is good and who is bad -- we side with the crowd to be safe.
The merriment continues until a pair of armed military police show up and order everyone out. I say adios to my Canadian friends and remind Son he’ll have some great stories and a whole new raft of dandy swear words to impress his Spanish teacher when he returns to University. He smiles for the first time that evening.
We all happily spill out into the winter Andean night, and tumble into the warmth of our waiting micros that take us back to our hotel.
Riot shields line up under a pink park statue reading “Peace”. One does not have to go very far to be reminded that Bolivia’s hold on democracy is tenuous at best.
Outside the presidential palace, decked out in red, green and yellow bunting for the recent Independence day celebration, marchers chant their garbled dissatisfaction with government policies at top volume through tinny loudspeakers. In a country where dynamite is legally sold to anyone, the presidential plaza is heavily guarded. The president, an indigenous coca farmer, seems to always be at odds with everyone.
Military police, always in pairs, make their presence known in the parques and streets of the city. They serve as a reminder that Bolivia’s turbulent history is still being settled.
Sunday is family day in Bolivia. Paceños, inhabitants of La Paz, get out of their homes and spend family time together in one of the many parques on the wide boulevards of La Paz. A short two blocks from my hotel, I found a small plaza filled with families enjoying the day. For just one boliviano (14 cents), one can purchase a baggie of birdseed to feed the hundreds of pigeons that congregate here. Another boliviano will buy a bag of peanuts or roasted almonds to nosh on; two will get you a a balloon or a Coka Quina (Cola with coca not caffeine). Paceños are great munchers: Cholitas hawk snack foods and sodas on every street corner, and people eat on the street all the time. It seems to be a national pastime.
"Each student will demonstrate grasp of new learning by working through an activity or exercise independently" --Madeline Hunter
Bolivia. Not for Sissies. If the extreme altitude doesn't get you, something else will. Bolivia is the poorest and the most indigenous of all South American countries. La Paz, the de facto capital, sits at the foot of the Royal Range of the Andes, at an elevation of around 12,000 feet.
Soroche, or mountain sickness, takes its toll almost immediately on the unsuspecting visitor. The thin air causes lightheadness at best and makes one do silly things like put hotel room keys in the refrigerator.Traditional medicine offers no cure other than time for Soroche; the locals swear by Mate de Coca, tea made from coca leaves and hot water. Other than that the only cure is to descend.
La Paz is a modern city of 2 million people with a Kodak moment waiting on every corner. Cholitas are Aymara women dressed in long flowing skirts with 10 or more petticoats, cardigan sweaters and bowler hats. Cholitas are on every block in La Paz, usually selling candy and soda or minutes and Sim cards for cell phones.
Some of the best Zen moments I've enjoyed here are seeing a cholita sitting in front of her trade blanket on the sidewalk happily chatting away in Aymara language on her cell phone. This blend of old and new is one of the most fascinating things about La Paz.
"Once pupils have mastered the skill, it is time to provide for practice, so that the learning is not forgotten". -Madeline Hunter
La Paz’s “El Alto” airport is one of the highest airports in the world and one of the most challenging for pilots to land. Situated even higher than the Bolivian capital city of La Paz, the challenge at El Alto is the altitude (13,325 feet)and the terrain.
The Andes mountains suddenly break away to a high bowl-like valley which contains the city of La Paz. From the plane one can see the entire city in one magnificent vista, framed by snow capped Andean peaks all around.
I have been told that flying into La Paz is one of the most thrilling aviation experiences ever. There are only two runways, each surrounded by city and by steep cliffs of the Andes mountains. One slip and its Adios amigos.
We are in an antique 727 that most other airlines would have deemed unfit for service years ago. I ask for exit row and get one of the last rows on the plane--row 29 next to the galley. But the bonus is I get to board from the back of the plane like in the old days. Out on the runway, grinning soldiers in olive uniforms with AK-47s happily wave me onboard. Security has a different meaning here.
I strap myself in and watch the human parade before me. The overhead bins above us are duct taped shut. Someone has written “Out of Order” in black magic marker in Spanish on the shiny gray tape. I notice the frayed green and purple upholstery on the seats, most of which do not have armrests. Someone has stuck gum between the pages of my in-flight magazine. I try to recline a little. My seat does not recline. Why am I surprised?
A dark man with black greasy brylcreem hair in a worn brown tweed business suit takes the seat ahead of me and promptly reclines his seat so his slimy head is just inches from my lap. He pulls out a cell phone and commences a very loud and apparently very important conversation in rapid fire Spanish. Time for takeoff. The flight attendants do not bother with the usual safety speech nor cross check. Instead, they are in the back of the plane with me, noshing on the peanuts and cookies. One of them arms my exit door as an afterthought as we take off. We rumble down the tarmac as cell phone guy continues shouting into his phone.
Bang! The plane goes silent. Heads turn in my direction. To my left, in the galley, coffee pots, cups and packets tumble from cabinets above- flung open from takeoff- onto the worn purple carpet. An empty coffee pot rolls under my feet. Packets of sugar rain down into the galley like white butterflies alighting in the rainforest. The flight attendants are unaffected. Nobody says a word. Cell phone guy resumes his important conversation. Life goes on.
The rest of the flight seems uneventful. The flight crew is more interested in chatting with me than working. They invite me to their domain in the back of the plane. Someone gets out a deck of cards. We play “21” until we get bored. Time to land. Annoyed, the crew makes a perfunctory dash through the aisles. The cards are put away. I return to my seat. Cell phone guy, grease from his black hair staining the purple seatback, is fully reclined and asleep. I skinny into my spot and watch expectantly out my exit door window. La Paz appears, a bowl of twinkling yellow Christmas lights below, myriad glitters interrupting the darkness of the Andes.
Landing is quick and sharp. We hit the runway and bounce. Hard. The aging plane rumbles, shudders and shimmies. Then more roaring and squealing and screeching. We are thrown forward, then backward then from side to side. I think we blew a tire.
Then I smelled it. Cell phone guy has s**t his pants. There can be no other explanation. It lingers in the stale close airplane air. Strapped and trapped into my exit row, I have no escape. I reach into my pocket and retrieve a worn tissue to cover my nose. We rumble into the gate. Gagging, I escape from my prison to my flight attendant friends as everyone jumps up to retrieve their bags. I tell them about cell phone guy.
“Each friend represents a new world to us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” --Anais Nin, French writer
For our orientation week here in Montevideo, we are lodged in a lovely hotel right on Las Ramblas, basically on the beaches of Rio de La Plata. As we trickle in from our separate flights, we slowly get to know the other American teachers as they arrive. The first ones we meet are our roommates.
And I have the most delightful roommate of all. At least the best smelling one. She comes sailing in on a sea of Lancome perfume, the stuff we can’t even buy in the US yet, and introduces herself in the most charming French accented English I have ever heard in my life. Matilda twinkles. She sparkles. She is ageless, timeless. Showing no trace of jetlag after a brutal flight from the US, she shrugs off the fatigue with a joie de vivre that would rival most twenty-somethings I know.
She just finished a beach vacation at her family’s summer cabana in the south of Spain. Matilda teaches elementary school in Virginia but grew up in France and Spain. She is at the bare minimum, trilingual. I think she speaks a few more languages I don’t know about. She pulls out a full size bottle of good red French wine and proposes a toast. We have a corkscrew?Where did that come from? Matilda is magic.
Our room has been transformed into a perfumerie. Scented candles perch in the bathroom. Full size shampoo and body wash with exotic French labels fill every space in the shower. How does all this stuff fit into a suitcase?
We toast to Uruguay, to each other, to the Fulbright program and to just about everything else we can possibly think of until way too soon, it is time to go downstairs and meet all the others.
I struggle to put on my sensible walking shoes. Matilda effortlessly tosses a scarf over her sweater. Tres Chic. She finishes the ensemble with a pair of knee high leather boots with heels. Where do all these clothes come from? I look like schlumpadinka. She casually runs a comb through her perfect blonde hair. Not one out of place. A spritz of Lancome, and, voila, we are out the door.
"Checking for Understanding: determination of whether students have "got it" before proceeding".-Madeline Hunter
I want to like Uruguay. Honest. I really do. After all, half of my time in South America is going to be spent here.
But the wind. It never quits blowing. It starts the moment the airplane door is flung open as we land in Montevideo. We blast across the tarmac to the terminal like thistledown sails in a typhoon.
The gale follows us to the hotel, as we disembark from the van facing the Rio de la Plata, which looks more like Lake Superior on a bad day. I swear I see the Edmund Fitzgerald out the window. Nobody believes me. Whitecaps threaten anyone who dares to set sail on the menacing water. Of course, no one is out there. No one is walking the beach. Too windy. Too cold. Gordon Lightfoot won’t get out of my head.
The wind here is a temperamental, hormonal living entity: one moment tender and soothing, the next frigid and violent. But always cold, cold, cold. It slashes straight through us just like the abandoned farmhouses back home in FoldintheMap.
It is is our constant companion. Even when inside, it threatens. It rattles at the single pane windows like a dog seeking shelter during a thunderstorm. It whistles down the hallways of the hotel and distracts all but the most dedicated of us during our briefings. Even at its softest, it wails like La Llorona at night while we are trying to get to sleep. We are told the wind is a part of life here.
It bays from 22 miles away on the other side of the river in Argentina and picks up screaming speed and force across the icy whitecapped Rio de La Plata. It ruffles the tips of the beach grass like a mother stroking her child’s hair. I wonder aloud if they know about wind chill factors here like back home in FoldintheMap. No one says anything.
The locals stay indoors, in Montevideo’s shopping malls and movie theatres. The lines for the cinema stretch halfway down the mall. The only people here that are outdoors for any length of time are the gringo tourists and those that have to be. We have the sidewalks to ourselves. I’m hoping the rest of our week here will be calmer. Or indoors.
School has quickly come to an end and it’s now time to try a little exploring,--although easier said than done--as most of us foreigners have discovered--Buenos Aires is at best, difficult to navigate, and at worst, an incomprehensible tangle of complicated, convoluted streets that run on the diagonal, or inexplicably change names from block to block. Street signs, when present, are small and never in a consistent place. City maps are either outdated or miniscule. Many of the city’s attractions are not served by either the Subte (Subway) or the Colectivos (Buses), so one must factor in the price of a taxi into the price of a ticket—if lucky enough to be able to flag one down. Faced with these challenges, one quickly learns to rely on landmarks to get anywhere: for example, from my temporary home to get to the Subte, cross the street at the pizza place, walk five blocks and descend the stairs just past the third magazine kiosk, ride the Subte for four stops, (there’s no maps) turn left at the shrine to the Virgin Mary, ascend the stairs, walk seven blocks until the Burger King, and turn left at the white wooden pillars. All this while dodging uneven and or missing sidewalk tiles, dog poo, homeless people, beggars, pickpockets and little old ladies with canes. And that’s just on the sidewalk. Crossing the broad boulevards of Buenos Aires one learns to attach to a group of locals and offer up a prayer to the patron saint of Safety in Numbers. Still I must confess a bit of reluctant respect for the place. Born from nitty-gritty beginnings, Buenos Aires has become one of the most important cities in South America; its Italian heritage is still evident in its cuisine, its neighborhoods and its people. Spanish has a musical lilt here I’ve never heard anywhere else--like tango, it dances over the rubbish and rubble and alights upon the ears ever so gently-- like a lover’s kiss. And that’s what I came for.
When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to sing me a song that always used to make her cry. Not knowing how to react to her tears, I would cry too. Even now, whenever I hear the song, it strikes a sentimental chord deep within me that oftentimes racks me with deep sobbing tears.
And I never understood why. Until today.
The song laments the singer’s inability to travel to a delightful faraway land known only in stories—a land that no one can ever visit. It is the beautiful distant land of the future—a wonderful place that exists only in one’s imagination. Born before the automobile ever reached FoldintheMap, my grandmother never could have imagined the places her only grandchild would go. But her vivid imagination and her continuous encouragement, even now, decades after her death, serve as the wind beneath my wings.
I have found the end of the rainbow.
And today not only have I discovered this beautiful land, but I have discovered she has been here with me all the time.
Iguazu Falls is one of the biggest and most powerful waterfalls i/n the world. A furious avalanche of water, mist and spray, it is easily seen from over 30,000 feet in the air. Rightfully designated as a world heritage site, it is located at the confluence of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil. Fourteen miles of raging, roaring water plunges 20 stories into a giant gorge in a tropical jungle. If water could flow over the top of the Grand Canyon, it still wouldn’t equal Iguazu. After the winter cold of Buenos Aires, this past weekend in Puerto Iguazu has been a welcome and wonderful respite. Funny how one has to travel north here to get warm. The power of the water is breathtaking. One comes face to face with raging torrents of angry water, with sprays so intense it’s as if geysers are erupting from underneath the surface. This fascinating jungle home of giant butterflies, comical monkeys and begging coatis is an ecotourist’s paradise. One cannot help but come away from here feeling awed. Miles and miles of hiking trails cross straight over the water and many times right to the precipice above; one can traverse both above and below all fourteen miles of falls—the entire park is so enormous it cannot be seen in a single day. One of the most fun things I found to do in Iguazu was to hire a whitewater motorboat that will take a passenger almost directly under the cascading, plummeting water—guaranteeing money back if everyone does not become thoroughly soaked. It is the best way to see the world landmark up close and personal!
“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”--Unknown
I had made plans to reward myself after my first week of school in the city with a weekend excursion to Iguazu Falls in the northern part of Argentina, The falls are about 900 miles (or 24 hours by bus) away, so I decided to fly there to take advantage of the time.
Unfortunately, the winds shifted--carrying the ash from the volcanic eruption in Chile that was originally heading Australia’s way to now heading Argentina’s way. It completely closed both airports in Buenos Aires the day I was to leave (The acidic nature of ash can potentially clog an airplane engine).
So, forced to make lemonade from the lemons I was given, and once regrouped at my temporary home in Buenos Aires, I set forth on a mission to explore the city. The mission: to find Harley-Davidson Buenos Aires. After a brief research session online, fortified with plenty of helpful advice from my host Mom, I set out to find a Radio Taxi that would take me there. Armed with the directions from the Internet, I could not fail!
Fortified with my newfangled city bravado, I confidently flagged down a Radio Taxi and gave him the address I had copied from the Internet website. Off we charged into the Buenos Aires winter sunshine, bravely exploring a part of the city neither of us had seen before. All the bravado came to a screeching halt once we both realized the address I had written was not anywhere near where we needed to be. After numerous fruitless transmissions to the head office of the taxi company, my taxista, Alejandro, called a friend on his cell who directed us to the exact place we needed to be.
What was supposed to be a 15 minute trip ended up taking over three hours and costing me almost 200 pesos—but in the process, I made a friend and saw a part of Buenos Aires that most turistas rarely see. It was a good day all around.
