When I'm 64.....

Today is my birthday. I am no longer angry at my parents for doing this to me, but there was a time when I blamed them for everything, including my summer birth. A July birthday meant that parties were challenges. Growing up in suburban New York, where most children went away to overnight camp, summer parties were for toddlers or adults. About a week after school got out in late June, footlockers were jammed with shorts, sneakers and sweatshirts. The hegira of cars, buses and trains took kids from their leafy suburban homes to even leafier cabins in the Catskills and Poconos. No one between the ages of 8 and 14 was left on Victory Blvd.

When I was younger – before third grade or so – my mother had made parties for me. Friends were invited, cake was served, the tail was pinned on the donkey and I gleefully opened boxes filled with board games, Nancy Drew mysteries, and new plaid short sets. One July 8th, we were on a family trip to Lake Placid and spent the day at nearby Santa’s Village. I remember sitting on the big man’s lap, being serenaded by a bunch of strangers to an embarrassing chorus of the Happy Birthday song. My face felt as red as his suit. Other years, my parents would pile a bunch of us in cars and we’d all go to Playland for a day of ecstasy on the roller coaster and hysteria in the funhouse.

In 1954, when I was 8, we moved from our garden apartment in Tuckahoe to a brand-new split-level house near a good school system two towns beyond the Post Rd. Most of our new neighbors were more affluent than my family and when summer came, the wide streets mysteriously emptied of children. I don’t think my parents had thought about things like summer camp – just being out of the City and in a nice suburban home was their goal. By the next year, acquiescing to the neighborhood trend, they had squirreled away enough money for Stevie and me to go to Camp Wel-Met for six weeks. Other kids I knew went to eight-week camps with name like Nokomis and Pequot requiring uniforms and specialized sports equipment like tennis racquets and riding helmets. Wel-Met had no such prerequisites other than that your parents be somewhat left-leaning and fairly close to their proletariat roots.

My birthdays for the next few years were celebrated in a vast, rustic dining hall with a sheet cake to share with my bunkmates, no candles (we were in all wooden buildings) and my only presents being the contraband candy my parents would send me and some stupid thing Stevie made that day in the woods. I was fine with this. I had a bunch of friends around me, and lots of people singing a weird camp version of the birthday song while I lapped up the attention.

Camp birthdays did the trick until the year I turned 13. My mother had returned to work that year. Daddy was working longer hours in his jewelry business and money was tight. I was blissfully oblivious to the struggles my parents were facing until late June. “Daddy, it’s time to get my trunk up from the cellar”, I reminded him one night. I was getting excited about my upcoming summer when I would be a “Pioneer” – the camp designation for the oldest and, by definition, the coolest kids.

“Lets go for a walk after dinner, Ellen,” my father suggested. He was quieter than usual, then, turning to me, explained that he had missed the deadline for sending in my camp deposit. Stevie could go back, but I had to miss out on my long-awaited Pioneer Unit experience. I ranted and raved about the unfairness of it all, not understanding my family’s financial straits. Unable to cover the tuitions, my parents had to make a tough decision; my troubled brother needed the summer get-away more than I did.

For the next couple of weeks, I sulked in my bedroom, unaware of the pain my parent’s decision must have caused them. When I miserably re-emerged, my folks told me that for my birthday that year, I would have a special treat; they had gotten tickets to the new off-Broadway hit, “The Fantasticks”. That night, after a dinner at Mom and Dad’s favorite seafood restaurant, I fell in love. A young Jerry Orbach playing El Gallo, the dark omniscient narrator of the production, crooned “Try to Remember” in his sexy baritone voice just for me, it seemed – way better than the birthday song. I forgave my parents.

After that, I figured out that no one cared if I celebrated my birthday early, so June 8th became my unofficial celebration. I could have parties and friends, now aged-out of camping were still around. My Sweet Sixteen, a dinner with my girlfriends at Cesario’s, a suburban version of a swank Italian restaurant, was held on a balmy Friday, one month before my real birth date. It was everything I imagined a party should be, and now I realize my parents must have saved all year for it.

Moving out of my house for college and beyond, my mother gave up her efforts at making the perfect birthday fete for me. My friends took over and parties became excuses for drinking cheap wine and binging on store-bought cakes. When I started teaching, I slipped back into the “all the kids are gone” mode. The gooey, over-decorated layers that appeared in the teacher’s room for everyone else’s birthdays, stopped at the end of June. I gamely chipped in for all the cakes throughout the year, and never got one with my name on it. I more or less gave up on birthdays.

For my 40^th birthday, my husband of just a few months took me out for a lovely dinner. We were celebrating a lot of things that year – our wedding, my pregnancy and a new house – as well as my birthday. Ernie reached into his pocket and gave me what he thought I most wanted – the sales receipts for a washer and dryer duo so I could forego the pleasures of the laundromat.

Things improved after that. Ernie is basically a romantic soul and my presents and celebrations reflected his loving attention to my needs. I’ve received some lovely jewelry, inscribed books and dinners at Boston’s finest restaurants. For my 50^th, Ernie surreptitiously bought a painting I’d admired at an art show. He rented a private room at a top restaurant, hung the picture on the wall, invited 20 or so of our closest friends and secretly had my mother come up from NY. My first surprise party, and he pulled it off beautifully. In 2006, my 60^th was a smaller-scale repeat of the last big one. My mother was gone and our house is filled with paintings, so no new art – just old friends and our children.

On the off years – not big milestones, we make plans to do something lovely but July 8th often proves to be one of the summer’s steamiest days. We lose our momentum and have ended up, as a default setting, at Kelly’ Roast Beef along Revere Beach. I love sitting with my husband on the boardwalk, eating greasy fried clams off Styrofoam trays and protecting my food from the attack seagulls who celebrate with us.

Earlier this month, Ernie turned to me and asked “What should we do for your birthday?”

“Nothing would make me happier than a Kelly’s lobster roll”, I replied. And that’s where we’re going tonight.

Supermarket Dreams

I’ve spent a lot of time in supermarkets. It’s not so much that I buy a lot of food, as that I like browsing the aisles; I like looking at product. When a new store opens in the area, I check it out within days of the “Grand Opening”. The floor plans and layout all follow a similar logic, and it’s no mystery to me where things are located. I grab a carriage, drop my handbag in the basket, and enter a private zone where I wander through the store, checking out what’s on the shelves and in the bins.

In the tony suburb where I grew up, there were delicatessens, specialty food stores, butchers, grocery stores and greengrocers. Each spring, when the promise of frost disappeared, farm stands opened, spilling their colorful wares onto rough-hewn wooden tables and carts. My mother knew all the shopkeepers and spent hours going from one favorite to another, sometimes bargaining for the best deals, always engaging in conversation. In each shop, the staff knew her by name, and had a treats – cookies, slices of salami, or spoons full of ice-cream for me and my brother while we waited for her orders.

When I was little, the supermarket concept was in its infancy. Larger stores, offering wide varieties of foods and household goods for lower prices were starting to pepper the post-war suburban landscape. The A & P was the closest thing to today’s megastores, with its Ann Page products and shelves full of brightly colored packaged goods. Food was less expensive and almost as good than at the smaller stores, and as my father’s jewelry business limped along, competing with discount department stores, provided better value for my mother’s dollars. Daitch-Shopwell, a small-chain newcomer, opened its flashy showcase store in the local shopping center. It had a bakery, in-house butcher and lavish displays of fresh fruits and vegetables, charging less money for more goods than the local purveyors were able to do.

In 1954, soon after the store’s long-awaited appearance in town, we moved into our just finished new home. My family piled into the metallic green Dodge for a stock-up shopping trip. When we watched a sleek conveyor belt whisking our purchases past the check out girl, I was shocked to see that my parents had shelled out nearly $25, filling up 13 brown bags with food and cleaning things. I had never seen my mother spend so much money in one place or buy so MUCH stuff.

After I graduated from college and moved into my first real apartment, there were many other supermarket options – Purity Supreme, Star Market, Stop and Shop, Johnny’s and more. The closest one to me was the huge Star Market – the flagship store of a New England chain. It was spotless, the staff was helpful and the choices, considerably vaster than I needed as a single woman. I could walk there from my apartment, and when I was bored or lonely, I did. Occasionally, I’d bump into people I knew, and sometimes I’d be lucky, meet a cute guy and flirt a few minutes away.

When I was in my early thirties, a new type of store appeared – the discount supermarket. Cambridge Warehouse Foods was hidden in the back parcel of an industrial park. Its owner, Matthew, whom I ended up dating, had glommed onto a brilliant idea – to sell overstocked and underappreciated foods at lower prices than the traditional supermarkets. He had set up a hodge–podge of fire sale shelving and cold cases, then, filled them with all sorts of packaged goods, produce and meats. A customer could never count on finding the same things from day to day. It was, however, a treasure trove of hard-to-find and exotic foods. As a foodie-in-training, I was in hog heaven. In Matthew’s playground, I found papayas, pate, puff pastry and more. Food shopping was more like a trip to the local fleamarket, with new and wonderful things to be found around every scruffy corner.

After a while, my relationship with Matthew and his emporium fizzled out, and he lost his lease. I moved on with my life and into the role of wife and mother, as well as continuing with my teaching. Supermarket trips became more hurried and focused. I missed the leisurely browsing and strolling of my single years. My daughter first wanted to sit in the carriage, where my handbag used to rest, and later, as she grew into childhood, wanted to push. Of course, I’d let her, but secretly was hoping she’d give up – I missed that feeling of that plastic sheathed metal bar under my hands. Some nights, I’d steal away, after she was in bed, to the therapeutic mindlessness of perambulating the shelves and aisles.

House swapping in Europe, with my husband and daughter, forced me to become acquainted with Old World interpretations of the American supermarket. In Shropshire, I shopped at Tesco, a large British chain. Instead of the long alleys filled with the brightly packaged cold cereals and pastas I was used to, the Brits filled their store with miles of baked bean offerings. Who ever knew that there were so many iterations of Heinz’s 57 varieties? And what’s with all that candy?

In France, we discovered the colossal Carrefour market where employees roller-skated from one department to the next. The food was incroyable, and the prices meilleur marche. The cheese section alone was worth the trip. I filled my carriage with exotic melons, thick slices of pates and bottled soupe de poissons. The local street markets were equally merveilleux with vendors, proffering tastes of everything they hawked.

We spent two summers in Italy – one in Umbria, and the other in Mantova. Both regions offered inferior supermarket experiences. After we figured out how to insert a Euro into the handle of each carriage in order to gain control, the local COOP in Allerona was a disappointment. Italians, it seems, much prefer shopping at small alimentari or at street markets. In Mantova, the nearest market was part of a German chain, LIDL, which I never figured out how to pronounce. It was a dreary old-fashioned store, much more like those old A & Ps I knew from my childhood.

Most recently, we were in Ireland – not a country known for fine fare. The nearest supermarket, the Superquinn, was adequate, but not worth more than a footnote in my trip journal. This Irish chain offered little more than one might find in any well-stocked 7-11. The most successful foray we had into the gastronomic world of the Celts was at a Polish supermarket; one of many we found in Dublin. Kielbasa, in my humble opinion, beats bangers, hands down.

These days, I try to avoid the standard supermarkets that sprinkle the suburbs. The most interesting food can be found at small markets, much like the ones that were forced out of business in the 1960s and 70s and are stubbornly reappearing in trendy neighborhoods. But, I still crave that aisle strolling experience, looking for gems hidden among the ConAgra dross. When I need my supermarket fix, I find myself making excuses to drop into Stop and Shop or the new massive Market Basket in Chelsea. After swiping the carriage handle with an anti-bacterial wipe, I drop my handbag in the basket, and do just what my mother did many years ago. But now, after my purchases move along the belt and are electronically scanned, $25 buys me barely enough to fill one paper or plastic bag.

The Car WIfe

I never cared about cars. When I was growing up, cars were sex symbols – the bigger the fins, the bigger, well you know. I had no use for that bourgeois silliness.

In suburbia, where I spent my formative years, the newer, shinier, longer, more expensive your car, the more you were admired by the neighbors. At least, that’s what I imagined with my adolescent hyper-awareness of image.

My family was not as well heeled as many of the other residents of Victory Blvd.; and, my father didn’t drive. We had one car – an unusual situation in the tony suburb we were living. That car, to my deep embarrassment, was a cheaper model than most. No Cadillacs or Buicks for us. My mother drove a white Nash Rambler, and later a bottom of the line maroon Chevy. Dr. Peckins, next door got a spanking new T-bird each year, and his self-effacing wife, Estelle, drove a stylish, two-tone, fin and leather enhanced Oldsmobile. Even Bonnie Weinstein’s trashy parents had a Cadillac. My disdain for middle class values battled with my need to fit in with the popular kids.

For the most part, I ignored cars. Oh, I could recognize the silhouettes; my brother and his friends visited dealerships on days off from school and brought home glossy four-colored brochures that lay around the house. I knew the difference between a 1960’s Corvair and a Corvette as well as any teenager. However, driving my own car was still a distant dream, and I was more interested in my books and collecting cat postcards than fantasizing about “wheels”.

I took Driver’s Ed., like all the kids in my High School, from Eddie Accocella, a washed up athlete who had tricked out his car with two sets of brakes. He would take us out on the highway and stomp on his set of brakes, screaming at us when our skills wavered. I failed the driver’s exam twice,

I didn’t get back behind the wheel until late in college, when I decided a commitment to public transportation. though politically correct, left something to be desired. I rescheduled and passed the road test. When I graduated, my mother surprised me with a check for half the cost of a new forest green Volvo – the first of their automatic transmissions. I was intoxicated with the freedom it gave me, and the image I presented. But, the high I got was short-lived.

My Volvo was a lemon – a new term in my lexicon. Everything that could, did go wrong. From that point in my life, I gave up on cars as status symbols or even fun toys. When I met and married my first husband, Elliot, he sold the Volvo out from under me and replaced it with a tiny, light blue VW. “Oh, you’ll be fine learning to shift’’ he assured me one Saturday after the car appeared in our driveway. On the following Monday, I drove myself from Brighton to Belmont, over the Pleasant Street hill, in the snow. Shaken, I arrived in my classroom, silently swearing at Elliot, as I smiled at my fifth graders.

I triumphantly conquered shifting, drove that little bug for years and learned to love it. After I divorced, I bought my real “first” car, a hot little chocolate brown VW Rabbit. When I met my present husband, Ernie, he was duly impressed. “Hmmm - a girl who has a cool car and can drive a shift.”

Ernie and I got married. He drove a sexy little black Scirroco and had a glamorous job as a consultant – very trendy in 1985. He traveled back and forth to Paris several times a year and I planned to go along. How was I to know that his job was running out of gas and he was searching for another career?

Through a series of complicated events, Ernie found that he had a particular proclivity for tinkering with cars and that he was a crackerjack salesman. Slowly, he grew a business of buying and selling used cars and enjoying the lifestyle that developed – working at home and being around his family.

As a result of his business, I was given whatever car he had around. I drove a VW Quantum, a couple of Tauruses, and Audi and then mostly Subarus as that became his specialty. “Just give me one that passes inspection. The rest – color, style, size, is all unimportant.” I intoned several times a year.

And Ernie was a good provider – I’ve always had nice car, perhaps for not as long as I’d like, if there was a customer in the wings, but he invariably had a backup for me. After all, I am married to the Subaru Guru – a name given to him by a customer years ago that stuck.

I’m still basically disinterested in cars, but they are part of my life. Automobiles have paid for our home, our daughters’ educations and all the material things I have ever wanted. Sex symbols, though, they are not. At this point, as long as it starts when the key is turned and I can crank up the heat in New England winters, I’m a happy driver.

Mr. Fix-it

My husband, Ernie, can fix anything – or almost anything. Computers, oddly, are off-limits; he’s chosen to opt out of that minefield leaving me to develop relationships with the Apple “geniuses” and the cute computer jock who owns a shop nearby. Mechanical, electrical, basic plumbing, heating and carpentry problems are all within his bailiwick. His skills have saved us, I would guess, some thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of dollars that most people fork over to handymen and repair crews.

This, in no way, should imply that these jobs get done easily or in the timeliest of manners. Months can drag on without the use of one or another appliance, hinge or fully functional handle. We’ve learned to bypass problems with band-aid fixes until they reach the point of total, tantrum-inducing frustration. My daughters and I have figured out how to jiggle doorknobs and keys, manually stop the dishwasher rinse cycle, ream out clogged drains and match light the stove’s electrical igniter system. We step over unsecured bits of molding, and masssage the spigots of the Jacuzzi to adjust water temperature.

The upside of my hubby’s talents is that we have outstandingly sophisticated sound and lighting systems, a beautiful cork floor in the kitchen and cars that never have to be serviced. We’ve recently acquired Astra, the Cadillac of espresso machines, that he plumbed right into the water source. Upon its arrival, before it took up half the counter space in the kitchen, Ernie brought it to his workbench and took it all apart, “just to see how it works”. Now that he is on intimate terms with its mechanical skeleton, and having tweaked the matching coffee grinder to an acceptable, if not perfect level of performance, he can go toe to toe with any barista in Massachusetts.

I’ve also had to accept that whenever we purchase something – furniture, appliances, even decorative pieces, Ernie is already planning to rebuild, retrofit or improve it. Several chairs have extra lifts put under the front legs, the coffee grinder just yesterday got a new, easier-to-grasp handle, and little plastic bumpers have been affixed to the toilet seats to affect a more quiet closure.

Every once and again, several appliances/systems/parts go on strike - as if they had a union meeting and planned a work slow down. “Ernie needs a project”, they must conspire in the dark of the night. As I write, the stove is wheezing it’s pre-heating song, the toilet is refusing to swallow all the tissue bits and I just tripped over the wooden floor strip (is it a jamb?) between the kitchen and dining room. I hesitate to insist that they be repaired, knowing that I’ll be climbing over, working around or pushing aside various parts and tools for days or weeks to come.

When Ernie and I became engaged, I promised never to turn into a nagging wife, and I think that for the most part, I’ve succeeded. “I can manage with this (broken, bent, squeaking, choose one) (door, handle, switch) for a little longer” has been my smiling response to so many little household indignities.

In my earlier life, I believed that I was a reasonably competent young woman, able to fix simple things and keep my car oil changed twice a year. In allying myself with Mr. Fix-it, my ego has taken a beating; my meager home repair skills pale in the face of his mastery of household mysteries.

For my own mental health, I needed to identify my strengths to reset the scales evenly. As good as Ernie is at fixing things, I realized he’s at a total loss when it comes to organizing his space and putting things in order. “I don’t get that when you fold things, they take up less space. It just doesn’t make sense,” he told me recently. Folding, straightening and compartmentalizing are things I do without even thinking.

When Ernie plies his talent and fixes or rebuilds everything in sight, whether it needs it or not, I know it’s time to call upon my gift. I waltz in, push him aside and clean up the mess. Everything goes back where it belongs, neatly folded, sorted and wiped down. Between the two of us, like Jack Sprat and his wife, the balance is perfect; we can keep the clutter clean and everything working at its optimal best.

Machu-Picchu and beyond...

“Ellen, Ellen, we’re over here….” I looked around to see my cousin Joan and the man she recently married, Wes, waving at for me. I wouldn’t have missed them, even without the shout-out. Standing in a crowd of Peruvian peasants, Joan, at 5’7” and Wes, at 6’4
” weighing in over 300 lbs., looked decidedly gringo.

Two days before, I had left cold wintry, wet Boston, and joined a cheap NY based junket bound for Lima, to spend a week visiting Machu Picchu and the surrounding countryside. When I landed on the steamy Peruvian asphalt, a half dozen or so “guides” surrounded me, offering help to navigate Lima’s maze of neighborhoods. With the help of one of them, I’d managed to get a next day ticket to Cuzco, the ancient city at the foot of the Andes. I was ready for my adventure.

When I reached for my wallet to pay Juan or whatever his name was, even though I had been forewarned about airport scams, I discovered my wallet had been picked out of my pocket. My first hours in South America were spent negotiating with multiple policias and funcionarios del aeropuerto, decked out in random military-esque uniforms. Not surprisingly, my stuff was never found.

By the time I arrived in Cuzco, an hour’s flight from the busy capitol, I was ready to take on South America. “We’ll go back to our house and have something to eat,” Wes suggested. “I’ve been cooking all day.” He and Joan, a linguist, had been living in a village near the old city. Joan was seriously immersing herself in the local culture and studying the Quechuan dialect while her newly acquired, unemployed husband was getting used to his role as wife.

Their little white stucco house, smaller than my apartment in Boston, was filled with local artifacts and an assortment of handcrafted musical instruments Wes had collected from nearby villages. I was shown my bed, in the corner of the closet they called a study, and dropped my bags. Whatever Wes had prepared for our meal, smelled wonderful after my day and a half of airport chips and sodas. In the dark kitchen, the rough table was set with crude terra cotta dishes. I sat down and Wes ladled up a savory, herb-scented stew. After a few bites, I asked what type of meat was in it. “Guinea pig”, Wes answered. “Tender, huh?” I stopped chewing. Visions of Butterscotch, my classroom pet, being cared for by one of my students over the winter break, seemed to hover above us. Pleading a an upset stomach, I left the stew on my plate and nibbled on some boiled potatoes.

That evening, we went into town to meet up with friends and introduce me to the local music scene. The plaza in front of the old colonial catedral católica served as a marketplace, filled with peasants selling random goods ranging from hand crafted textiles and pottery to packaged foods and cheap plastic household items – a flea market in day-glo colors. Every few feet, there would be someone sitting on a rough woven blanket, selling what appeared to be a pile of dried leaves; coca, as it turned out, which, chewed in its natural state, is a stimulant, and more importantly, the basis for the production of cocaine.

After a few hours of walking around, sampling the local alcohol and buying tickets for the next day’s trip up the mountain to the ruins of Machu Picchu, I was feeling wheezey and woozy. My asthma was flaring up, my head felt unusually light and my tummy was not right. “Soroche – altitude sickness,” Wes diagnosed. “Chewing coca leaves usually does the trick, that, or glucose tablets.” So, we circled the Mercado once more to score a baggy full of leaves that promised to be much more interesting than sugar pills. Back at the house, I whiffed my inhaler, chewed a few foul tasting leaves and fell into bed.

“Time to get up,” Joan and a rooster called in the early morning from the front yard. “We need to be in town to get the train.” I was feeling less than my best, but wasn’t ready to forego my only chance to see the ruins. The clouds weighed heavily, but hoping for clearer skies, we boarded the train at a village station and set off for the lost city of the Incas. The ascent to Machu Picchu was by switchback rail, zigzagging its way up the cloud-covered mountain, over treacherous cliffs. By the time we reached the top I was so overcome by altitude, I could barely stand. Wheezing and coughing, clutching my brand-new camera, I leaned against Wes and gamely climbed over rock walls, taking badly lit photos of the site. I would have been better off buying picture postcards at the train station tourist trap, as my mother always did when she traveled.

That evening, back in Cuzco, we got a taxi and returned to the house. Joan’s friends all had advice about what would cure me – more coca leaves and tea, ponche – a local drink that promised to cure everything, anticuchos (grilled beef hearts) and local beer. None of this improved my condition, but I slogged on, listening to jazz musicians gig and drinking Pisco sours. I was not going to give in to the myth of altitude sickness and miss out on anything, including Marco, their very hot friend who was particularly solicitous of my well-being.

The next few days were a blur of sightseeing and socializing with a growing awareness that I was not adjusting to the altitude and that my asthma was scarily escalating. December is summer in Peru, and brings with it high humidity and rain. My allergy to the mold and mildew that flourished in the stucco walls all around me, was raging. My inhaler had run out of steam or whatever it spewed, and I needed to figure out how to get back to Lima for my return flight to NY on Sunday. It was Thursday, and I wanted to make sure I could get a ticket back to the capitol allowing me enough time to figure out transfers and luggage issues. For my peace of mind, I hoped to get my ticket sooner rather than leave it for the last minute.

What I didn’t understand, and ran full force into, was the Peruvian concept of “now”. “This is South America,” Wes explained. “Time is different here.” Our fruitless visits to travel agents in Cuzco proved him right. Sure, they would all be able to get me a ticket to fly to Lima, but when was questionable.

“Maybe, there’s a flight on Saturday. Maybe not,” was repeated over and over. “Not to worry – you’ll get to Lima.”

Disheartened, by the laissez-faire attitudes of travel agents and after a few hours of frustrating non-compliance, we decided to go out to the airport – nothing more than a large shed with walled off areas for official business. We were assured by various clerks, that if I arrived at the airport on Saturday morning, I would be able to get a flight back to Lima. This sounded hopeful, but with no actual ticket, my gringo doubts kicked into play.

“I think this is the best we can do, now, Ellen. Let’s go home and show up here on Saturday. It’d probably be a good idea to have some cash with you to make sure this happens.” Wes and I got on the bus back to Cuzco, stopping at a bank to exchange soles for the more stable and desirable American dollars.

Early Saturday morning, we re-boarded the dilapidated, multi-colored bus back to the airport. Wes pushed me towards a seat among the jabbering locals carrying everything from laundry to livestock while the bus careened down the dirt roads, finally dropping us at the entrance to the airport. Between my wheezing and general lack of Spanish, communicating with the airport personnel proved almost impossible. Wes and Joan took over and managed to secure a place for me on a military transport to Lima. Barring any great misfortune or Peruvian contretemps, I would be able to catch my NY bound flight later the next day.

I spent that night in the gritty Lima hotel room that was part of the trip package, and set my alarm for an early morning alert. The city is at sea-level, and with some relief, I no longer felt the effect of the extreme altitudes of the Andes. Although I was still wheezing, I was able to get myself a simple breakfast in the hotel and find a taxi to the airport.

At the gate, the clerk noticed my distress, ordered a wheelchair, and made arrangements for me to have access to oxygen on the return flight. As dreadful as this may sound, I wasn’t especially worried about the flight or my asthma – I just wanted to be back home. The large jet arrived on the tarmac and a flight attendant wheeled me and my luggage to the plane.

“STOP! – HALT! - !ALTO”, Two red-faced military officers called out as I approached the plane. “Is that your luggage? Open it up!” and they grabbed my bags from my hands. As they pulled apart my belongings, I demanded to know why. My unorthodox, escorted ride across the airstrip must have raised some bureaucratic flags.

“Why are you in a wheel chair? What are you trying to smuggle?” they yelled at me. They threw my clothes on the ground and opened up anything that was packaged.

“Nothing – I’m just a school teacher visiting Peru on holiday.” By then, I was wheezing heavily and crying; usually a sympathy-evoking behavior. Unimpressed, the two uniformed, armed men continued their search. “There’s nothing in there that you would want,” I pleaded.

After some time, they were satisfied that there was no contraband – I later found out that it was coca leaves they were looking for, and they released me. Hurriedly, I repacked my luggage, boarded the plane, clamped an oxygen mask over my mouth and slept the whole way back to JFK.

My mother and brother, waiting at the airport, took one look at me, and drove off to the hospital where I spent the next two weeks recovering from my vacation in Peru. But, that’s the another story.