My Run-In With La Policia

I wrote this headline and blog post (below) last year and thought they were clever and funny. But they’re neither of those things. They’re just sad and ignorant.

I’m leaving them both as-is to remind myself how easy I have it. As a member of the majority, I can make these kinds of “jokes,” and I have the privilege to think they’re funny. Because when a cop pulls me over, I don’t have to be afraid. The authority figure with the gun is my friend.

For so, so many others, that’s not the case. Living in my little bubble of privilege, I cannot begin to imagine what a life living with discrimination is like. So I’m listening and reading and learning, and you should do the same. I won’t take my misinformed blog post down, but I wouldn’t recommend reading it. Instead, check these out:


When white people tell each other to stay safe during an uprising

Economic devastation fueling anger in Baltimore

Many organizers at the forefront of protests are women, despite men taking center stage


Police officers are always picking me up.

When I lived in NYC (and wasn’t reporting a story—that’s an important distinction), I was driven from the Morningside Heights precinct all the way up to the east side of 125th by two very nice gentlemen who also gave me tips on what to order at Sylvia’s.

As a Washingtonian, cops literally pulled me off the streets once a week. I was driven to a soccer game, a metro station and, once, to my house. (Aside: It was WAY better than Uber.)

Perhaps I walk around with a sign on my back that says, “EASILY ROBBED. SAVE HER. FILLING OUT A POLICE REPORT WITH THIS ONE WILL BE A NIGHTMARE.”

It was really only a matter of time before the local authorities here picked up on my trail. I was walking around San Isidro, a neighborhood about an hour north of my house. And FINE, I was admittedly lost, but just a little bit! I was only three blocks off. I would’ve found it eventually.

Anyhow, the Serenazgo—Lima’s version of police officers—found me and walked me to my destination.

I finally feel like this is home!

The Blob Has Taken Over My Apartment

I’m really looking forward to the night when I’m tipsy from a couple glasses of wine (OK, who are we kidding, one glass of wine), and I’ll elbow Greg and say, ‘HEY, HEY, remember that timeee when we rented that apartment in Peru? Yeah, yeah, and we didn’t know it had that MOLD INFESTATION! Ohmygod, that was a riot! Let’s never do THAT again!’

And then I’ll laugh hysterically because I think I’m really funny when I’m tipsy (OK, who are we kidding, I’m not funny, I’m hilarious).

The Backstory

At first, I was fascinated by this mold, which I affectionately dubbed “The Blob” because it was covering a huge wall in our bedroom (and then later not-so-affectionately re-dubbed it “THAT *!$$@*”). As a science journalist, I think fungus of all kinds is incredibly interesting. And as a health reporter, mold is always a great story. Mold, depending on the type, has a habit of releasing spores almost constantly. And, again, depending on the type, those spores can be incredibly toxic.

Toxic, as in, they can KEEL you.

Not wanting to sneeze myself to death, I decided The Blob had to go, and it had to go ASAP. ASAP turned out to be a Friday night at the end of a long week. *sigh

So far we’ve tried bleach, vinegar, boric acid and—after reading a crunchy blog—tea tree oil. With bandanas to cover our noses and long-sleeve shirts and pants to keep the spores off our bodies, the significant other and I looked like two bandits who missed “Weapons 101” day at Bad-Guy School. Wielding cleaning supplies to do battle with a carpet of fuzz clinging to the walls, kitchen table, hallway table, shoes, jackets, electronics, desk, closets, drawers, cupboards, and drapes isn’t going to make it into a Marvel Comic anytime soon.

The Blob Strikes Again

Lima has seen a huge construction boom over the past few years. Our building is relatively new, which is why we liked it—and also probably why we have mold. These buildings are constructed quickly, which means corners are cut, and ventilation is practically nonexistant. Couple that with Lima’s normal humidity and the fact that I live a mere five blocks from the coast means that we may have conquered The Blob now.

But it’s waiting.

And it’s going to strike again. Dun DUn DUN.

Be Impressed! I go to the Gym EVERY Day

I go to the gym every day.

No kidding, I go every, single, darn day. OK, except yesterday. I didn’t go because I wasn’t feeling well, and I had a big pimple on my chin, and I didn’t want people to judge me. The lady at the front desk looks kind of judgey.

So, you may be thinking, ‘She goes to the gym every day? I mean, she looks pretty buff, but not like super, crazy buff.’ To you people, A) Thank you! *air high five* B) I’m working on it, but super, crazy buff is hard to achieve without testosterone or, you know, ‘roids.

I go to the gym every day, not to work out, but for the showers. God, I could write love songs about those showers. They’re clean and comfy and warm and smell like fancy smells that you can only get at a fancy gym except I pay $35 a month. It’s spectacular, you guys. I’m pretty sure heaven is one, long, consistently warm shower at the Fiesta Casino gym.

The shower in my apartment generally toggles between scalding hot and freezing cold. I’ve learned to appreciate scalding because its presence is so fleeting—about 8 minutes or so. Then the freezing sets in, usually when I’m about 2 minutes away from getting my long hair soap-free, and I can’t say I’m a fan of that sudden jolt of awfulness.

Yesterday, big pimple, sore throat day, I didn’t go to the gym and missed out on this glorious, daily ritual. I’d also forgotten that because we go to the gym so often (did I mention I go ERRY DAY, you guys?!) the significant other and I had turned off our water heater, which is really just this tiny tank in the laundry room. So the shower water was cold—really cold.

Fun fact: A watched water heater doesn’t heat.

Quick question: Should I use a #thirdworldproblems or #firstworldproblems hashtag for this post?

So this evening I was washing dishes and managed, by some miracle, to hit the sweet spot between scalding and freezing, and I had the sudden urge to get naked and crawl into the sink. But then I realized that our neighbor’s bedroom looks straight into our window. And then I didn’t care because when someone doesn’t speak your first language, you develop a certain ambivalence. For example, Greg and I often have loud, obnoxious English conversations in Starbucks, and I’m pretty sure everyone speaks my native tongue, BUT there’s plausible deniability.

SPOILER ALERT: Never have I ever sink showered… yet.

Welp, today’s a new day, and I’m off to the gym. It’s shower time! Oh, and maybe I’ll exercise.