please note: this post is all lowercase because i can’t afford uppercase. priorities, y’all.
this year, i’m turning 30.
i won’t miss much about my 20s. it’s been a minute since i last “partied,” and i can’t say i’m choked up about my inability to process more than one glass of wine. the college-aged crowd is welcome to take my place at the beer pong table while I head to bed at 9:30. peace. out.
i’m pretty sure i’ve actually been 30 for about 15 years, and i’ve spent all this time waiting for my body to catch up. my idea of a fabulous friday night has always been somewhere along the lines of binge-watching grey’s anatomy while eating copious amounts of pretzels dipped in peanut butter.
i hate bars. dating. roommates. house parties. “finding” yourself. basically all things that make your 20s, well, your 20s. but, i am pretty devastated about one tiny detail:
it’s not cool to be poor anymore.
remember when, if you were rich, you were kind of a jerk? like, if you couldn’t complain about your crushing student debt on the daily, you weren’t part of the “it” crowd?
remember when talking about vacations in xyz fancy-ass country was kind of a dick move? like, when going to florida for spring break was a big deal? now people take legit vacations and stay in hotels for chrissakes. (when did we start staying in hotels?!)
people in their 30s own real watches (and they didn’t buy them from target)! people in their 30s order wine at dinner—and not just the cheap house wine either. these folks have fancy gadgets that come in apple’s sleek packaging, loft apartments in parts of new york i’ve never even visited, and their furniture is not exclusively ikea/craigslist. what is my world coming to?!
and, if you’re rolling your eyes, i get it. i wouldn’t use “destitute” to describe my financial situation—even by a 30-year-old’s standards. the word “poor” comes to mind, but that’s not true either. perhaps, “monetarily unstable” is the more suitable term. as a freelance journalist, i make enough (look, y’all, i splurged for italics!), but not nearly as much as i’d like. everyone told us millennials to find our “passion” and, unfortunately, nobody mentioned i should consider take-home salary when i went searching. i blame overly supportive parents. *hi, mom! thanks sooo much for believing in me!
when being poor was cool, i truly rocked it. i remember:
- doing my makeup solely with makeup samples
- ordering the cheapest beer on tap
- living with three roommates and their cats, dogs, ferrets (once)
- smuggling in twizzlers, diet coke and tiny bottles of vodka into movie theaters
- couch surfing
- when my body could handle breakfastlunchdinner ramen without shooting my blood pressure through the roof from excessive sodium
- wearing the same dress to three weddings
- wearing the same shoes until they fell apart
- bottomless brunches at the red derby, and just sitting there for five hours like a jerk
- not tipping nearly enough (i know, i know, i was a booface in my 20s!)
- walking around with a broken android screen because a new one was too expensive and my contract wasn’t up
- living in a walk-in closet
- buying dented cans to get the discount
- sleeping on an air mattress on the floor until the day i moved in with my (older) significant other
with the big 3-0 fast approaching, i’ve decided to woman-up. it’s time to start paying for netflix* instead of mooching off my parents. it’s high time i order that headboard. time to get off the “family” plan on my cell phone. i’m ready to buy a wallet that doesn’t have hello kitty on it. and the second-cheapest beer on tap. and healthy groceries. and a watch.
AND CAPITAL LETTERS, BOOYAAAA! This is 30, folks.
*(Just kidding, Mom, I’m totally gonna mooch off your Netflix forever. Love you.)
Photo Credit: Fabian Blank
- Get famous Peruvian sandwiches (pavo con criollo) and fries (papas) from a local chain called La Lucha and eat them in Bosque Olivar, which is a really beautiful old park in San Isidro. You can then get coffee/tea and Peruvian cookies (alfajores) at my favorite bakery next door to the park called Casa Alfajores.
- Go to Madame Tusan for modern Peruvian-Chinese fusion, known as chifa. There are tons of regular chifas, but they’re very similar to the U.S. version of Chinese food.
- There are also Peruvian-Japanese fusion restaurants called Nikkei. Our favorite is Ache. Maido is also very good.
- Try traditional Peruvian dishes. Those are ceviche, lomo saltado, aji de gallina, causa limena, arroz con pollo, ocopa. There’s also the famous pisco sour and lesser known maracuya sour. As for fruits, lucuma is Peruvian staple and we really enjoy desserts with chirimoya.
- The Plaza de Armas is the heart of the historic downtown. It’s worth a short stop and perhaps a meal. I’d suggest going around sunset.
- The best sight we’ve seen downtown is the San Francisco monastery because it has catacombs with a ton of bones.
- The main art museum is downtown and called MALI. I’m not sure what’s showing now, but I’d say you can skip it. The contemporary art museum (MAC) in Barranco is more interesting.
- Night tour of South America’s second oldest cemetery.
- Dinner overlooking Lima’s old ruins at Huaca Pucllana. This is the best food the Significant Other and I have had in Lima!
- Dinner at Astrid y Gaston. You need to make a reservation. It’s one of the top 50 restaurants in the world.
- Make sure to order ceviche (Peru’s national dish) and a pisco sour (Peru’s national drink) at Punto Azul
- Cultural event like dance or opera or a musical (in English or Italian)
- Futbol game (our team isn’t great, but it’s fun to watch!)
- Going to Parque Kennedy, the main square, and eating picarones (a very Peruvian dessert), and getting juice (it’s a BIG thing here, going for juice!)
- Lima’s Magic Water Show (google it) is gorgeous, especially during the hot summer months
- Walking along the Malecon, Lima’s version of a boardwalk overlooking the ocean, and getting lunch at a bungalow (beware: don’t go during rush hour)
- Day trips to go see the Peruvian pyramids, sand boarding or the Nasca lines
I just moved back to the United States after living and reporting from Lima, Peru. Reacclimating has been tough. I miss reporting on topics I know are important. I miss the challenge of navigating Latin America. But, most of all, I miss my old world. It’s just weird to be on U.S. soil.
People rarely ask me about Peru, but when they do it’s mostly to reference Machu Picchu and rattle off some platitude about the joys of traveling. And that’s cool. Small talk is small talk. But it kind of wears on a gal, you know?
In the future, when you meet someone who’s just moved “home” after time away, keep the following tips in mind. It’ll make their (very stressful) transition oh-so much easier.
Stop calling it a journey, an adventure, a gap year, a fellowship or a “year off.”
This isn’t some “Eat, Pray, Love” bullshit. I didn’t run away from the first world so I could gofindmyself or embracemybody or discoverthemeaningoflife.
Also, an adventure is what little kids go on after their mothers have sufficiently smothered them in sunscreen and checked the backyard for snakes. Take note.
No, my parents didn’t fork over the big bucks so I could galavant across a continent.
No, I didn’t have an institution backing my work or paying my way.
No, I didn’t take a year off, but I did work my ass off.
Stop telling me, “Oh, I could never do that.”
You definitely can’t do it. You can’t do it, but not for the reasons you’re implying. You sigh and say, “Not everybody has as much spare income as you.” “Not everyone has so much time.” “Not everyone has so few responsibilities.”
I would like to point out that I am white, and my parents are proud members of the U.S. middle class, which means I have WAY more opportunities than most people in the world. But you, naysayer, aren’t referring to that.
Stop implying that I have money to burn—I’m a freelance reporter. Stop suggesting I spent a year in the lap of luxury—see this post. Stop insinuating that I had no one to answer to—I have personal goals, financial demands, editors, family and face societal pressures just like everyone else.
Maybe you can’t do it because you’re not willing to throw yourself into the unknown without a safety net. Maybe you’re not a fan of literally chasing down sources? Maybe you want to avoid tear gas? Or, maybe international reporting just isn’t your thing. And that’s fine, but please stop with the nudges and winks already.
Stop saying, “Oh, that must have been so much fun!”
Because, most of the time, it wasn’t.
Most of the time the simple act of eating was a battle because everything that went into my mouth came out. Most of the time I was fighting people who wanted to screw me over. Most of the time I was grappling with the cultural barrier. Most of the time I was cold or sick or scared or a lovely combo of all three.
<rant>Do you know how difficult it is to pitch stories about Latin America? GOOD stories? Stories that take history into account, that don’t whitewash, that don’t gloss over culture? Do you know how much mansplaining I had to endure with editors back home? how much ignorance and apathy there was in regard to anything that wasn’t U.S.- or Europe-related?</rant>
Yes, you went to Machu Picchu. Yes, you went on a reporting trip to the Amazon. No, it is not the same thing as living and reporting in the country. That is called “parachuting in.”
So, yeah, I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but it wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns.
I was born in December, and it’s a cumpleaños I find stressful. The fact that people are gonna shout “HAPEE BURTHDAY!!!11” this week, wish me “MURRY CHRISSMAS” in two weeks and then just days later exclaim “HAPEE NEW YEARZ!” induces all kinds of anxiety.* There’s too much going on. Too many people expect too many smiles and too many heart-to-hearts and too much happiness and…
December is just toomanyfeels.
Christmas ignites a fierce longing for my hometown—the simplicity of the countryside, the beauty that is California, the comfort that is family. It’s an emotion that’s raw and all-consuming, but because ImnotmovingbackMOM, I don’t like to admit it. Christmas forces me to concede that home life isn’t all that bad and, WORSE, wonder if I’m missing out. So I bah humbug holiday movies and glare at the produce when our local grocery store blasts carols.
Hey, the best defense is a good offense.
Then there’s New Year’s Eve. Whoever invented New Year’s resolutions is right up on my mierda list with adult acne, expensive haircuts, and that dude who decided women should wear high heels. The end of another year means everyone reassesses their life choices, and introspection isn’t exactly easy without your favorite ice cream on hand. (Who can afford the calories? Resolution No. 1 is to eat healthier. BLARGH.)
I think my birthday is really what tips things over the edge. Like every person, ever, I’ve started to consider my own mortality. Plus, I recently found a gray hair. #nocomment
This year, in a brave attempt to stave off whatever emotional rollercoaster December has in store, I took the jealousy test. During the jealousy test you think about all the successful people you know. If you feel pangs of jealousy when you conjure up their achievements, you should consider making those your own goals. And, lord knows, I love setting goals. It makes me feel immensely better—a simple, yet effective way to get through the holidays. Eyes on the prize.
So I thought about my friends who have won awards for their hard work, and how amazing that must’ve felt and how talented they all are.
I considered the brilliant people I know at the WaPo, ProPublica and Scientific American and the important work they’re doing.
Then I let my mind wander, and a woman I’ve only chatted with two times randomly popped into my head. She’s barely 30 and has already been to 37 countries. Maldito, that’s amazing!! I want to be this woman.
If this were a BuzzFeed quiz, I’d hit “enter” and a sensational headline with way too many cat photos would pop up. If it were an actual test, I’d get it back with an A+ (’cause that’s how I roll). But since it’s a very light and non-scary form of contemplation, I can be excited. I can make lofty goals and then plan out my daysweeksmonths to meet my objectives.
That is, if I survive December.
*I guess most people I know are soused for these events.
Although I already own hardcover and Kindle editions in English, I contemplated purchasing the Spanish-language edition. The cover’s simple yet clever design and elegant typography drew me. I’m a sucker for a good cover, especially on a book I’ve re-read portions of multiple times.
I also heaped its praise on to a friend browsing along with me. He sounded interested. Then we checked the price: s./140.
That’s $48. Oof.
I know many books — especially by U.S. authors that have been translated and nicely produced like this copy — are pricey here, but for a no-so-obscure book (maybe I’m wrong on that one) it seemed weird. This wasn’t some limited-run, small academic publishing house tome.
The chain’s page for the book listed it at s./130 ($45).
I then went to the publisher’s site, but couldn’t find it. Seeing other books there priced in euros, I remembered the store copy also included the price in euros (I think it was €29.90, or about $38) on the back cover. The price in soles was on a sticker.
Digging a little further into the publisher’s site, I saw their address listed as Barcelona.
A-ha! The book must have been imported from Spain. That would help explain the price.
For a country with such a notable pirated book problem, why don’t bookstores don’t try to price their books more competitively?
A 2005 report commissioned by the Cámara Peruana del Libro (CPL), a national consortium of publishing houses, distributors and booksellers, came to even more alarming conclusions: pirates were employing more people than formal publishers and booksellers, and their combined economic impact was estimated to be 52 million US dollars – or roughly equivalent to one hundred per cent of the legal industry’s total earnings. [source: Granta]
Also, with so much book piracy, how the heck are there even so many legit bookstores in the first place? They must be profitable or supported another way. Maybe it’s just that those who can afford to buy legit books do — and do so enough to keep so many bookstores in business.
If only there were a freelance journalist based in Lima who could investigate (cough, Mollie, cough)…
My conversation with a pilot in the Atlanta airport:
Me: Is it difficult to remember the strings of letters and numbers that the air controllers throw at you?
Pilot: Ah, jeeze, not really. I mean, I’ve been flying since I was 15. That’s 22 years now. I guess you just learn after years of practice.
Me: Wow! Since you were 15? So you’re living the dream? That’s impressive. Not many people actualize their dreams.
Pilot: In the beginning, things were really rough. The pay is nothing. I had friends who were on food stamps.
Me: A pilot on food stamps?! That seems wrong.
Pilot: Times are tough. There’s just no money. And when you’re at the bottom of the totem pole you don’t make enough to live.