Like A Rock Star

I finally understand the meaning of exhausted. Keeping up with three 70 year olds for 12 days was enough for me.

I've been to Bolivia, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay and back to Bolivia. I am frazzled. I feel like the world is spinning at a different speed and angle than I am. My brain may never recover from the lack of oxygen that I experienced in La Paz, Bolivia at around 13,000 feet above sea level. Apparently, I'm a sea level kind of gal, because I could not think without my requisite dosage of O. And my brain still ain't right.

I've rafted across Lake Titicaca in a reed boat and been doused by buckets of rain at magical Machu Picchu. I've given beggars my change too many times to count...but one little girl haunts me.

On our last day, in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia, we were waiting in the grand courtyard in front of a Catholic Church with palms laid on the front of it. It was 10am and our plane was leaving at 11pm. We decided to hang out and people watch.

My aunt K wanted an ice cream. Just like she did every day. I accompanied her through the palm trees in the park where hundreds of people gathered to spend Palm Sunday afternoon. It was 70 degrees and sunny and a breeze made it the perfect day.

We heard music in the corner building as we walked to the ice cream shop. Obviously, a child's party was going on. Balloons were everywhere. Arches of balloons. A live band. Food and drink. We walked past the noise coming from open windows of gorgeous architecture with bars on the windows.

On the sidewalk sat a beggar woman on a blanket. A little girl accompanied her and played shoeless beside her in a blue velvet dress that was almost too small. But it's a special day and she dressed her as best she could. She held out her hand, and I placed my coins inside the brown wrinkling of her hand.

I wait on my Aunt K amidst dozens of people getting ice cream on the warm day. People shuffle around me and no one notices her. She has two balloon remnants and is filling them from a drain tube coming down the side of the dirty wall. Normally it would drain onto the ground, but she's thirsty. She fills the balloon and drinks.

Aunt K asks me again after I've told her that I don't want any ice cream. I'm not hungry. Nor am I wanting. I say, "Yes, I do. A child's portion."

The guys behind the counter are laughing and having a great time. Trying to ask me in broken English what I want mixed into my ice cream. My throat closes and tears well up in my eyes. "It doesn't matter." They laugh, thinking that I'm chunky and I'll eat anything. They ask me again. Surely I want some thing mixed in. It comes with it. Strawberries? Chocolate syrup? Oreos?

"Si, oreos. por favor."

He hands me a huge portion of ice cream with a middle layer of oreos with a tiny spoon and napkin.

She's still filling her balloon.

I squat beside her and peck her on her velvet covered shoulder. Her eyes light up. She takes the ice cream and sits on the blanket. Her mother looks at me, smiles, touches her brown hand to her heart and points at me.

I ask for another spoon for her. I had forgotten her.

It was by far the best ice cream that I've ever had.