The Kids are A'ight

I'm regressing. Social networks are killing me. Fewer words, please, and more pictures. Preferably of your cute, of-age sister...who I sure hope is too tech-dumb to elevate her security settings. The most consecutive letters I lay down these days are in the form of plays in Words With Friends. I recently completed a volcano hike so brutal there were times I hoped the ghetto-rigging of my shoelace-repaired crampon would fail and hurtle me down the ice-swath to my death, or that a boulder dislodged in our reckless descent would cleanly decapitate me.  But I survived and had to settle for a(n admittedly delicious) smoothie, because microbrews don't exist in Perú. I wrote my parents a disjointed ramble about the experience, which I'll spare anyone reading this blog.  (Though it bears mentioning that Joe's at-the-time unfortunate-sounding quip in Bolivia, describing his level of comfortability with our group -- "Know why I love our group? Because I can shit in front of our girls." -- proved prophetic and uncannily precise.)  The masochist in me decided, the day after vowing to never again so much as mention the V-word, that I needed another climb. And next time something taller, maybe icier.

Despite the fact that writing inexplicably became for me, sometime in the last few years, an emotionless task, I can confirm I love my life in Arequipa, Perú, that I'm neither depressed nor emotionally-neutered, that only my fingers bleed banality. I smile almost constantly, a stream of drool ornamenting that gaping grin every time I traverse my favorite streets, gauntlets of chicharronerías where all passing life is bathed in the gloriously oppressive stench of chicharrones, those succulent hunks of mostly-dehaired cross-sections of pig, dangly, deep fried globs of skin and fat with occasional bites of muscle mixed in.

The students I work with are -- for lack of creativity and vocabulary we'll opt for some of the least descriptive and most overused adjectives, foregoing the anecdotes that would require sentences -- beautiful; intelligent; humble; generous; inspiring.  They've avoided kidnapper cabbies and pregnancies and arrest, even as they give me fits with untimely injuries and illnesses and a general disregard for the whereabouts of their cellphones and deadlines and the contents of their inboxes.  Minor quibbles, really.  Short of a Weird Science scenario playing out I, honestly, couldn't ask for a more delightful group of minions.  Nah, nix that.  These kids -- shit, adults, huh? -- are more impressively, wonderfully multidimensional and interesting than anything I'd dream up (especially since I'm pretty sure my dreams extend no further than a set of measurements and perfect skin-tone).  I'll make it a point to tell them so in less effusive terms, flashing a thumbs up or extending a fist for bump and muttering something like, "Y'all a'ight." (Quickly coughing afterward, for the added layer of confusion, protecting that carefully cultivated misanthropic facade.)