The way home

Back in the U.S.S.R.

The Beatles

Flew in by Miami Beach B.O.A.C.

Didn't get to bed last night

All the way a paper bag was on my knee

Man, I had a dreadful flight

I'm back in the U.S.S.R.

You don't know how lucky you are, boys,

Back in the U.S.S.R.

Been away so long I hardly knew the place

Gee, it's good to be back home.

Need until tomorrow to unpack my case

Honey, disconnect the phone

I'm back in the U.S.S.R.
You don't know how lucky you are, boys,
Back in the U.S.S.R.

Well, the Ukraine girls really knock me out

they leave the West behind

And Moscow girls make me sing and shout

That JoJo's always on my mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mind.

Show me 'round the sloping mountains way down south,

Take me to your daddy's farm.

Let me hear your baililakas ringing out,

Come and keep your comrade warm

I'm back in the U.S.S.R.

You don't know how lucky you are, boys,

Back in the U.S.S.R.

It's the good old U.S.A. rather than the U.S.S.R., but I think the mood fits if you've heard it. I'm back home now, and I'm very glad for it. At the end of a 28 1/2 hour trip, with layovers in Dallas and Miami.

Unfortunately, I have to share a piece of bad news: On Saturday, my camera was pickpocketed while I watched a cultural heritage parade with Kim. I left it in the cargo pocket of my pants, and when I got back to the hotel I realized it was gone. With all my photographs of the entire 2 1/2 months. This was sort of the coup de grace, that on the last day in Bolivia an item of real value along with the entire photographic record of my experience is taken from me. But it's only a material thing, and at least I have my life and my health (or most of it; 2 1/2 months sans exercise has put me a little out of shape. I've lost 10 pounds of muscle mass since arriving and I've got the chicken legs of pre-running days.)

But anyway, at last I've returned to my native land and my life.

At 4 A.M. on Sunday my desperta, or wake-up call, sounded on the room phone in the Hotel Espana. I'd paid my bill the night before, and all that was left was to drag myself sleepily into my clothes and breakfast on a chocolate chip muffin and a packet of brown sugar I'd bought/taken from a coffee shop the night before. Within ten minutes I was in a taxi, racing up the dark silent morning streets of La Paz to El Alto, 1500 feet above the city, where the airport was. I talked with the taxi driver a little about my return.

When I got to the airport I waited in line to get my three boarding passes for my three flights, passed through security, and had a more proper breakfast of an empanada, a shot of espresso, and my last Bolivian banana milk. Then I boarded the plane for Miami. We took off around 7 A.M. and hopped east to Santa Cruz, letting off some passengers and taking on more. Then we took off and beelined northeast, over the border into Brazilian airspace.

Dave Barry's humor book Money Matters segued into the first chapters of Saul Bellows' classic novel The Adventures of Augie March as the plane crossed the vast Amazon, trees and rivers and settlements beneath us, then we crossed the South American coast into the Mare Carebbieana heading northeast direct for Miami. Hours later we passed over Cuba and soon the Florida Keys, made landfall, and passed over Miami. An American city where the roofs were no longer corrugated metal, but properly shingled and papered. We landed, held waiting for a gate, and I finally disembarked at nearly 5 P.M.

I raced through immigration and cleared customs: my declaration only got a cursory look from the agents and I was straight through to pick up my check bag at the carousel and race across the terminal to pick up my connection to Dallas, departing in 20 minutes. I re-checked my bags and made my plane in time - only for it to take off 10 minutes late itself. No matter, because I sure as hell wouldn't have to rush in Dallas. There I was spending the night.

3 hours on the plane and I found Dallas. I knew that I was in the northern hemisphere was that the sun hadn't gone down yet and it was nearly 8 P.M. In Bolivia in winter, the sun sets between 6 and 6:30.

In the Dallas airport I dined at a restaurant on a burger, cheese fries, and buffalo wings. The dinner cost $25 dollars - 150 Bolivianos. If I really wanted to, I could probably eat three squares a day for four or five days on 150 Bs in Bolivia. but my waitress was really nice, and spoke English. it was a sports bar kind of place and for the first time in the whole summer I saw TV coverage of the kind of football where they wear helmets and hit people. Since it's pre-season, the ESPN commentators have resorted to beating dead old news. They were covering the Giants-Patriots Super Bowl.

I boxed the last half of the wings to eat during my long vigil in the airport and went off to find my departure gate, which ended up being a tram ride away on another concourse. I returned to my previous concourse and bedded down for the night on a cot the people provided with Augie March to keep me company. I watched the last planes come in, watched passengers disembark and head for their taxis in Dallas, hotels, beds, and families, including an hourglass-shaped brunette with hair like a waterfall whom I sort of wished was on my plane in the morning. But most of all I wished I was home, seeing my family as I entered the baggage claim. Just a few long sleepy hours more for that.

My night company was my novel, a bar of Toblerone, the chicken wings, and a bottle of Mountain Dew. I watched the cleaning staff and the security guards make their rounds, walked through chapters of the novel, stayed awake with pieces of the chocolate bar and hits from the Mountain Dew and, once they ran out, pinches on the arm, coming to every so often when I had nearly nodded off. There were two or three other travelers laid out around the terminal, sleeping, but I was staying awake to guard my baggage. After the camera incident, I wasn't taking any chances. But I also wanted to pass this last vigil, I suppose, to make the transition from my foreign sojurn to my Ithaca after my summer of exile. To make some Ulyssean odyssey in the spiritual sense. I don't know why it seems so necessary. Partly, I was also a little paranoid of oversleeping my flight. I probably could have just asked a night guard to get me up and watch my stuff, too. But let Ulysses be shipwrecked and swim the last sea to Ithaca and Penelope and the grown Telemachus he barely knows.

At four in the morning on Monday the 28th I demolished the last of the wings and rose, found the tram, and hopped a terminal. I went to the airport chapel and said a prayer of thanks for the experiences I've had, however trying they have been; and thanks for my family, safety for my friends still abroad, and for a safe return home. I walked around a little to pilot-light my circulation and waited for the 6:30 boarding call, reading more of Augie March. Finally, I boarded the MD 80 with a passel of Cincinnatians bound for home, sans brunette, and we took off at 7 A.M. I slept about an hour, then watched as our plane passed over the lower Ohio valley towards home.

I saw rolling hills and green fields, and towns in the settled lands below. Then I saw features become clearer as we began our descent: Southern Indiana, the northward-bending loop of the Ohio River which holds three Kentucky counties in place, Northern Kentucky cradled by Cincinnati across the river and the Bluegrass to the south. As we descended I saw I-275 cross the river at the Zimmer Coal Plant, right next to the outflow of the Miami into the Ohio. We started our approach, swinging over to the Ohio side and banking over the suburbs of Delhi. As we got even lower, I could make out the pier where the Anderson Ferry plies the river, giving traffic an option against going out of its way to the downtown bridges. Then, the Florence water tower out on Dixie Highway, the new suburbs of Hebron, and then the airport. We touched down around 10:15, taxied to the gate, and came up to the jetway. Safely on home soil at last.

I came across the jetway to the terminal where the morning flyers were waiting to fly to other cities at their gates, crossed out of the secure section of the terminal, and headed to the baggage claim. As I stood on the escalator, I saw the most welcome sight in the world.

Under a trio of balloons and a poster-board sign written in marker were Mom, Dad, Liz, and Daniel. We met at the bottom of the escalator and exhanged a round of fierce hugs and salutations. Dan pressed a cold botttle of Stewart's orange cream into my hand to revive me, and we picked up my check bag at the carousel and headed to the car.

I've spent most of that day and last night paying off outstanding sleep debts. Acclimatizing myself to the humidity of a Northern Kentucky summer and returning step by step to the land of the living. This afternoon I ran three miles with Dad, as the first step to getting back into shape after the horrible atrophy endured in Bolivia. I've decided to continue theis blog for a while, as I have vague plans for a jam-packed twelve days of things to do before I leave for school. My return to UD, then, will park the end of this blog. I also expect to make some reflective post chronicling what I've learned on the trip, which will include a lot of redemptive suffering and will not at all have a Disney ending. Actually, it will probably end up sounding a lot more like a James Joyce novel, or the end of Heart of Darkness with the critical difference that no one has actually died. Until then, I'll leave you to consider this mini-odyssey back to the land of my rearing.

In that spirit, we'll move from hasta luego to until then,

Drew

El Camino de Muerte

The "Most Dangerous Road in the World" leads about 35 miles from La Paz to Coroico in Bolivia's Yungas region. Leaving La Paz at 3200 meters (9600 feet) up to the Cumbre, the highest point at 4700 meters (14,100 feet). From there it drops over 30 miles to less than 1,000 feet above sea level. Until recently it was the only major highway between Bolivia's capital and the Yungas region, and therefore handled vitrually all the heavy truck commerce and bus passenger traffic between the two regions. The road conditions are more than dangerous: they are nearly suicidal. Most of the road is less than 10 feet in width, unpaved; on one side of the road are sheer cliffs which drop over a thousand feet into sheer tropical valleys. Because of the rapid change in climate from the cold Altiplano to the Amazon rainforest, visibility is often obscured by fog, while rockslides and waterfalls often cut right across the road.

Recently, a paved, two-lane bypass road was opened, significantly cutting down on traffic and road fatalities; still, the road has become in famous as being the most dangerous road in the world: at its worst, it was estimated that 200 to 300 people were killed annually on the road. In local parlance, the road is known as El Camino de Muerte, or "Death Road." However, the 13,000 feet of nearly continous downhill grade, plus the name, draws mountain bike enthusiasts and thrill seekers by the thousands every year. You can read the wikipedia article about the road here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yungas_Road.

On Thursday I took my grateful leave of CEDESOL and Cochabamba, though not without some difficult goodbyes from Andrea and her family. I flew from Cochabamba to La Paz, the capital, and installed myself in the Hotel Espana for 190 Bolivianos a night (190 Bs a night is really steep and means a pretty swanky place - as in, television and private bathroom swanky, complimentary soap and hotel towels swanky. Since the offhand exchange rate is seven Bolivianos to the dollar, 190 Bs is about 27 dollars a night, better than Holiday Inn. However, at our hostel in Villa Tunari we were still paying about a third of this, even though bathrooms were shared abd you had to bring your own towels and toilet paper.) I was there to spend my last few days in Bolivia with Alex and Kim, two other UD ETHOS volunteers who were working in La Paz for two more weeks.

Alex, unfortunately, tore a ligament in Villa Tunari and wasn't very mobile. So it fell on Kim and me to try the Death Road by mountain bike.

7:30 on Friday morning, we were up and met at the offices of Barro Biking, on the corner of the Calle Sagarniga and Las Brujas. Our biking group was six: Kim, myself, and four Frenchmen who were spending some time trekking and adventuring on one of those ridiculous European vacations. We breakfasted with coffee and rolls, then piled into a van and drove about an hour to the Cumbre. We unpacked the bikes and got into some serious gear: helmets, gauntlets, jackets, vests, and pants to ward off the cold or any stray rocks that might be kicked up by a tire. Then we started down.

The upper part of the Death road is part of the new road, and therefore it's paved and has two lanes and is relatively safe. At such high elevations, snow stands on the mountain tops and visibility is very clear. I'm thinking we were topside of thirty miles an hour even on those Trek mountain bikes, and I did a couple of brake checks. I was satisfied; the Treks came with front and rear disc brakes and 28 speeds of Shimano shifters; very quality indeed and I trusted that Trek probably more than I'd trust my own Giant on terrain like that. The Frenchmen were also insane and were passing me at every opportunity. The upper road had lots of truck and bus traffic, so you had to watch ahead and anticipate in between taking in the breathtaking mountain views.

We passed a drug checkpoint and a toll booth, and then hit the uphill section of the trail which was only about a mile long but still rather tough, since we were still at high altitude. I found myself struggling for breath as I pushed my bike on the inner chainring. But youth and latent cross-country condition got the better of the four French riders, and I was first in position behind our guide Jose with Kim right behind.

Once we made it past the uphill section, the Death Road split off from the bypass: unpaved, beckoning, twisting down into the jungle valleys. We followed it, flying at still-high speeds down the 10 foot wide gravel road. Fog set in, cutting visibility to 30 feet. To our right was a cliff, and to our left - fog. Fog that hid another cliff that dropped nearly a thousand feet to the valley floor. We rode through waterfalls and around tight hairpin curves, just about perfectly safe on our mountain bikes, but what if we were in a heavy truck or a bus? Then, the road is barely wider than you are, and one false move gives you a free, one-way ticket to the valley below. Jose told us about how one girl on a bike dropped her camera, and then without thinking swerved over to get it, went over the cliff, and died. Thankfully, wasn't going to happen to us.

We came out of the fog and found ourselves on the slopes of beautiful tropical valleys, with spectacular visibility, warm, humid, weather, and sun. We stopped often to admire the views, but even still we found ourselves soon enough at the end of the road - Unduavi, 1,200 meters above sea level. We stopped at a roadside dive for refreshments and then piled all our stuff back into the van to go to the hotel at Coroico for a buffet lunch. The rest was the uneventful drive back up the death road in the van, about which I felt considerably more uncomfortable than I did going down on the bike. But soon enough we came over the Cumbre again and saw the lights of La Paz, and that was that. One hell of an adventure.

Here are some pictures:

Our group at the Cumbre, 14,000 feet above sea level. Note the snow on the mountains.

The upper road, paved and graded, seen at speeds in excess of 30 M.P.H. (Pretty fast on a bicycle).

The "Most Dangerous" part of the "Most dangerous road." That's me and Kim standing on the side of that cliff. I think this serves as a pretty good illustration.

Me and Kim on the trail by a waterfall.

The lower trail, the van chasing us.

Atypically from your usual Tour de France, the French are in the lead.

Literally about 100 yards before Unduavi there was a waterfall and a huge pool of water that was a ton of fun to ride through.

The Cafe in Unduavi at the end of the road.

So, that Friday was a lot of fun. And I'm still alive and have most of my major organs.

God bless,

Drew

The CNC Saga, Part 2... y otras historias

Despite the title, this post has very little to do with the CNC machine. Actually, I don't want anything else to do with it either. That's why "and other stories" is tacked on to the title. But I can't exactly have a part 1 without a part 2, and that's where this comes in.

At this point, I have one more half day of actual work. None of it will be with the CNC. Even as an engineer, that makes me very happy. I've been spending the past two weeks testing different materials on the machine, finding the voltage, current, and feedrate (how fast the torch travels over the material when cutting) that will give the best cut quality for the material at hand. If it sounds slightly impressive, I guess it is, but really I just followed the process laid down in the manual. Today I typed up a table with different materials and their appropriate settings, so that when they decide to cut out actual stove parts instead of lines in scrap metal they'll know how to set the cutter to do the best job. At least, I hope that's what happens. But when you're cutting two or three sheets of metal thick, there gets to be problems with accumulation of dross, or molten metal that solidifies again, and bevel, which is where the cut doesn't go straight down but the sides slant inward underneath the torch. Basically, when we cut several sheets at once, the top sheet is awesome but the bottom one isn't so good. Also, the heat generated from cutting also sometimes welds the plates together, but not too much. You can usually separate the plates with a screwdriver.

But moreover, I spent the past few days helping the new engineer build a stand which my boss has taken to Santa Cruz for an exposition. I have to say I'm pretty proud of it. It's made from lengths of 1/2 inch galvanized steel pipe, threaded and put into elbows and T-connectors and fittings. I spent almost all day yesterday polishing the tubes with a buffer and they shine. We actually used the plasma cutter for something useful and cut circular bases out of thick sheet metal with a 60-amp tip, which was pretty cool to do I guess.

I leave for La Paz tomorrow to spend some time with Alex and Kim before my plane home on Sunday. Actually, I couldn't be more excited to get out of here, although there are some people I'll definetly miss. Andrea, for one, has been my older sister of sorts and talking to her at times has kept me from going completely insane. I'll miss the rest of my family, too. They were great.

Last night we had a farewell dinner at my house with people from the office and the family who could make it. They got something called pizza interminable - the endless pìzza. Andrea told me it was as big as a table and they had to call a taxi to get it. I didn't believe her until the pizza showed up, and sure enough, it was as large as a small table. Probably about 3 feet across (36 inches! Enormous!) and it had four sides of toppings. There's still pieces in the fridge, but apparently Bolivians have not yet discovered cold pizza for breakfast because I haven't had any yet. It actually is bigger than the Beast from Snappy Tomato. It's huge.

Over the past weekend in between working like a dog on the banner stand I've been going out to clubs, dinners, and birthday parties with Mike, Colleen, Mike's relatives John and Ryan, and Ruth, a new arrival from England who's a university student interning with Climate Care. It's been lots of fun, and I was sad to see the Americans go on Monday night. They took the night bus to La Paz, and even as I write today they're flying back to the States. I've still got a lunch with Ruth tomorrow, and shopping with my host mother and Ruth the owner of Sobre la Roca.

In five days, I will trade the insane climate of Bolivia (it drops to below freezing at night to a dry heat in the day) for the hot, muggy late summer of Northern Kentucky. I'll have the advantage of being used to high altitude, but I haven't run since I got here and I'm not acclimated to humidity yet. But even still, all that heat and humidity will never feel better.

Ciao,
Drew

Frutillas con Leche

I tried a new route to the workshop where I work. Instead of taking the quiet side streets, I decided to go a block or two out of my way and go by the rotunda Tarija, which is the front door of the Catholic University of Bolivia. It figures that such a university would be literally four blocks from my house, which I take to be a sign of blessing.

Anyway, instead of being alone when I walk I'm surrounded by changing classes, university students hanging out, and... the small lunch counter which stands on the Avenida Reuben Dario literally ten steps from the University gates. Home to delicious empanadas, Bolivian breads, and... frutillas con leche, which the UD expatriates in Bolivia have translated as "Strawberry milk."

Take whole or sliced strawberries, whole milk, several tablespoons of sugar and put them in a blender. Blend until smooth. Serve in a soda glass.

The best ones are served cold. Very cold. And they are so wonderfully delicious I can't even begin to describe them. Plus, without ice cream they are healthier than a milkshake.

In other news, today was my interview for the documentary that Mike and Colleen are putting together. I'm the last of all the ETHOS people from Nicaragua, Ecuador, and Peru, among other places, to be interviewed. We conducted most of the interview in the Sobre la Roca workshop where myself and Braulio, the new engineer, were running tests on the plasma cutter to find the correct voltage and cutting speed to get decent quality cuts while cutting two sheets of material at once. Mike and Colleen were able to get footage of the cutter actually running, which is pretty cool. Then I got interviewed about my work and life in Bolivia. I gave my suggestion from my experience that no one go alone, which was well-received. Although that was no one's fault, really, just a terrible twist of circumstances. I feel that going alone has made me have to be more careful instead of going out all over Cochabamba, but there's still been some great opportunities. Plus, I think my Spanish has gotten at least halfway decent being practically alone here.

Lunchtime was spent at a vegetarian restaurant with Mike, Colleen, and Doña Mama Ruth, where we discussed the presence of a local farmers' market at UD next year and the advantages of eating local.

It's kind of a shame that the last two weeks I have in Cochabamba is finally when I start to see the city, but I'll take what I can get.

Finally, the package with my books arrived from home. The booty:

The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie
Some book by Dave Barry. It doesn't really matter which one, because every book by Dave Barry is hilarious.

This care package came welcome, considering I calculated the total duration of my return journey. 6:30 AM from La Paz to 11:00 AM in Cincinnati on Monday, July 28th. 28 1/2 hours. Almost 12 taken up by one hell of a layover in Dallas. Thank God for those books.

Ghetto life in Bolivia

Take seven gringos related to the University of Dayton. Pack them into a van. Descend eight thousand feet in three hours and suddenly change climates from semiarid mountains to the middle of the freaking jungle.

Basically, the weekend was awesome. It was probably my first time in Bolivia when I didn't want to go home. I was with UD students: Kim and Alex had come in from La Paz, Mike and Colleen had finally made it to Bolivia filming their ETHOS Global Awareness Program documentary, and Mike's hilarious brother and cousin were along for the ride. It was the most refreshing change of pace I've had from work and the boss man (Song lyric of Bolivia, from Bruce Springsteen's "Night:" You wake up every morning at the sound of the bell / You get to work late and the boss man's giving you hell.) And it was great to talk to people about my experiences who've had similar experiences and had similar moments of scratching their heads and thinking "What the hell?" and reference Seinfeld and South Park.

On Friday, the whole posse arrived and we headed out to a place called Brazilian coffee, which strangely has a large sushi menu. We talked, then the CEDESOL leadership left around midnight and we did what you do in Cochabamba on friday night if you're young, hip, and free from unpaid volunteer employ for a while: you go to dance clubs. I'm more of a swing dancer myself than grinding /shuffling your feet awkwardly in a circle while no one partners up to crappy electronica mixes, but it was all OK because here I finally was with people from Dayton. Alex and I headed back early at 3 A.M. and everyone else got back at 6. Asi es Cochabamba en Viernes.

Saturday once everyone had woken up we ate at this great breakfast place which Mike said had the only waffles in Cochabamba. He'd know, too, having lived here for six months. The waffles were wonderful, the syrup was maple instead of sugar cane, and I had real coffee.

Then Mike arranged us a van to take us to Villa Tunari where he and Colleen had to film stuff in the wildlife preserve there. Villa Tunari is in Chapare, which is in the jungle. I took bug spray. When we got to the town we checked into our hostel and played euchre and talked. it was a really nice hostel with an actual pool which we took advantage of.

Sunday morning breakfast was in the town market: Egg sandwiches and instant coffee again, but strawberry milk, which is just about the most delicious thing you can think of drinking in a humid environment. It would go over big in Northern Kentucky and Southwest Ohio. Basically, you take fresh strawberries, cold milk, and sugar, and blend it into a beverage that makes smoothies incredibly passé. Actually, by far the best thing about Bolivia has been the exposure to new foods, like empanadas and api and fruit milk. I'll be bringing recipes back to the States.

We went to the park and paid 21 Bs for the gringo rate (seriously, there was a gringo rate made explicitly clear: the sign said niños 2 Bs., mayores 4 Bs., extranjeros 6 Bs., camera 15 Bs.) 6 Bolivianos is still less than a dollar, but not too much anymore since the dollar's buying power is sinking apparently by the week. Then we had to take everything except out cameras out of our pockets and lock them up for safekeeping. In the park, there are monkeys and some of them in former lives were trained to be pickpockets. Crazy.

The first thing we did was hike to this overlook where we could see Villa Tunari, the mountains to the west, and the rivers which encircle the town. It was beautiful and breathtaking and I got a picture which really doesn't do it justice. In a rivers and cities related note, Villa Tunari is built right at the confluence of two rivers with wide floodplains, and in the rainy season they say the town completely floods out. Sounds like some small cities in Southwest Ohio I know about, without the sophistaced and wonderfully-engineered flood control system. Why people think building on floodplains is a good idea and are then surprised when the town floods out I will never know. People need to pay more attention to ecology and the environment when they build things, because too often they end up screwing something up which comes back to destroy their livelihood like one of the ten plagues of Egypt.

After the overlook, we met up with Mike's friend Paula who works at the park and went to see the Puma, which is old an arthritic... but still has jaws that could probably crush your skull. Some of us got to pet it. At one point it jerked around and play-bit Mike's brother's arm. He stayed impressively still, which is probably a good idea. You don't want to make any sudden moves around a carnivorous jungle cat. "Play" was the operative word of the bite, so it didn't actually do any damage at all. Not flinching was what was impressive about it.

After the puma we went to see the monkeys, which were hilarious and smart and amazingly dextrous. They'd randomly just climb up on you and sort of hang out, and they tried to feed Kim raw fish. Luckily no one got any stuff stolen although one monkey bit Colleen and Mike's video camera.

After the monkeys we left the park and ate lunch at a place with surubi, which is an almost boneless fish. It was grilled over charcoal and uncommonly delicious. In the afternoon, we hung out at the pool and played more euchre, talking about our experiences and about life. At 6:30 our van returned and we piled in for the night trip back to Cochabamba. Kim and Alex have headed back to La Paz, and this morning I headed to work and made some progress with a new engineer on the plasma cutter. Hopefully, we'll be in business soon.

All for now,
Drew

Hamburgesa

On the fourth of July, I got to barbeque and eat a hamburger. We were on a demonstration, and I said it was Independence Day in the USA and everyone barbecues. So we put some hamburgesas on the stove top and I cut a roll in half and chowed down. No ketchup, no lettuce, not an A-1 marinated steakburger. But I did eat a grilled hamburger on the fourth of july.

Oh, and thanks for all the prayers. They help.

Drew

Prayers

In the pocket of my track jacket, there's a little plastic tag. On one side it says "God bless and protect the Morrison family." On the other side, it has this prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

I've been fingering it a lot lately. Praying the Rosary, for strength to carry on through my own blunders and mistakes. For serenity to accept what happens to me and move on. For wisdom to learn the lessons I must learn here, however hard they may be. For this reason God has led me to this place.

23 days to go until I return home.

And I could sure use some prayers. If you feel like saying one. And I'll pray for my friends abroad and at home and my family. Because I think there are definitely situations and times when we should all have someone praying for us.

Like for 23 days of Grace. And for that to continue.

Drew