Please forgive me...

...while I focus on getting into grad school. I'm not abandoning you, dear piggies. I'm simply putting you on the shelf for the time being. Enjoy a nice cup of cocoa as the chilly season begins.

Burning books in Arica

I made a detour through the north of Chile after visiting the salt flats and lagunas in southwest Bolivia. Two days and one night in Arica, a surfing hot spot and beach destination for Chileans. Even in the [South American] winter!

I stayed with Brian at the Doña Inés hostel.

"Roberto and his staff look forward to welcoming you at the Arica hostel, one of the HI network of hostels in Chile, which is located 2km away from the city center of Arica. Make the most of your trip - with outdoor BBQs, paragliding, surfing and paintballing - you'll never be short of things to do! The laid-back hostel hosts late breakfasts, kitchen facilities, a common room, a ping-pong table and hammocks for relaxing days! Hostel rooms include mini-refrigerators, TVs and private bathrooms."

(From the hostelling international website)

(Photo from my bedroom)

The Doña Inés is a special place. Aside from having hosted the 4 Lesbian Princesses (see above), it is the main residence of one Don Roberto, owner and chief reprobate of the Doña Inés domain. Roberto prescribes activities and drinks to his guests like a Doctor of Fun; no one departs the hostel without leaving a tangible mark, be it on the wall of photos behind the reception or the graffiti that encrusts every available surface. The lucky ones acquire nicknames (see again the 4 Lesbian Princesses).

I've met fellows like Roberto before: older party animals that can talk up a door knob (so long as there's liquor). So what stood out wasn't the fact that he has a Brazilian girlfriend 20 years younger. Or that, in spite of his girlfriend, he still seemed lusty enough to shag the cute, blue-eyed, and very male British apprentice he'd hired in the last month (Robert, aka the Gay Roberto). What I took away from my time at Doña Inés was a story Roberto shared with me and Brian over Piscolas.

It seems Roberto is a keen observer of reading habits, especially amongst today's youth. (Can't say that I blame him - I consider myself privileged to live in a city where I can pretend to know someone on the subway based on the book they're reading, since two out of three Boston commuters actually read...!)

It also seems he once came across a German guest lazing on one of the hostel's hammocks and thumbing through a German copy of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code.

"When I saw this, I said, this fucking guy. You have to be fucking kidding me. This fucking guy, he's German, he can read Goethe, or Kafka, or Herman Hesse, or Thomas Mann. And he's sitting here, in my hammock, and he's reading the fucking Da Vinci Code. So I said no way, man, I said, no fucking way."

What did you do? Brian and I asked.

"I'll tell you, I took his book from him. That fucking Dan Brown bullshit. I took it outside, and I took my lighter, and I burned it. I burned that fucking book in front of that fucking guy."

Oh, the horror. Oh, the admiration.

Trashy thoughts

Vix is a thirty-something year old Mexican sculptor. He lives in Lima. Before Lima, he lived in Valladolid. He loves women. He also loves kids, and he teaches a series of art workshops for children near his home in Barranco. He is lean. He isn't short, about 5 feet 10 inches. He has brown skin and a mop of brown curls that spill over his forehead and veil his sharp, black gaze. His whole body feels primed with a restless, anxious energy, and when he laughs his voice leaps to an unnatural pitch (think Tom Hulce in Amadeus).

He is one of the more interesting people I've met in my life.

This isn't going to be a long post about Vix, his life story, his work, his philosophy, whatever. Vix was kind enough to take me and Sergey out for a night in Lima. We drank Cusqueña beer and ate beef hearts (anticuchos). We traded conversation about our own hearts, their frailties, their deceptions, their power to contract and to expand, to break and to mend. We went to a local bar, drank pisco, and called it a night. The end.

Instead, I want to share a simple but intriguing observation. Vix works with what most consider to be trash. Trash is his medium. He walks the streets of Lima in search of junk, debris, and scraps. A piece of a tailpipe. A discarded light bulb. A flat rubber tire. A metal pole. He harvests the excess bits and pieces of daily urban life and turns them into art.

Vix has been working with this medium since his time in Spain. But the work is harder in Lima.

Why? I asked.

In Valladolid, it was easy to come across scraps in the street. People parted easily with what they deemed "junk." Surrounded by cheap and easy access to goods, they left their tailpipes and their tires by the wayside.

But in Lima, people horde their trash. If a car's tailpipe breaks off in the street, chances are another driver will pick it up and keep it for his own repairs. Finding finding raw materials for Vix's art is thus a challenge in this city.

I wonder what would happen if we started judging our civilization by what it throws away?

(For more on Vix, check out his blog.)

Served with the tit: and I'm back...briefly

So, I lied when I said I'd be back in June.

July didn't feel right either.

It's the end of August, the schizoid Boston summer is drawing its last gasps, and I'm finally, FINALLY getting around to updating this public log of lettered masturbation.

If there was anyone out there actually reading, my apologies.

I have a few posts pending before I launch into a reformulated version of Epicurean Piggy. (Still working on what that will be, since I'm chained to a desk job in Cambridge for at least the next year.) We should pick off where I left off. Post-vaccinations and post-France, but before my reentry to grown up working life. The 3-week interval that (mercifully) padded my departure from Saint-Etienne and the return to the 9-5 grind.

My journey to the Andes, to the land of Inka Kola, salt flats, and coca leaves. An indirect journey, since to get to just about anywhere in South America, travelers typically fly through one of three "portals": LAX, Houston, or MIA.

Mi-yami International Aeroport. The first airport I ever flew from. Probably, the airport I know the best in the world. I've flown out of MIA as a baby shit-machine, a pajama-clad toddler, an awkward unibrowed pre-teen, and an awkward-er teenager (apparently, there's only so much separating your eyebrows can do to up your cool quotient). In my twenties, I've probably flown in/out/and through MIA close to thirty times.

So I know it well.

And yet, there's a particular phenomenon that still catches me off guard each time I step off a plane and walk past the pink flamingos, mounted tropical fish, and palm trees that class up the joint. I head to the nearest Starbucks for a caffeine fix, I stand in line, and I observe this exchange.

Starbucks employee: What would you like?
Customer: Deme un café y un blueberry muffin, please.
Starbucks employee: Señora, there's no más blueberry muffins. Le puedo offer uno de apple cinnamon.
Customer: No, entonces un bagel con cream cheese, por favor.
Starbucks: Son cuatro dollars and siete cents.

Spanglish, not English or Spanish, is the ruling language in this town. Miamians occupy a unique linguistic space where even white people sound Latin and Hispanics forget that "parquear" is not, in fact, the Spanish equivalent of "park."

If I told you my house was ubicated by the river, would you know what I was talking about?

This is one of the big drawbacks to being fully billingual: you become too comfortable slipping in and out of multiple languages, and sooner or later they begin to fuse together in your brain.

Here is another example: as a child, I often made the mistake of telling my cousins I was embarazada. What I hoped to communicate to them was that I was embarrassed. What they heard was that I was pregnant. The two are what the French call faux amis - false friends (or cognates) in English.

The latter is my favorite type of billingual misfire. False, and often inappropriate, friends. And as a Miamian through and through, I thought I'd heard the best of the best.

Wrong.


The frowning gentleman you see above is my friend Sergey, a Russian, raised part in the Old Country and part in Amerika. You know how there are people who are bitten by the travel bug? Sergey was bitten by the travel python. He quit his job two years ago to travel across Asia and the Middle East. He returned to the U.S., deferred his entrance to business school, and kept on traveling; this time around South America. I met up with Sergey in Lima, the first leg of my Andean adventure. Fresh from Colombia and Ecuador, Sergey came to me a newly minted Spanglophile, wearing stories of linguistic missteps like badges of honor.

Sergey is (un)luckier than most: he speaks English and Russian like a native, French like a respectable Russian, and now, Spanish. This means that his misfires run the risk of being more powerful than most folks (picture tiny armies of English, Russian, French, and Spanish neurons chasing each other all around the left side of his brain). Our first day together, he told me the following story.

Sergey is in the Medellin sky tram, in Colombia. He's packed tightly in the car with a handful of other internationals; the rest of the tram riders are locals. Sergey is deep in a discussion about Colombian fare: specifically, seafood. It appears there is a local fish that is considered a delicacy. Sergey wants to know more. He wants to ask how the fish is served. If it is served whole. With the head.

Sergey thinks he remembers the word for "head" in Spanish. He "makes memory" (hacer memoria, sorry, I couldn't resist). He scans his mind. There's the word! It travels from his brain to his mouth, and he asks:

"Se sirve con la teta?"

The tram explodes with laughter. Sergey is confused. For a moment. And then, that pale creamy skin of his turns dark crimson.

The thing is, Sergey happened on the French word for head. La tête. In Spanish, it is la cabeza. But to say teta in Spanish, is to give the question an entirely different meaning.

"Is it served with the tit?"

Piggy on sabbatical

My time in France is nearly up. I've got two weeks with the little ones before boarding my plane back to the U.S. and A. Where I will promptly board another plane bound to South America. Lima, to be exact. Followed by Cusco, La Paz, San Pedro de Atacama, Arica, and Miami.

I'll skip over the logic (or lack thereof) I've exercised in taking yet another trip without job or a solid savings cushion to fall back on. To avoid major freak out, I'm attempting to follow Dave the Scot's "Two Rules of Life."

Rule number one: Never worry about the small things.
Rule number two: Everything in life is a small thing.

(As a sidenote, do you ever need help justifying a ludicrous trip to yourself? Use this foolproof affirmation: My prospective trip to [insert exotic destination here] is a once in a lifetime opportunity. For instance, my prospective trip to the Falkland Islands is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Or, my prospective trip to Greenland is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Say it out loud, and stress once in a lifetime! It works, trust me.)

The fact remains that, for better or for worse (and I'd venture to say for better), I will be Andes-bound on May 20th.

Here is a map.

The reason I've provided said map is twofold. First, and don't be offended, because I know that South American geography isn't an emphatic component of American education. Second, because this is a special map. Can you find Peru and Bolivia? Sweet. Can you see what color they are? Correct! Yellow! And not as in sunny or hot. As in fever, the yellow kind.

Traveling to Andean regions requires immunization against a slew of deadly diseases. These include Hepatitis A and B, Tetanus, Typhoid, and Yellow Fever. As of yesterday, I was missing three: Hep A, Typhoid, and Yellow Fever. I probably could have waited to get my shots, but French medicine being what it is (socialized and awesome), I opted to surrender my naked shoulders to French nurses and get them all in Saint-Etienne.

Yellow Fever is only provided at the Hospital. I had to call and make a rendez-vous with the Service des Maladies Tropicales (Tropical Diseases). Fairly simple and straightforward. I booked an appointment and showed up as planned. And aside from the somewhat terrifying nature of being in a French public hospital, specifically, in the Department of Tropical Diseases, where the waiting rooms are papered with fliers about Bird Flu and Dengue and Malaria, my first shot went off without a hitch.

Hepatitis A and Typhoid, on the other hand, are done at the Centre de Vaccinations (Vaccination Center). Or so I was led to believe. I had called before to make sure, since there is some still incomprehensible rule about getting a Yellow Fever shot the same day as your other shots (otherwise you have to stagger it?), and I was assured by an amiable voice that the Centre de Vaccinations was the place to go.

So I showed up after lunch, chock full of Yellow Fever and eggplant and goat cheese pizza from Chez Franco. I walked into the waiting room filled with parents and their sullen children watching educational cartoons on a wall-mounted TV.

Je peux vous aider?

Can I help you? I was asked by a smiling woman.

Yes, I replied, I'm here for my Hep A and Typhoid vaccines.

Smiling woman: Vous les avez acheter? (Did you buy them?)

Me: Non, j'ai appelé il y a quelque semaines, et on m'a dit de venir aujourd'hui. (No, I called a few weeks ago and was told to come in today.)

No longer smiling woman: Comment ça? Attendez un instant, madame. Je vais vous faire parler avec ma collègue. (How's that? Please wait a moment, ma'am. I'm going to have you speak with my colleague.)

Fine, I thought. I have to pay for them first, apparently.

Minutes later, I was in the front office speaking with la collègue.

Me: Alors, je suis içi pour les vaccins contre l'hépatite A et la typhoïde. (So, I'm here for the vaccines against Hep A and Typhoid.)

La collègue: Mais vous ne les avez pas acheter? (But you haven't bought them.)

Me (beginning to get pissed off): Non, mais je peux les acheter maintenant! (No, but I can buy them now!)

La collègue (pausing): ... Mais il faut les A-CHE-TER. (But you have to BUY THEM.)

Me (officially pissed off, FUCK this lady is such a condescending asshole): Et bien, je peux les A-CHE-TER MAINTENANT. (Yes okay, I can BUY THEM RIGHT NOW.)

Okay, so as it turns out, I'm the asshole. The asshole who failed to process the subtle difference between acheter and payer (buy and pay). Because in France, you have to buy your vaccines at a pharmacy. And then bring them to a Vaccination Center. And have someone do the shooting up for you.

It's a depressing moment indeed when you realize that even though you've lived in a country for over six months and spoken the language and feel integrated and confident about your ability to navigate the local culture, you can fall so miserably short of basic comprehension. At moments like these I feel like I should be narrating a cautionary children's story about a big overgrown dummy (i.e. ME). See Katie. See Katie insert foot in mouth.

At any rate, I had plenty of time to go buy my Hep A and Typhoid vaccine at a nearby pharmacy (I wonder what would happen if I asked for a vaccine at an American pharmacy?) before closing time at the Vaccination Center. So I did. And then I returned, apologetic, contrite. And I thanked the staff. Profusely.

Note: I'm taking a break from blogging until I come back from my South America trip. Check back for updates on new travels in June!

The Lisbon Sugar High

When I told Mathilde I was going to Lisbon to run the half-marathon, she looked at me, incredulous, and said the following:

"Qu'est-ce que t'es originale comme fille."

What an original girl you are.

I told her it wasn't my idea. Another American assistant had proposed the idea to me back in November. Notwithstanding the fact that I'd just returned from the city of azulejos after Toussaint holiday, I agreed to run with her. The Lisbon half-marathon is allegedly one of the fastest 13.1 mile-courses out there and boasts a huge level of participation (30,000 runners to be precise). For me, what really cinched the deal was reading about the crossing-of-the-bridge: the race begins and runs over the Ponte 25 de Avril (25th of April bridge), Lisbon's shout out to the Golden Gate Bridge. I decided I wanted to run across that bridge.

So I went back to Lisbon.

This time, I stayed at the Lisbon Lounge Hostel, quite possibly the best hostel ever. Located in the Baixa neighborhood, it occupies an old four story building that has been extensively renovated. And by renovated, I mean it has clean and polished hardwood floors, private and public bathrooms with spotless white tiles and automatic air freshners, wooden cabinets for each guest (they lock!), plush bedding, and Ikea-furnished lounges on each floor. Also, a daily Happy Hour featuring 50-cent beers, free breakfast and wi-fi, and a live-in chef who prepares a three-course dinner every night for the bargain price of 8 euros. I'm sorry for the plug, but this hostel has earned it.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon and dove immediately between the sheets of my bunk for a nap. On waking, I showered, freshened up, and stepped outside to take in the neighboring pedestrian streets before sunset.

I didn't get very far before being assaulted. By window display after window display of pastries.


I'm not sure how I could have missed this my first time in Lisbon. Perhaps my mind actively blocked the pastries out as a means of protecting me against my will. I focused, instead, on the varieties of fish: bacalhau (codfish), linguado (sole), salmonete (red mullet), peixe espada (swordfish), savel (shad), eiroz (eel), or sardinha (sardine).

This time around, though, there was no escape.

I had heard about the insatiable Portuguese sweet tooth. This is a country where you can find at least two hundred different types of pastries. Where customers walk into pastry shops and enjoy fast, counterside service, much like a bar (only instead of pounding a pint, they pound a pastel de nata). Where the pastry shops open at 7 AM and close at 2 AM the next morning.

However, I had not heard of the pastry displayed below. A special, Easter pastry that is prepared in the weeks leading up to Easter.


No, your eyes are not deceiving you. Evidently, you don't have to go outside to hunt for Easter eggs in Portugal. You can find them in your bread.

The Folar de Pascoa originated in the convents and monasteries of 18th-century Portugal (along with most pastries and other sugary Portuguese treats, curiously enough; hence, awesome pastry names like toucinho do céu - heaven's lard, or barriga de freiras - nun's belly). The Folar wields strong symbolism: it's often associated with Jesus' sharing of bread at the last supper. The eggs you see baked into it are actually hard boiled. They are meant to symbolize rebirth.

As I oggled the Folars and their sugary neighbors, I forgot to consider my environment. To notice if I, myself, was being oggled, and to watch where I was going. And that is how I walked straight and hard into a fellow and his group of friends on the street.

It being a latin country, the fellow and his friends felt it necessary to take advantage of my misstep and goad me for a bit. Although it took me a few seconds to process. I was still on the pastries. And to be perfectly honest, although I can understand Portuguese quite well and speak it at a mediocre level, Portuguese Portuguese sounds more like an unfamiliar Slavic language than the sweet samba cadence of the Brazilian Portuguese to which I'm accustomed. It wasn't until the group closed in on me that I took full stock of my surroundings.

Me (in Spanish): Ay, disculpa! Mil disculpas! Apologies! A thousand apologies!
Fellow (in Portuguese): Menina bela! Tem que da-me um biejo. Lovely girl! You must give me a kiss.
Me: Ta bom, ta bom, disculpa! Okay, okay, I'm sorry!

After which I quickly kissed him on both cheeks, spun around, and walked onward.

Paolo, as the fellow's name turned out to be, wouldn't leave it at that. He walked after me and stopped me once more, and I lost track of the pastries. We spoke for a few minutes, him in Portuguese and me in Portuñol (a Portuguese-Spanish hybrid). He asked if I wanted him to show me the city the next day, and I said maybe. He told me about the magnificence of Portugal. I nodded and smiled. He asked what my favorite part of Portugal was. I smiled wider and replied:

"Os pastéis!"

The pastries.

Snapshots of Saint-Etienne: The crêperie that broke my heart

The perfect crêpe is an enigma.

The idea behind it is simple enough. A thin, light, delicate pancake made of wheat flour. Its name derives from the latin crispa, meaning "curled." The crêpe is a specialty of Bretagne, the northwestern French region reknown for other such gastronomic delights as cider and chouchen (a liquor made from wild honey). It's considered a national dish.

But take a closer look at the crêpe, and you'll discover the deception behind its apparent simplicity. It is more than a French pancake. It's breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. It's 1 cup flour, 2 eggs, 1/2 cup milk, 1/2 cup water, 2 tablespoons butter, and a pinch of salt. Or 2 cups flour, a pinch of salt, 3 eggs, 2 and 1/4 cups milk, and 1/4 cup butter. Or 2 cups flour, 3 eggs, 1 cup milk, 1/3 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons vanilla extract, 2 tablespoons vegetable oil, 2 tablespoons rum, and 1 cup still mineral water (this last one courtesy of food goddess Clotilde at Chocolate & Zucchini).

The crêpe can be savory or sweet. If sweet, it's a crêpe sucrée. Of these there are endless varities: nutella crêpe, strawberry crêpe, crêpe à la crème de marron (a sweetened purée of chestnuts), crêpe with chocolate-coconut-banana, crêpe Suzette (prepared with orange peel and Grand Marnier, and lit on fire). My personal favorite remains the crêpe beurre-sucre, made with salted butter and sugar.

If it's savory, it's referred to as a galette and is typically made of buckwheat flour. Galettes, too, enjoy a wide array of possible fillings. Emmental cheese, Emmental and ham, steak and Emmental, chicken and Emmental, feta-tomato-and-spinach, egg-ham-and-spinach, egg-ham-and-Emmental. And so on. (Emmental is extremely popular in France; it is one of the top two most consumed cheeses in the country. The other is Camembert.)

There is even a kebab galette. A crêpe filled with kebab meat, tomato, lettuce, onions, harissa, and yogurt sauce. I was really excited about this when I first got to St. E. On one of our kebab outings, I remarked to Corinne that these kebab galettes reminded me of burritos. They come wrapped in tinfoil, which you peel back as you eat them in order to avoid them getting cold.

Those of you who know me well can see where I'm going with this.

Corinne immediately shot down my brilliant idea for "French burritos."

Me: See, you use the crêpe, but you fill it with, like, red beans, rice, and carne asada and stuff.
Her: ...
Me: Frex-Mex!
Her: Um, no.

And then, there's the matter of the crêperies. Which are ubiquitous in France. Conveniently located on street corners, charging no more than 2-3 euros for the most basic crêpes. But since there is no universal crêpe recipe, there is zero guarantee that the crêperie you happen upon, as you make your way to the movies or come back home from work, will be any good.

I've learned this lesson the hard way. Through trial and error, I found the best place to get a crêpe fix in St. E., just two blocks away from Place du Peuple (and a mere 10 minutes from my studio).


Since January, I've bought at least a crêpe a week at this little tin shack. And always the same one: a crêpe beurre-sucre. One euro and eighty centimes. Something about the batter kept me coming back. The crêpes managed to be soft and doughy while maintaining their lightness. I'm not a fan of crispy crêpes, nor do I enjoy heavy Hummer crêpes that you regret eating about halfway through. My perfect crêpe tastes rich and filling but leaves you feeling light enough to eat another. And then another. This crêperie delivered with admirable consistency. To such a degree that, to be perfectly honest, I've actually gone about three times a week in the past month.

Until just recently. When ownership of this crêperie changed hands. From a kindly brunette crêpe master to an equally kindly but woefully inept blond crêpe novice. Gone is the batter I've grown to depend on. And it isn't just me. Corinne, too, has been deeply affected by the loss. Between the two of us, we've sampled the other streetside crêperies, to no avail.

Corinne 5:34 PM: I just tried the last crepe place that i know of, not that great. what am i going to do!?

Somewhere, I read that you need to let the batter rest for a couple of hours before frying up the crêpes. Or maybe it's a different ratio of eggs-to-flour-to-milk. Or a lack of some secret ingredient.

The situation remains unchanged. And my belly remains brokenhearted.

Published!

So the "Charles River Review," Harvard Extension School Writing Program's literary journal, decided to publish my story, "Desafinado," in their 2007-2008 issue! Hooray! It's currently available in Cambridge, if any of you happen upon it.

Unfortunately, they published an earlier draft of the story written for a writing class. I've decided to post the final, revised version. If any of you decide you have suggestions on how to make it better, I will HAPPILY welcome your comments via email.

***

Desafinado

By Katie Ferrari

Rodrigo was pulled out of sleep by the drawn out creak of the front door as it swung back on its rusty hinges. His girlfriend would be off to work, it being Monday morning. Rodrigo knew the routine that awaited him: on Mondays, he forsook his weekend wear, tight faded jeans tucked into his black All-Stars Hi-Tops with scuffed rubber nubs, and assumed the standard slacks-shirt-and-tie getup that made him want to weep. Rodrigo had wept for many things in his life. The summer of 2002 he had cried copiously as Ronaldo scored not one but two goals against the German World Cup team. Since moving to Boston, though, his outbursts had turned more quotidian. He wept on the subway when a wrinkled gentleman kindly ceded his seat to pregnant young woman. Hot tears pooled in his eyes as he watched the gentleman struggle to hold onto the handlebar above, just a smidge too high. This morning, in bed, he lay a while and wept quietly for himself.

Rodrigo was not, however, without a sense of humor. This comforted him as he contemplated his plan down to the last detail. What do you do, he wondered, on the day on which you are to die? You can do anything, he decided, and a twisted smile extended across his face. Complete and utter freedom, wipe the slate, return all things to zero. “If you can dream it, you can do it!” He said the words out loud, clenching his fist in a mocking gesture. He snickered and got himself out of bed.

How to take your own life, Rodrigo narrated to himself as he went through the motions. Step One: take a final, hot shower and scrub all of yourself clean, down to the private bits. He found the idea of a stranger discovering him in a slovenly state wholly repulsive. Step Two: one should also take the time to shave and dress in appealing clothes. Rodrigo had picked out his suicide suit over the weekend: the pair of jeans that showed off the contours of his muscular backside, the red shirt that accentuated the warm, chocolate color of his hair and lashes. Step three: don’t leave your loved ones in the lurch. You may feel like it is time to end it, but chances are, they probably disagree. Rodrigo had penned two very succinct letters: one to his mother and the other to his sister, both with the same message. Perdoa-me pelo que sinto. Perdoa-me pelo tudo. Forgive me for what I feel. Forgive me for everything.

Step four: burn your bridges to the outside world. Rodrigo took his black-and-silver cell phone into the bathroom. He hovered over the toilet for a few seconds and then let it drop into the toilet. He knew it wouldn’t make a difference, but he flushed anyway and watched the phone dance and swirl, suspended in a downward spiral. Behind the toilet, a bottle of bleach caught his eye. Rodrigo paused for a moment to consider how it would feel to down the entire bottle right then and there. The bleach would scour his insides and wash away his pain and embarrassment. It would cauterize a new path, clean and white. Perhaps. But death by bleach struck him as unnecessarily painful. He didn’t want to feel any more pain. He didn’t want to feel anything at all.

Step five: eat. The Last Supper, so to speak. Rodrigo poured himself a bowl of Heart Healthy Cereal and sat down at the kitchen table with a spoon in his hand. Before plunging it into the bowl, he looked up, forced a smile, and crossed himself. Pra você, meu pãe. For you, my father.

***

Bjorn Washington Woodbury stands at the head of a long table in a windowless conference room. He is an imposing man, tall and densely built, with a craggy face that recalls the fjords of his ancestral land. Arctic blue eyes peer out of his hard skull as he surveys the people below him, the staff of the Americas Research Institute. He is the descendant of Viking leaders and fancies himself a tenacious leader in his own right. The people below him are his charge. He knows the Institute is not like any other workplace. It is a special place, a family, even, for the expatriate employees that comprise it. He is a compassionate man, and he knows his strength will provide a backbone for his wounded flock. They will look to him for leadership, and he will hold fast. He will heal them.

“Welcome to all,” he booms. “I am sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but I have been obliged to call an emergency staff meeting.” He sits down heavily in his chair, and folds his hands.

***

Rodrigo scooped one last mouthful of cereal into his mouth and looked at the kitchen clock. Ten o’clock, on the nose. He took his bowl to the sink and washed it in soapy water. He stared ahead, absently, and allowed his gaze to wander about the world map on the wall before him. Funny how you can go South by way of North, he thought to himself. You could drive North through day and night, push onward steadily, and wind up at the South Pole. Come back out on the other end of the world, the other end of things. Could even be the right end, for once.

He brightened. Why end it this way? He could go North. Drive through cities and towns and picturesque farmhouses and dairies, past New England, past Canada, past all of it. He could escape. Hibernate in the cold and become frozen. Freeze his feelings. He would come out on the other side, new and whole. The snow and ice would heal him, make him clean again.

He decided. He wanted to leave quickly. Grab a few requisite items, a sweater, a warm jacket, hat, gloves, some toiletries, and be gone. He stood in front of his medicine cabinet for a moment and deliberated. No need. Ice would soon pump through his veins and deliver its cooling salve to every part of his body.

***

Bjorn looks at the mass assembled before him, his face as stolid as he can muster.

“I’m sure many of you have already heard the sad news.” He scrutinizes the faces of his employees, looking for signs of awareness or recognition. “I’m here to confirm what you’ve heard. I daresay we’re all pretty shocked by it.” A lump in Bjorn’s throat prevents him from finishing his thought, and he takes a deep breath.

Bjorn sits back and closes his eyes. He wonders if the staff know anything that might shed some light on what has happened. He knows a few things. For instance, Bjorn knows that Rodrigo doesn’t have a green card. Bjorn knows that his entire life is in the United States. And Bjorn knows that his work visa expires in exactly one month.

“I can’t go back to Brazil, Bjorn,” Rodrigo had told him weeks ago. “What kind of life can I have there? Everything, my work, my friends, my life, it is all here.” Rodrigo slumped back in a chair opposite Bjorn, tears visible at the corners of his luminous brown eyes. Bjorn generously faked a coughing fit to allow him a moment to regain his composure.

“Ahem.” Bjorn cleared his throat. “I know. I’ve tried.” He sighed audibly. “But there’s nothing I can do. The Institute can’t sponsor you for a green card. It’s not on our side, if it’s any comfort. The government isn’t exactly handing out green cards at the moment.”

“There has to be something,” Rodrigo pleaded.

“My hands are tied. I can’t fix this.”

Bjorn cringes, now, at his word choice. Since receiving the call from the Mounties, Bjorn has been reliving the conversation over and over, arriving each time at the same conclusion: he had been too harsh. Rodrigo’s unhappy face haunts him as he looks out at the man’s colleagues.

***

Rodrigo drove North on 95. He thought about the South Pole and its inhabitants. Not too long ago he had watched a documentary on Emperor penguins, which, as he remembered, are endemic to Antarctica. They are social creatures, surviving their severe environment by huddling together for warmth and protection. Penguins live and die by the clan, he thought. Maybe he would come out the other side as a penguin and they would adopt him. Not a bad life when you think about it. He would glide around on his tuxedo-shirt belly and dive blissfully under the sea-ice to hunt for food. At the end of the day, he’d toboggan down the ice and join the huddle, warm and safe, under the protection of the clan. They would never evict him. Never force him out against his will.

***

Bjorn has not failed to notice that Ana is quietly sobbing towards the back of the table. Ana is in shock. She can’t hold back the torrent of tears that has collected beneath her pale eyelids since the meeting began. This is not happening, she intones to herself. Not to Rodrigo. Not to her friend and brother at the Institute.

“Look out! Spicy Mexican taco coming by!” Rodrigo would whoop at her in the cramped office kitchen.

She always replied the same way.

“Look out yourself, Mineiro!”

Rodrigo laughed and laughed, tossing his head back.

“How many tacos do you have to eat to get a culo like yours?”

“About as many as you need to eat to shut it. Cállate!”

“Ana, gatinha! When will you pine for me the way I pine for you?”

“When will you get your big Brazilian butt out of the way so I can have some coffee?” Ana frowned and frowned, but could never keep it up long enough to convince him of her feigned displeasure.

“So it’s coffee you’re after? Então. Allow me the pleasure of pouring you a cup!”

At this point, Ana would crack a smile. It was hard not to appreciate Rodrigo’s antics as he poured the coffee with a flamboyant gesture, bowing down to kiss the air by her boots before pressing the cup into her hand. He then stood back and admired his handiwork.

“One of these days, I’m going to make you my wife, Ana,” he said, his eyes twinkling. He grabbed his coffee mug with one hand, and reached into his pants pocket with the other. Ana knew he was fishing for the pills he kept in his pants at all times. For headaches, she had always assumed, probably induced by the massive amounts of caffeine the man consumed.

“My crazy pills,” he always joked. “Want to do some with me?”

Might it not have been a joke? Ana wonders, now, if she was hasty with her assumption.

***

Rodrigo drove onward, past Topsfield and Boxford, through to New Hampshire, past Hampton Falls, Hampton, then North Hampton, pushing northwards into Maine, past Kennebunk. Always North. He thought about how his body might respond in the absence of his medication. He was sick, he knew it. But he wanted to leave behind the most recently prescribed batch of little pink and white pills. He would see clearly without them. His senses would remain pure and untainted. This way, he would really be clean. And whatever ailed him, the ice would cure.

***

Martin rolls his eyes at Bjorn and the rest of the staff. He is as swarthy as Bjorn is towheaded, and the scowling expression on his face strikes an unpleasant counterpoint to the grief-stricken demeanors of his colleagues. Emergency staff meeting. What an idea, he scoffs. Unbelievable, that he would be party to such a gross invasion of his Rodrigo’s privacy. Martin sure as shit wouldn’t want his personal business exposed like this. The nerve of Bjorn, that smarmy bastard, calling them in to hold hands and talk about feelings and such. The kid’s gone, and it’s a damn shame. But this hippy love fest is in poor taste, Martin thinks. We’ve all got corpses in our closets. To disembowel them and splatter the messy remains at work for all to see, well it’s just not right.

“You hanging in there, kid?” Martin had barked.

Rodrigo raised his head from his desk and exhaled loudly.

“Yeah, you?”

“Sound as a pound, buddy,” Martin replied gruffly.

“Yeah. It’s my girlfriend, you know?”

“Love is a bitch, my man. You gotta take her by the reins and beat her into submission.”

“Thanks for the tip, Martin.”

No problem, Martin had answered. It’s not like most guys don’t have old lady troubles. And after all, troubles with your old lady aren’t a good enough reason to do yourself in, right? Martin knows everyone’s got problems, and it’s tough shit. But no good can come of taking a man’s personal business and dedicating an entire staff meeting to it. It’s nothing but a damn violation, he thinks, shaking his head in anger.

***

Rodrigo stopped for gas in close to Portland. He put some cash down at the register and filled up outside, inhaling the cold air and watching it freeze as he breathed out. Janice would have probably raised hell by now. Janice was his girlfriend. She was a pretty girl, American. She had claimed to love with him, had even promised to marry him. Janice was sweet and docile. She had soft, freckled skin and a cute button nose. There was a lot she didn’t know.

***

José avoids eye contact with everyone in the room, trying hard to stare at nothing. He reaches up and tugs at his ear with his fingertips, feeling for the familiar opening along the ridge. He rubs it gently, and thinks back to what he knows. He knows, for instance, that wearing the shiny earring that matches the crest of ear currently between his fingers would be tantamount to career suicide. He knows the boundary between his work life and personal life, knows that while the two might eye each other hungrily at the margins, they must never cross over. José knows he must live his life cloaked in deception, because to be gay and Latin, both at the same time, is an abomination to some and unacceptable to most.

José knows more than he lets on, but he is a seasoned con artist. He smiles sadly at Ana with great sympathy. He doesn’t reveal that Rodrigo is a frequent flier at Buck 15. José has spotted him before, deep in the cave crawling with smooth, shirtless boys and sweaty drag queen in killer sequin dresses. Rodrigo danced and twirled, driven by the same heavy House beat that drove them all. Watching him dance, the heavy music seemed lighter than air, light enough to take flight.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” José had asked him at the bar after the apprehensive moment of recognition between the two of them. Rodrigo had brushed the sweat away from his face with the back of his hand and replied.

“I tell her it’s my Capoeira night.” The lie was good, the equivalent of a poker night with the guys. The girl, Janice, would never think to doubt it. Not that she was all that clever to begin with.

José fixes his eyes on the blank spot of table before him, appearing emotionless. He is churning on the inside. Rodrigo was dead. He wasn’t the first. But perhaps he was simply trying to find a better place for himself. One where he didn’t have to live the life of an outcast and pretend.

***

Years later, Ana, Martin, and José will each remember how they sat next to their colleagues in that conference room and yet never felt more isolated. They will recall Bjorn’s hanging head, his crushed look. They will recall how they willed an explanation. A resolution. And they will be no closer to any sort understanding.

***

Rodrigo drove northward for hours, past Augusta, Waterville and Bangor, until he pressed up against the border with Canada. He was hungry, ravenous in fact. There’s a reason why penguins and polar bears maintain layers of blubber, he remembered. He looked down and pinched the taut skin over his belly. He would have to eat and prepare himself. He would have to rent a boat, too. Eventually, there would be no more road to traverse, and then he would navigate the sea-ice until reaching his new home. Rodrigo smiled. With a steady grip on the wheel, he steeled himself and crossed over.

Thanks for reading!

Copenhagen: In which I attempt a solo pub crawl (and revel in a spectacular failure)

Okay, I confess.

I am a lush.

A sot. A tippler. An inebriate. A drunk. Somewhere in the 3-year gap between college and mid-twenties, alcohol became my indisputable drug of choice.

And boy, we've had some good times.

But there's no point in equivocating. For reasons both obvious and personal, my fondness for drink has evolved from entertaining to increasingly problematic. And while I don't much feel like sharing the gory details in a public forum, I will say this: the drinking has gotten old. And it doesn't seem worth the stress on my health anymore.

Now I've had my fair share of last hurrahs, particularly since the New Year, after it became painfully clear to me that something had to change (word to the wise: Parisian youth are really not partial to Reggaeton music, especially when it's forced on them by a belligerently drunk and overly touchy Uruguayan). But I only had twenty-four hours to explore Copenhagen. Before heading back to St.E. after eighteen days of traveling. Before returning to work after eighteen days free from undersexed adolescent french schoolboys.

I spent the day walking the crap out of Copenhagen. I went all over. The city center. Cristianshavn. Christiania. Nørrebro. Vesterbro. Fredicksburg. At dusk, the soles of my feet were on fire. And I was thirsty.

So I hit the pubs. Armed with my Top 5 bars list and a mission: drink a pint per bar, every hour on the hour.

First on the list: The Moose

GET HAMMEREDE IN CHEAP BEER
[Svaertegade 5] "THE MOOSE is the place to go if you're up for a crazy night out. Especially on Tue, Thu Sat and on the 13th of each month no one is left sober for very long. Then a large draught beer is only DKK16 until 21:00. After that the price rises to DKK23. Occasional live music. Open every day."
("Copenhagen for Young Traveler's" map and guide)

Of course, I strolled into the Moose on a Saturday. What luck. The entire bar was covered in graffiti: not an inch of wall spared, not even in the bathroom. I quickly surveyed the available tables and opted for a stool at the bar. Sitting at the bar always seems appropriate when you're drinking alone.

Denmark banned smoking indoors in 2007, with one exception:
"The only exception from the ban is for establishments with an area less than 40 sq. mtrs., which don't serve fresh food - so you can still enjoy a cigarette in some smaller pubs if you're lucky - some places have installed special smoking rooms but most refer smokers to the streets."
(Copenhagen Office of Tourism)

The Moose is an establishment with an area less than 40 square meters. It is also an establishment that doesn't serve fresh food.

I took in my surroundings, my eyes smarting from billows of pungent tobacco smoke. And I observed the following:
Above one table, a Moose's head stuck out prominently from the wall.

Above the bar, a series of inane pictures. A freeze frame from "Frankenstein," the movie. A photo of the National Olympic Curling Team of Denmark from the Nagano 1998 Olympics. Elvis.

Also, bills of various international currencies papered a wooden panel over the bar's mirror. I was only slightly horrified at my reaction upon seeing George Washington's familiar portrait sternly gazing down at me. (Like seeing the picture of someone you love up in some random bar. Since when do I love American money? Or George Washington?)

Musical highlights from the Moose included:
The White Stripes, "Seven Nation Army"
Nirvana, "Smells Like Teen Spirit"
Lou Reed, "Walk on the Wild Side"
Depeche Mode, "Everything Counts"

The drink:
Jacobsen's Brown Ale

The reading material:
Jan/Feb 2009 Foreign Affairs
(No comments, please. I realize it's not Rilke or Kerouac or Auden or whatever the hell you're supposed to read when you're sitting alone at a bar. But it was interesting enough.)

I sipped my pint of Jacobsen's and tried to read through the article on peace in the Middle East ("Change They Can Believe In: To Make Israel Safe, Give Palestinians Their Due," Walter Russell Mead). But I kept getting distracted by increasingly intoxicated and spectacularly attractive groups of Danes. One of whom came up to the bar about every 15 minutes to order another round for his table.

Apparently in one of trips to the bar, he sneaked a peak at my reading. And decided I needed saving.

"Hello!"

I felt someone tap my shoulder, and I spun around on my stool. Behind me stood a tall, blonde woman with bloodshot blue eyes.

"Would you like to come have a drink with us?"

She posed the question in perfect, if slightly accented, English, waving over at her table, where I spotted the Dane who had been at my side refilling on drinks just a few minutes before. And by his side, another man, older, taller, with brown hair and equally bloodshot blue eyes.

I smiled and replied, "Of course!"

As it turns out, Synne (pronounced like Sonne with an umlaut over the "o") and her crew had discussed my situation at length before asking me to join them. Brian, the younger man, had tried to read a bit of my article and reported back to his friends about it.

"It's soooo booooooooooring," he exclaimed, drawing out his words. I laughed and told him I found it interesting, but much preferred to be in the company of talkative locals.

Now, if you'll recall, I was on a mission. I still had four bars to visit.

Bars like VINSTUE 90:
[Gammel Kongevej 90] "An authentic bar with original 1916-decor. The famous serving of Carlsberg from a special tap takes 10-15 minutes. Because that just makes the best glass of beer! When ordering your slow beer, order a vente-øl (while-you-wait-beer) as well. There's no music, in order to preserve the fine art of conversations. Open every day."

Or MASKEN BAR:
"Gay time all day! At MASKEN BAR it's Happy Hour all day every day! The mixed crowd of gay, hetero and bi, combined with a friendly staff, make everybody feel welcome."

But Brian bought a round of Jacobsen's. Followed by a second. Followed by a third.

As I lost my sobriety, I lost all sense of time as well. Conversation flowed as freely as the pints of beer Brian kept bringing back from the bar. And then I told Synne, Brian, and Frank about my grand plans to explore the Copenhagen nightlife solo.

"Where do you want to go? We will take you!"

But not before dinner, as, apparently, the men had not eaten. I was treated to dinner and more drinks at a crêperie nearby. Then we moved on to Masken Bar, where Frank was felt up by more than a couple of scantily clad men. Frank and Synne are actually a couple. Synne doesn't have a problem with Frank's natural attractiveness to other men. Nor does Frank, for that matter.

At this point, a "snowy mix" was beating down mercilessly on the streets of Copenhagen, and we slipped and slid our way a club where a live band was rocked out to Guns 'n Roses and other Guitar Hero tunes. Frank and I head banged our hair dry while Synne and Brian continued to throw back the beers. I made it back to my hostel, by some miracle, soaked but safe, at approximately 5 am. And was kicked out of my bed at 10.

I'm happy to say that I think this was truly the last hurrah to end all last hurrahs. Not to mention the fact that I now have three wonderful people to visit next time I'm in Copenhagen.

Stockholm: Latin America Day

In November of last year, the New Yorker published a profile of Thomas Friedman that I only just read in January. In it, the famed author and journalist quotes economist Paul Romer:

"A crisis is a terrible thing to waste."

Romer's words could have easily served as the subtitle for Sweden's recent "Latin America Day," where the tone was one of hope and opportunity. The event, held at the Sveriges Riksdag (the Swedish parliament) in Stockholm, was a last-minute surprise during my February travels.

As part of my journey through Scandinavia, I made a five day stop in Sweden's island capital, where I was put up by His Excellency the Uruguayan Ambassador to Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, and his wife. (Uruguay is a small country; apparently the Ministry of Foreign Affairs can afford to lump all the Scandinavian and Baltic nations under a sole diplomatic umbrella.) I know them as Manuel and Marta, friends of my mother's from their time in Miami at the Uruguayan Consulate. Marta, especially, developed a close friendship with my mother through their volunteer work with the Asociación de Mujeres Uruguayas de Florida (Uruguayan Women's Association of Florida). For any architects or engineers out there, Marta is also the daughter of famed Uruguayan Eladio Dieste who invented the Gaussian vault. You've gotta love the Uruguayan family tree; shake it hard enough, and you never know who might fall out.

From what I could observe, Manuel's job is as exhausting as it is stimulating. His presence (and, frequently, Marta's) is required at multiple diplomatic events on a daily basis: cocktails at the United Arab Emirates embassy, dinner with the Spanish, royal meet-and-greet at the Palace, not to mention responsibilities as mundane as riding the embassy car to the airport to pick up Uruguayan and Latin American VIPs. In his down time, Manuel removes his suit coat, kicks off his shoes, and stretches his wiry frame out on the plush couch in their living room, where he indulges in the daily cable broadcast of Cuéntame como pasó, a popular and long-running Spanish TV show that follows a family from the Franco years into the 1990s. Manuel's laptop is seldom far from his fingertips; he surfs the web in his stocking feet, alternating between BBC news and Mininova, the torrent downloading site where he downloads movies to watch when he is traveling.

Marta, with short clipped hair and a tan complexion even in the dead of Swedish winter, is still looking for more activities to occupy her time. She tells me, in that low, smoky voice characteristic of women from the River Plate region, that she misses the network of friends she left behind in Miami. And then she shows me the thick stack of diplomatic invitations, extended in ornate, stenciled writing to "His Excellency and partner," to dinners and receptions and teas and so on.

One of these invitations was to "Latin America Day," a day long conference featuring such notable Latin American specialists as Enrique Iglesias and Pierre Schori. On Manuel and Marta's enthusiastic offer (and because I miss the Latin Americanist environment), I decided to attend.

Latin America has always been of great importance to Sweden, and vice versa. When violent dictatorships ravaged much of the region's intelligentsia in the last century, many, particularly from South America, fled to the northern, amnesty-granting nation. And they remained there. Many even went on to become members of parliament

"The many Latin Americans who live in Sweden are an important asset to our society," began Gunnar Wieslander, State Secretary to the Minister of Trade, as he launched into his presentation entitled "Latin America and Sweden - a Broad Relation." He went on to note that "more students than ever study Spanish in Sweden." Latin America is "more important than our neighbor Russia, and more important, even, than the giant China." Wieslander's claim, though broad and not deeply explored in his key note address, was echoed both by his mastery of Spanish and his expert knowledge of the region (later showcased during the panel debate). He wrapped up his talk with an earnest request directed to the Latin American statesmen and businessmen in the room: "Please think of us as ready to work on equal footing."

Next up was superstar Pierre Schori, former Swedish Ambassador to the United Nations and recent author of the book "The Years of the Dragon´s Teeth - September 11, the Iraq War and the World after Bush." He was a member of the parliament back in 1982 when "Gabo" (Gabriel García Márquez) came to Stockholm to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Schori recalled how the Colombian Ambassador commenced ill-advised festivities by handing out bottles of rum to parliamentarians. Unfortunately, someone higher up decided it was "not appropriate" and put an end to the rum. "But I can assure you we all enjoyed it very much," Schori proclaimed, smiling at the audience.

His talk went on to address Latin American gains (a major theme throughout the conference) and the outlook for U.S.-Latin American relations. He remarked on poverty reduction in the region, signaling positive strides while noting that income gaps have widened. "La pobreza tiene color y es femenina," (Poverty has a color, and it is feminine) he added, highlighting where there is significant room for improvement.

Another trend, and one that has been concretized by the economic crisis, is that Latin America "speaks with its own voice," Schori said, borrowing Brazilian President Lula's recent words in Madrid after receiving the Cervantes Prize. This is in marked difference to the region's position in past crises. Now, Schori explained quoting OAS Secretary General José Miguel Insulza, there has been shift to "create policies with countries, not for them." On the subject of the U.S. and what Obama can do for Latin America, Schori was more cynical, citing Obama's already full plate (the state of the American economy, health care, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan). Though he recognized the closing of Guantanamo, Schori cautioned against being overly optimistic: "A good signal would be for the U.S. not only to close Guantanamo but to hand it back to its rightful owners."

Enrique Iglesias followed Schori's talk by delving straight into the current global crisis, which he called the "perfect crisis." Why? "Consumers don't consume, investors don't invest, banks don't lend, and governments don't collect taxes." It is, Iglesias asserted, a "dramatic crisis of confidence...and the capitalist system depends on confidence."

In the last decade, Latin America has reaped the fruits of a "bonanza:" it "learned how to manage the economy" and joined the new world geography, exporting food, energy and metals. Consequently, the region saw an overall reduction of poverty from 45% to 35%, saved $450 billion in reserves, and currently boasts inflation and unemployment figures in the single digits, as well as stability. The crisis has brought with it a regrettable series of effects that threaten these tremendous strides. Tourism is down, as are remittances and commodities prices, and the region is feeling credit crunch.

"But Latin America is better prepared than ever to deal," Iglesias stated in an unequivocally positive tone. For the first time, "emerging markets are not part of the problem: they are part of the solution." What's more, Latin America posseses a great and unique asset: "Now is the time to activate integration," he urged. "A new world will emerge;" one in which "maybe we can tackle other problems." (A crisis is, indeed, a terrible thing to waste.) Amidst all these potential opportunities, Iglesias underscored the importance of keeping alive poverty reduction policies: "Ten points is a conquest, and it would be very dramatic if we lose that. If we return people to poverty." He concluded by impressing on us the singular chance offered by the crisis to not only put order in house economically but ethically. (To my knowledge, it is a rare thing to hear a key note speaker at a trade conference appeal to our sense of right and wrong while discussing economic policy.)

After Iglesias, Johan Schaar spoke on managing climate change as part of the new development agenda. Schaar, Director of the Commission on Climate Change and Development, also pointed to the interlinked nature of current crises (finance, climate, food, and energy) which offers us the opportunity to deal with them simultaneously. Stefan de Vylder, an Associate Professor of Development Economics, then stepped up to the podium and bemoaned "THE IRONY" of the current situation. How "the recipe today is the opposite of what it was" when Latin American countries were in economic turmoil. (For those of you unfamiliar with recent Latin American economic history, nations in financial crisis were sternly instructed to restrict their spending and follow an extremely austere fiscal regimen, as dictated by the IMF; of course now that developed countries are in crisis, these recommendations have been completely reversed. Spend, spend, spend and "stimulate" the economy, say the fiscal experts. What magnificent hypocrisy. Tsk tsk.)

De Vylder's somewhat tongue-in-cheek address, entitled "It Is Not Our Fault This Time! Latin America Coping With Past and Present Financial Crises," reiterated Latin America's relatively good position today: just last year, 70% of all reserves were in emerging and developing markets. Latin American banks, specifically, don't have toxic assets.

Whatever the post-crisis future brings, developing countries and markets will need to play a markedly stronger role. And there is reason to believe that this is a very good thing.