at a crossroads

Hungry, Hungry Hippos

I survived my surgery.

Of course I did! Those of you who’ve been following this blog may recall that I was due to have surgery to remove an anomaly on my parathyroid, a quartet of glands near the throat that control calcium distribution throughout the human body (you can read my last post here). The parathyroidectomy was performed at Vanderbilt on September 16^thwith minimal pain afterwards (much to my relief). I still have occasional discomfort that feels like a sore throat; a steri-strip bandage remains over the stitching, said to fade in time. And good news: doctors were able to save my thyroid itself, which means no unexpected weight gain, squeaky voice, or hormonal imbalance.

And yet as I write this, I’m on day 15 of a post-op hospital stay. So what happened?

Four Grains of Rice

The above picture, taken peak-pandemic, circa April, 2021, finds your favorite gringo blogger struggling to wake up and greet the day. Post-morning fart, with noteworthy bedhead and spectacular beardage courtesy of local hair salons being shuttered due to coronavirus, I blearily imbibe coffee. I don’t recall what prompted me to stage this photo, but I remember those uncertain months and that very, very long spring, when hoarding toilet paper became a stock-in-trade and when hand sanitizer was seemingly more valuable than a pot of gold.

Fast forward a little more than five years, and no one talks about the pandemic anymore—almost as if it never happened. As for yours truly, I’ve moved to Knoxville and am five months into a new job with a company that genuinely values its employees. I still have that bathrobe and coffee mug, as well as the facial hair. The beard is less unkempt, though speckled with lots of gray. Beneath each eye: matching crow’s feet, or laugh lines, if you will.

Also, I’m two inches shorter than I was when this picture was taken.

Lucky to be Alive

This is Mount LeConte. The third-highest peak in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, its summit lodge and unrestricted views attract thousands of hearty hikers each year. There are five routes to the top, each of varying degrees of difficulty. Even the easiest and most popular of the bunch, Alum Cave, is no mere walk in the park.

On Monday, September 9, the weather forecast was ideal: 70 degrees along the trail, 60 degrees at the summit, low humidity and nary a cloud in the sky. Knowing I had a new job waiting for me the following Monday, I woke up before dawn, printed out my parking permit, and made the one-hour drive to the Rainbow Falls parking lot, where the plan was to take the Rainbow Falls Trail up and either the Trillium Gap Trail or the Bullhead Trail down. I packed two bottles of Gatorade, two liters of water, and lots of trail food (beef sticks, pretzel sticks, honey stinger energy chews, trail mix). I bought a brownie at the LeConte Lodge store, topped off my water, and tightened my laces for the descent, deciding on the Bullhead Trail, which was roughly one-half mile longer than the Trillium Gap but which led directly to my starting parking lot, rather than to an additional connector trail that roughly paralleled the paved, Roaring Fork Motorway for 1.7 miles from the bottom of Trillium Gap to the bottom of Rainbow Falls.

It was late when I headed down, after 3:30 pm, so my choice of the shorter trail was the correct one, right? Seeing as I’m writing this with three broken bones, limited mobility in both arms, and a fresh forehead scar, I’d say I chose poorly.

It has been an interesting couple of weeks. As I “celebrate” eight months as a Mexican resident and six months as an English teacher, I also ponder a darker reality – I don’t know if I’m gonna make it down here.

I was mugged on Friday. At gunpoint, and literally just steps from my front door. It was a long day – three classes spread throughout the morning and afternoon, a trip to the mall to buy myself a new suit – much-needed, as six months of commuting by Mexico City public transport can really put your wardrobe through the ringer – and an early evening showing of “The Hangover Part 3.” I was in the mood for a laugh and the movie mostly fit the bill – especially the mid-credits “coda.”

It was 9:30 pm when it happened. There were still a good number of people out-and-about in my middle-class neighborhood of Letran Valle. The neighborhood Oxxo (mini-mart) had its usual long line of TGIF celebrants buying beer; the nearby taquería was bustling. My street, lined with trees and a mix of single-family and apartment-style dwellings, is just four blocks down from the Oxxo, and it was perfectly quiet that night. Too quiet, as it turned out.

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