02/10/22:
Surf House Chicama, La Libertad, Peru
Holy. Shit. I'm writing from my balcony. I can hear the waves, and I can see the sea. Ha.
Okay, so Uncle Dirk and Grandma's driver took me to the airport for my flight, and I was really nervous. Lima's got an international airport, so English, while uncommon, is still possible, but Trujillo-- and by extension, Chicama-- is smaller, and domestic. Since it was domestic, there wasn't as much to worry about as if it was international. I even had three conversations with my Rs rolling and everything!
The taxi here was almost two hours, and I was worried about being kidnapped. But I was delivered safe and sound, and the woman who runs this place seems very nice. My security fears were assuaged.
The room is incredibly spacious. I have a balcony, two beds-- I needed the sea view, and the only room open with one was a two-bed-- an expansive shower, and large windows that fully open to the sound and smell of the ocean around me. I can practically taste it. I'm a stone's throw away, a crow could fly and I could follow its path.
I'm finishing the beer from dinner. Although I want to save money, dinner was 26 soles-- that's like $6-- which is a bargain for Lomo Saltado y una cerveza. I don't like beer, but it came with the food, and everyone was drinking one, so. Salud.
When in Rome, they say, and I understand why. The beer fit the meal perfectly. The bottle is empty, and I think that's what I'll put my beach sand in, for my bucket list collection.
Tomorrow, breakfast is at 8am, and my surfing lesson-- yes! Surfing!-- is at 9am. I could not be more excited. It's about damn time I learned how to surf. What kind of beachgoer doesn't even know how to surf? God.
This cured my epilepsy, depression, and anxiety. Any maladies. Every malady. I say that as if I hadn't had a breakdown so severe I turned to alcohol maybe three pages ago. But I can't get over how beautiful it is here. I dismissed this country because it birthed my mother, but sitting here, I can't believe I ever did. The immersion is making the language come easier and easier as well, so that's not even a grudge to hold anymore.
That reminds me. I need to write a letter to my past self, and any future selves who could suffer the way I did in October 2021.
To the angry girl yelling into the psych ward phone one minute, laughing with your roommate the next, and crying in the shower:
I know it seems hopeless and ridiculous, and life is pointless, but soon, someday really soon, you will be at a beachside resort, listening to the crash of the waves as you write this, full of Lomo Saltado and a great beer. You will be hours away from a surfing lesson, and you will feel great. All of your mistakes led you here. I promise. You'll speak Spanish with some ease, find more self-confidence each day, and learn to love your own company again, because you did all of it by yourself. No one paid for it, and no one held your hand. No one had to.
I know the knife can be tempting. But times like these feel better than any cut. I know it hurts, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for abandoning you every time you tried to get through something, until you came to expect it, and reached for the sharp clarity instead of a hand. I wish I could help now, but I'm still learning to deal with the hurt myself too. And I won't be any help if I don't master that.
I can tell you that family isn't the evil monstrosity you thought it was. You're blaming them for the sins of the mother/father, but you of all people should've known they lie, and that their children do not equal them.
One last thing, Jackie. You survived the neglect, and charcuterie board your mother called love. You survived yourself. Your best efforts failed. Is that a success or a failure? I'll leave that up to you to decide, because something tells me every single Jackie in every single moment in time has a different answer.
You can survive more than you think. And you will.
Love,
Jackie (Feb 2022)
I'm not tired, but I do have to wake up early. Wait. I can eat breakfast after, right? The lesson can't possibly be 2 hours. For 50 soles? That's like $10. Maybe light breakfast, and more after?
God. Uncle Dirk was right when he said the real danger wasn't me dying or getting kidnapped, but that I'd love it so much, I'd never come back, and spend my life chasing waves, and he'd have to tell Stephanie I'm lost forever.
It's tempting, I'll admit.
I'm going to say goodnight to the Pacific, and head to bed.
BUENAS NOCHES! 💓
The first thing I did when I got in that room was fling open the curtains. The second was film a room tour for my Snapchat.
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