LoriLoo

Getting High

June 27, 2026

gratitude, Travel

Less than an hour to fly from Lima to Cusco. From sea level to over 11,000 feet. When we stepped off the plane, my head was spinning. My legs were heavy and I had difficulty walking. It was as though the air was thick, and I couldn’t quite make my way through it. Our guide picked us up and told us we would make our way to The Sacred Valley, enjoying a few stops along the way.

At the first stop I continued having difficulty walking, and had to stop to rest several times. They offered us coka tea, which we readily accepted. At the second stop, the guide asked us if we wanted to walk further. I was still spinning. We gave each other furtive glances, and shook our heads in unison.

We arrived to our hotel in The Sacred Valley, 3,000 feet lower than Cusco. My head wasn’t spinning anymore, though I was tired. I slept well, and erroneously assumed I had licked altitude sickness. Oh, the hubris.

After exploring Machu Picchu, our guide drove us back to Cusco. We were exhausted. We’d been up since 4:30 am, hiked the majority of the day, and arrived to our hotel around 8:30 pm. We showered and went straight to bed.

I woke up around 5:30 am, struggling to breathe. My head felt like it was going to explode, like someone was enthusiastically beating a timpani drum inside of it. I was shaking and shivering uncontrollably, while simultaneously feeling like I was on fire. My travel partner asked me if I was okay. I eked out a weak “no….” before tumbling out of bed to the bathroom, violently throwing up.

I laid on the cold bathroom tiles, unable to get up. I eventually crawled back to bed, groaning. I thought to myself that I’ve lived a good life, although thus wouldn’t be my preferred way to die. It seemed like it would be long and drawn out process.

She said the hotel was bringing oxygen and I would feel better immediately. I didn’t believe her. She said she was a mom and knew what to do in these situations.

There was a knock at the door, and a man entered with an oxygen tank. In a calming voice, he instructed me to relax, and to try to breathe normally. He placed a plastic tube in my nostrils, and wrapped it around my ears before hooking it to the oxygen tank. He told me to relax and he’d return in 15 minutes.

I laid as still as I could, though my body continued to convulse, breathing as normally as I could, although I still gulped for air, my eyes closed and doubting this would help.

After five minutes I stopped shivering. After ten minutes my breathing was becoming regulated. He returned after fifteen minutes and said I could use more time. I continued to breathe pure oxygen, feeling better with each breath.

He was satisfied with my progress upon his return, and advised me to rest and take it easy. As much as it pained me to stay in bed while in a new city, I heeded his advice. As I laid there, I marveled at the human body and the balance of input and output. Why had I experienced altitude sickness, and my travel partner had not? How had minutes of oxygen restored my well-being? Where was the line between my body functioning normally and not?

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Templo San Pedro Apóstol de Andahuaylillas

June 26, 2026

Travel, delight, gratitude

In all my travels, I’ve never felt so much awe when I entered a church. Not in Spain, not in Italy. From the outside, it appears to be a modest Catholic church. Stone foundation, adobe walls. Smooth river stones arranged mosaic style to create a pleasing patio in the front. Symmetrical blocks, circles, and ribbons in muted neutrals.

I stepped inside and was overwhelmed by the icons surrounding me in the large, long rectangular sanctuary. There were life sized Marys in elaborate dress, lace and gold and flowers. There were saints, draped in robes, eyes cast towards the heavens, some appearing pained, others appearing touched by the divine, exuding reverence. I was staring at their realistic faces when my eyes wandered upwards.

The entire ceiling was painted in a way that was simply breathtaking. The most gorgeous slate blue dominated the palette, with sunlike ovals creating a repeated pattern that was mesmerizing. Our guide explained that the church was built in 1590 by the Spaniards; however, they hired Andean artists to paint the interior. The pattern of the ceiling was based on Incan iconography. The solid wood beams were covered with a plaster mixture then painted fresco style, taking 15 years to complete. I wanted to just stand and stare at the ceiling. I felt such a sense of calm and peacefulness. My breathing slowed. Pictures were not allowed inside the church, so I stared at the ceiling, searing it into my memory.

The guide led us to the retablo at the front of the church. It covered the entire back wall, floor to ceiling. At first glance, it was difficult to look at. The entire structure was covered in 22k gold leaf. So bright! So shiny! As my eyes adjusted, I marveled at the intricate details of each section. Niches for saints. A stunning sun at the top, reminiscent of the icons in the Incan temples. Stars. Flowers. Baby animals. Angels. I could have sat for hours taking in the magnificence. I think what moved me most was the care that had permeated the construction. So much attention to detail. In every icon. In every mural. In every fresco. The result was not gaudy, but welcoming. A place you wanted to stay.

I’m thankful pictures were not allowed. There’s no way photos could have captured the essence of the sanctuary. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to stand and soak it in, to remember it in my mind’s eye.

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Fiesta in the Club Car

June 23, 2026

delight, gratitude, Travel

“Passengers in Car A please make your way to the club car for entertainment and observation.”

We were so tired. We had awaken at 4:30 am and spent the day at Machu Picchu. It’s winter and it’s hot once the sun rises. We were going to stay in our seats. Passers by encouraged us to join the party. Porque no??

We walked through three other cars before arriving to the club car, where a mini big band-esque quintet played, slicked back hair, suspenders, and retro microphone. At the end of the car, we stood in the open air next to the engine. The atmosphere was full of energy – people clapping, dancing, and generally celebrating. Passengers danced in the aisles (myself included). Strangers spun each other. Smiles were exchanged freely. What an amazing ending to an amazing day.

Crooning as we traveled

Dancing and celebrating

The engine – right there!!

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Mara Salt Mines

June 21, 2026

delight, Travel

We rounded the corner high on the mountain and our guide told us to look out the window. We were staring at a patchwork quilt of whites and ecrus and beiges and tans and caramels and lattes stretching the length of the valley. It took a moment for me to understand what I was seeing. When our guide told us we were going to salt mines, I envisioned descending deep into the earth. And here we were on top of a mountain, at almost 11,000 feet above sea level.

Maras Salt Mines from above

After a few more twists and turns we arrived at the entrance. Our guide explained there is a salt spring that originates inside the earth, and has been flowing for 3,000 years to this spot. People’s before the Incans created shallow natural pools filled by the spring. Once full, they blocked the flow of the water, and over time the sun evaporated the water, leaving three layers of salt: white salt on top, pink salt in the middle, and brown salt (inedible, used for medicinal reasons) on the bottom. Once harvested, they filled the pools again and started the cycle anew. The Incans added more pools, and in modern times even more pools have been added, though the harvesting process remains the same.

The mines are collectively owned by about 400 families. Only family members work the mines, still using wooden hammers and shovels to harvest the salts.

It was awe inspiring to view the beauty of the thousands of pools, and even more fascinating to learn that the harvesting process has changed minimally over thousands of years.

Looking down on the pools

Worker making sure the aqueducts are working properly

Salt almost ready for harvesting

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June Nights

June 10, 2026

Asheville Living, delight, gratitude

I try to appreciate every day, every month, every year, for what it is, and yet some months in particular ring more special. June is one of them.

June is my birthday month (cake! frosting!). June is swimming in the outdoor pool. June is the month of the latest sunsets. June is warm, humid nights. June is planting month. June is rocking on the front porch at dusk after working in the garden all evening. June is fireflies and crickets.

Fireflies. Those magical creatures. I can’t not be at peace with life when I watch fireflies light up and attempt to attract a mate. As dusk falls, my eyes dart from spark to spark as they light up. It’s impossible to see the full glow. And each time I see a spark, I’m cheering for them. “Find your mate! You can do it! There is a firefly out there for you! Have faith!”

The male fireflies fly high. They emit a light pattern, and the female fireflies, if interested, mirror that pattern from lower down. This is why I purposely don’t cut my grass as often during the month of June. I want the females to have a comfy spot to attract a mate. The pattern matching isn’t as obvious at the beginning of the night (so many fireflies!) but towards the end of the night, it’s magical to see a male emit a signal, and a female copy it. It gives me so much hope. “Yes! You’ve found your mate! Go forth and be happy!”

And the crickets. The beautiful symphony of the crickets. The gentle chirping as background music. I give thanks for how lucky I am. To be rocking on a porch, on a hot, humid night, listening to crickets and witnessing fireflies. How could life be any better?

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It’s Okay

May 27, 2026

Asheville Living, delight, Food

I wish there was a smoke alarm setting for “I know there is a lot of smoke in here and it’s okay.”

I was at the butcher’s today, and I noticed they had Wilkes County country ham. When I saw that, it immediately took me back. Back to the days when Mom and Dad were building our cabin in Ashe County. And Ashley and I thought we were helping. Back when we would have communal dinners at Greenfield Restaurant, now closed, sadly. Back when I would gorge on the saltiness of country ham and biscuits.

I bought a pound. I didn’t need a pound of country ham. But that seemed like the right amount.

After working in the garden for hours, I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted a little something. I fried up a piece of country ham. It sizzled. It curled up in the pan. It smoked. The smoke alarm went off. Beeping, beeping, beeping. So much beeping.

I waved sturdy magazines back and forth in front of the smoke alarm, hoping the additional air would dissipate the smoke. No such luck. I opened all the doors and windows. I set up a floor fan directly below the smoke alarm. Nothing helped.

So I simply sat down at the table, and enjoyed my slice of country ham. Eventually, quite some time after I finished, the smoke alarms abated. It’s okay.

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The Most Beautiful Flower

April 29, 2026

Asheville Living, delight

It’s that time of year. The peonies are starting to bloom. I simply want to sit outside and watch them all day long. Their beauty only lasts a few days and then their petals start to drop, creating memories of color where their blooms once were.

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‘Tis the Season

March 26, 2026

Asheville Living, family, grief

All day I felt unease. Nothing in particular had happened, and yet malaise blanketed me. I didn’t feel comfortable in my body.

The usual things that lift my spirits had no effect. Water aerobics, puttering in the yard, meditating, sewing, even a massage. It was as I was lying there on the massage table that it hit me. Hard.

It’s the season. Not the date, but the season. Seven years ago, on the Thursday morning before Palm Sunday, I went into Dad’s bedroom to tell him goodbye, as I was about to drive to Charleston for a dear friend’s 50th birthday celebration. I found him doubled over in pain, unable to speak. I immediately called 911 and watched as the paramedics took him away. We reunited in the Emergency Room, and the doctors assured me that all he needed was a drip of penicillin to combat the infection from his dialysis. I didn’t go to Charleston that day.

I stayed with Dad, and watched over Mom. I silently cried, unable to bear to see him in so much pain. I apologized profusely. See, the day before, we had had an argument. An argument in which we raised our voices with each other, which I had never remembered happening in my entire life. With Mom, yes. She was a yeller. With Dad, no. He was a negotiator, a peace maker.

I was sitting at the dining room table, working. He was sitting at his desk across the room, writing correspondence. Mom’s best friend was visiting. She had agreed to take Mom to a medical appointment in a couple of weeks, as I would be taking Dad to a chemotherapy appointment that day. Dad confirmed with Mom’s best friend that she would take Mom to her appointment next week. Without really thinking, I said, “Week after next.” Dad turned to me and yelled, “Stop correcting me! Just stop it!” I was so stunned that he raised his voice that I was paralyzed. I excused myself to take out the trash.

As soon as I was out of the condo, I started bawling. What was happening? I literally had never heard Dad raise his voice. Not when I was arrested for underage drinking and he had to collect me at the county jail on Christmas Eve. Not when I thought I was helping with weeding and accidentally butchered all of the raspberry and blackberry bushes, wiping out the season’s bounty. Not when I had a wreck and totaled a new BMW with paper tags (ie, less than 30 days in the owner’s possession).

I collected myself and returned to the condo. As soon as I saw him, I started crying again. Not kindly, he said, “What?” All the feelings at once assaulted me. What had I done? Why was he mad? Why had I sacrificed months to live with them? Why was he dying? And all of that poured forth. And we both cried, and hugged, and cried some more.

And the next morning he was in the ER. That couldn’t be our last memory. I apologized over and over. He apologized. And yet. In my bones I knew something was off.

He implored me to go to Charleston. Relationships are too important; you have to nourish them, he told me. I’ll be fine, he told me. I’ll be home by the time you return on Sunday, he told me.

On Saturday morning, I reluctantly drove to Charleston. On Sunday morning, less than 24 hours later, my sister called and said she was driving straight to the hospital from Atlanta because Dad had taken a turn for the worse. I immediately got in my car, praying I would arrive before he passed. I did. And a few hours later he was no longer in this world.

In a strange twist of fate, this Saturday morning I’m due to drive to meet the same three friends I met with the weekend of Dad’s death. In Atlanta this time, not Charleston. And the sense of deja vu is in my bones. The tears are already flowing. Even though there is no one left to die.

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Unexpected Beauty

March 16, 2026

Asheville Living, delight

I’m sick. It’s probably to be expected. Lots of flights. Lots of public spaces. Lots of germs.

I’m snuggled up inside, doing quiet activities – needlework, reading, writing letters. So appreciative for the original radiator heat in the house that feels like a warm hug all around. So appreciative of blankets crocheted by friends that drape over me.

I glanced out of the window. THERE IS SNOW! It is the middle of March, and there is snow falling on the just blooming daffodils and hyacinths and crocus and hellebores and pansies. The juxtaposition is almost too much for me to process. And as unexpected as it is, it’s also painfully beautiful. The first signs of spring meeting the last remnants of winter.

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Exploring Ericeira: A Day in the Coastal Gem

March 1, 2026

delight, Food, Travel

I arrived to my hotel after almost a day of travel with one short flight, a short layover, one long flight, a considerable layover, a medium flight, and an hour drive. I had an hour before sunset.

I can hear the seagulls squawking from my balcony. Notes of live music float by. There’s an easy vibrancy in the air.

I wander down the narrow cobblestone streets, letting curiosity guide me. I turn the corner and see the streets full of people. Is it a celebration? No, it’s simply Saturday evening in Ericeira. People are sitting on benches overlooking the ocean, patiently waiting for the sun to set. Children zip by on skates and scooters, some simply running after others. Patrons spill out of a bar, where a live band is covering pop songs from the 70’s, and tipsy youngsters are belting out the chorus along with the band’s singer. A long line forms at Casa de Fernanda, each patron ready to enjoy ouriços, the delightful little pastry with a crispy outside and an oh so delicious almondy, eggy, sweet, gooey inside.

At Casa da Fernanda, waiting to try ouriços.

I am enamored.

I continue walking, and this scene plays out over and over through different parts of the little city. It seems like the whole town has poured into its narrow streets, enjoying each other’s company, enjoying life. From babies to grandparents and all ages in between. I find another bar along the water and order my favorite drink in Europe, a gin tonic. It’s served in an oversized wine goblet with so much ice and a slice of citron. I sit in my yellow plastic chair, watching the other tables. There are single parties, folks with their dogs, groups of four and more who have pulled multiple tables together.

Watching the sun set over the ocean in Ericeira.

I am relaxed.

I watch as the sun continues to drop until poof! it has sunk below the horizon. I drink the last of my gin tonic and wander the streets, excited to try local seafood for dinner. I arrive at the restaurant that has been recommended, Restaurante “A Panela”. After a while the owner comes over and asks what I would like. I tell him I’m allergic to bell peppers, I love all seafood, and I’d like for him to choose something delicious for me. It’s one of my favorite things to do – allow others to surprise me with a meal. After a while, he returns with a healthy glass of house white wine, a platter with a beautiful fried fish, a fresh salad, and perfectly cooked potatoes.

Whole fried fish for dinner, amazingly fresh!

I am delighted.

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