Letter to my children: On being unplugged

Dearest Beloveds,

This story has echoes of "when I was your age we walked to school uphill both ways in the snow," but that can't be helped. I want to share this story with you because maybe it will make you feel that sense of time and change I felt when Aunt Louisa told me there was an actual cow, named Betsy, who lived in the CowBarn - when she was a child.

A cow slept in the building where your father and I spent our honeymoon.

Your Momma is thousands of miles away from you right now, and it is not New York.* The song of the insects and the frogs is so loud the first day I thought it was a siren - especially when the nocturnals and the diurnals trade places, the crepuscular. I need to lock my cabin at nighttime so the Marikeia (sp?) monkeys cannot unlatch the door and wreak havoc on the interior. Geckos and iguanas wander about. I saw a family of monkeys traveling up to feast on a mango tree yesterday. Your mother is drinking tea, napping, eating, writing, staring at the world, listening to the trees, talking to my belly. I am staying off a barely functional dirt road that we accessed on a tuk tuk (called a motorbike in Peru). By most definitions I am unplugged - capital U unplugged.

And yet, for 3 hours every evening they turn on a generator. The generator powers the lights, plugs, and the wifi. The wifi - the magic of the internet accessible via a password. This means I can call you.

Of course you might be saying to yourself, silly Momma - of course you can call us.

No, no my beloveds. To your Momma this is insane. INSANE that I can call you.

The first time I left home by myself I was 15 and I was in France staying with a family. I think I wrote a fax to Baba at work and received a reply. One fax. Over 6 weeks.

Until my senior year when they put telephones in our room, there were pay phones in the basement of Choate. We would write letters.

When I went to Europe on my gap year the first time I called home was after 5 weeks in Amsterdam. I went to the local post office and went into one of the booths. When I finished I paid the woman behind the desk. I was also high.

When I lived in Mexico learning Spanish I would call collect once a week on Sunday nights at 7 pm. The payphone was in the basement of a church. I would type in many many numbers - exit codes, access codes, country codes. I would hear many clicks and pauses while Meme and Baba were asked to "accept the charges." The walls of the room were yellow and there was a cast iron staircase. I would talk and cry and talk and cry and then after the call I would shake myself off and dive back into Mexico. Or France. Or Italy. Or or.

On and on and on. So many examples.

Being able to use my own cell phone to call from anywhere in the world - even a place with curious monkeys and scant electricity is incredibly amazing and worth pausing over.

We were in the car before I left and you asked me to play a certain song.

"First of all, I am driving and I do not want to futz with my phone right now. Second of all, I cannot help you because I am not attached to the wifi for the phone to search for it."

Blank faces from the back seat.

I get it - your lives so far include on demand music, stories, and phone calls from everywhere. I just want you to realize that this technology is convenient in a way that is addictive.

Your Momma is trying not to engage in email while I am here - but that is taking will power. I am here to unplug from my life in New York, not to twitch from afar.

Who knows if your lifetimes if that will even be an option. I am curious to see.

Love love you both so so much. It is wonderful to hear your voices.

*I wrote this on October 4 and am posting it now - back in the land of electricity and toilet paper in the toilet.