It's strange to think that I've spent as much time in La Paz this summer as I did in Paris last summer. Three visists, two weeks total...and La Paz isn't exactly Paris. Still, on my last night here, I feel oddly reluctant to leave. I've spent the last two days revisitning my favorite hang-outs and pacing up and down streets the 4 streets that have come to feel like home. They couldn't be more different from each other.

    The witch market is at the bottom of Calle Santa Cruz. It is lined with stalls selling aborted llama fetuses in vairous stages of development. They smell strange and musty. Beside the fetuses are paper plates covered with pieces of blue and pink plsatic. They, along with the fetuses, are offerings to Mother Earth. Bolivians who can't afford to sacrifice a whole llama bury them in the foundations of their homes and businesses. Not far from here, on a cobbled side street, is Cafe Pepe. Its warm yellow lights and colorful paintings seem very distant from the twisted baby llamas in the market below. The tables are full of coffee beans that rattle pleasingly every time you hit them and the Beatles are almost always on the radio. The senora at the counter knows my face and greets me with a wide smile every time I come in -- no surprise since I've spent hours here reading Harry Potter, rattling the table, and of course, spending loads of Bolivianos on hot chocolates and lemon yogurt shakes.

    At the top of Calle Santa Cruz is the Black Market, which, in spite of its name, specializes in clothing. I came here with Julia and James two weeks ago, but even with the intervening experience of the jungle, the images are still fresh in my mind: rows and rows of bowler hats, embroidered shawls, and thick, frilly chola skirts. At the very top of the hill, I purchased a violent orange antique German alarm clock. James bought batters from a street vendor who gaped at him -- tall blonde guys are pretty exotic in Bolivia -- and we walked back to the hotel down a side street lined with furniture for sale.

    Calle Sagarnaga is undeniably Gringo Street, but I like it just the same. Stepping onto it is like stepping out of Bolivia. The Spanish shouts of the street vendors are almost drowned out in the chatter of English, French, and Hebrew conversations. Souvenir shops sell all manner of tourist kitsch alongside antique keys, irons, horseshoes, and sewing machines. This is also one of the steepest streets in La Paz. Walking up and down it is no doubt the reason for my newly-toned calves. Near the bottom of the street is Cafe Banais. I've endured its slow and indifferent service over and over again for its spicy grilled cheese sandwiches and thick slices of cake.

    Calle Sagarnaga leads to Avenida 16 de Julio, the main thoroughfare of La Paz. This is the main business street and my favorite to walk up and down. In the middle is a long, narrow plaza lined with benches and flowering bushes. None of the grandiose fountains work. Every street vendor has a telephone chained to his stall and at every corner is a man with a neon vest and a cell phone shouting "llamadas! llamadas! llamadas!" Shoeshine boys walk the plaza's length, with black masks pulled over their faces to protect them from the fumes of shoe polish. Their sinister appearance is strange alongside their cheerful calls of "hola senorita! shoeshine!" At all hours, the sidewalks are full of business people striding purposefully to and from the office. I am amazed at how the women dress for work -- three inch heels and miniskirts that would make Ally McBeal blush. One afternoon, a woman wearing a midriff-baring top and ultra-tight pants waded into the street, apparently intending to stop traffic. Her plan didn't work as well as expected, leaving her to stand huffily in the middle of the street.

    In the middle of 16 de Julio is Dumbo, my favorite restaurant and ice cream parlor. It is no nicer or more expensive than any other restaurant in La Paz, but it's always full of well-dressed, well-coifed people who practically have "I AM VERY RICH" stamped on their foreheads. I've become addicted to their fuschia-colored cinnamon ice cream adn it's one of the things I'll be sorriest to leave behind.

    My hotel is in the middle of Calle Illampu. I walked it from end to end last night, reveling in the dozens of changes of noise and atmosphere. The middle is full of restaurants, hotels, and Bolivia's ubiquitous fried chicken restaurants. Street vendors sell whatever they please, including raw fish. At one end, the street narrows into a thin row of vegetable vendors and butcher shops. What I thought was an empty pink shopping bag turned out to be an empty pig skin, leaking blood. When the street narrowed again, this time into a lightless row of tents and shacks, I turned back toward my hotel, then walked past it. The street was livelier this way. About 20 stores sold fireworks, confetti, and party supplies. Different music blared from each. The most unusual item was a life-size figure of Woody from "Toy Story" with an enormous bulge sprouting from his pants.

    What a random collection of images and impressions! I can't believe how much affection I've built for such a strange place. I wonder if I'll ever see it again...

~Meredith