Twenty-three years ago. I went to Bolivia filled with youth, health, and an adventurous silver streak in my otherwise brown hair, but I couldn’t appreciate the riches of the Wild West of Bolivia the way my father-in-law (Papito) did.

He drew from those riches when we first met at their apartment in Washington, DC. We sat over a drawn-out meal I was accustomed to having at Thanksgiving; the Bolivian music played softly in the background, and I didn’t feel like we were in the United States anymore. When we finished, he said, Merci, we followed suit, and all rose from the table.

“Why do we say merci?” I asked Alex as soon as I could. What does the French have to do with Bolivia?

Alex explained his Mom was from Poland, and his parents met in France. French was the one language they both had in common, so that’s always how they ended their meals. “Plus, my dad doesn’t like the sound of Gracias. It’s too harsh.”

It wasn’t until much later in our marriage, err, now, that I realized Bolivia was all that Papito dreamed it to be.

When it was time for our parents to meet one another, Papito came bearing gifts: a coffee book on Bolivia with a view of its snow-peaked mountains, wood sculptures, and silver photo frames. He spoke about the allure of his country’s culture and history.

It’s not the way of introduction to most Americans. We’re not diplomats trying to educate everyone about our country like Papito spent his lifetime doing.

He wanted us to understand Bolivia from his eyes. Even though the Bolivians had lost their access to the ocean due to the War of the Pacific in 1884, and the Spanish had robbed them of their silver, he saw it as the great frontier.

It’s as if he came walking out of a John Wayne movie wearing his cowboy hat, sunglasses, blue jeans, and black cherry slip-on leather loafers. He wanted us all to follow him back to the movie set.

I had that chance to see Bolivia when Mamita (Alex’s Mom) and Papito moved back to Papito’s homeland, and we visited them in 2000.

I didn’t see the Wild West Papito believed in.

There were no riches when you crossed the street, except the one: you made it to the other side. The bus with all the people dangling off the sides sped up for pedestrians. I feared for my life crossing the street and the passenger’s lives riding the bus.

I didn’t understand what an optimist Papito was and wondered how he could see the riches amid such safety concerns.

He had traveled and lived in many places as a diplomat, providing both his sons an opportunity for a United States college education. So he knew about seat belt laws.

They tried to take me to Lake Titicaca during a blockade (which we brushed off). We got as far as the first barrier–a mere few rocks lined up across the road.

But a man popped out from nowhere and heatedly explained something in Spanish, which I didn’t understand. I had taken French, which didn’t help me in Bolivia, only to learn the translation when we turned around: if we went through that “barrier,” hundreds, if not more, would throw rocks at us.

Later that night, CNN showed footage of the blockaders throwing stones at the cameras.

I saw things like a young American would: Bolivia has much to learn. Reporters aren’t the ones they should be striking down.

And Alex had made a big deal about the lack of oxygen with the high altitude–La Paz is the highest capital in the world at 11,942 feet. Everyone compares it to Colorado, so I did, too. I’d been to Leadville, and though it’s 1,364 feet lower, I wasn’t worried about the height difference.

So when Papito asked if I thought I’d need the oxygen tank when we landed at the airport, I said, “Sure. Bring it along.”

I had no idea what that man did for me until I saw him waving and welcoming me to La Paz alongside a full-hospital-length oxygen tank on wheels.

But somehow, I fit in. People believed I was the Bolivian and Alex was the gringo.

Alex doesn’t look Bolivian. He’s half-Polish and takes after Mamita’s side of the family. Even when I met Alex on the airplane twenty-six years ago, he told me he was from Bolivia or Bulgaria. I couldn’t remember which.

That was the point of Alex’s story that people would always confuse the two.

So, I did what any self-respecting, confused person would do: I looked up pictures of Bolivians (not Alex) and Bulgarians (clearly Alex).

And I confidently told anyone who would listen he was from Bulgaria. Until my sister met Alex, her first question to him changed the fate of his ancestry, “So, where in Bulgaria are you from?”

And that’s how I learned Alex was from Bolivia. Of course!

Three years after that mild confusion as to Alex’s homeland, I adjusted quickly to the altitude in La Paz (in fact, Alex was the one who woke up with a black tongue after overeating fried food).

Of all the undiscovered beauties of Bolivia that Papito talked about, he never mentioned the salt flats. I read about it in a Conde Nast article. There was even a salt hotel. I couldn’t believe such a place existed. It’s all I could talk about. But no one in Alex’s family had ever gone. It was too out of the way.

Next time, Alex promised we’d go there. Of course, we’d go back!

But then we had kids and my idea of having an adventure meant going to Disney World and seeing the princesses. And I didn’t want to risk any medical problems if we had to go to the doctor and discover whether it was fact or fantasy that they guarded Stethoscopes in locked cabinets.

So Mamita and Papito came to see us, and we explored the United States, like California wine country. Papito wore his uniform by now, making him look like a Texas rancher (even to me, and I knew better). Over a glass of white wine, he’d discuss with wine pourers how he was in real estate; he owned land in Santa Cruz.

No one had to ask; the cowboy hat gave him away. To be sure, they’d ask, “Where in Texas is that?”

No one’s heard of the Wild West of Bolivia?

Skylar got to experience it herself when she turned 15. Alex took her to Bolivia to celebrate her quinceanera.

Papito planned her party and a trip to see the famous salt flats I had dreamed about visiting ever since I knew Bolivia was a place on the map.

And we planned to do the same for Alexandra (and me–the salt flats were my idea in the first place!) Only Covid hit, then cancer, and no one was going to Bolivia (or Bulgaria), and my adventurous days seemed long gone unless I had some salt with my chemo cocktails.

While making plans to see one another again after such a long separation, he passed away on April 3rd, 2023.

He wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad. He lived for the day, which he did until it was time to go, though it wasn’t easy for us.

Due to the distance, it was best for Alex to go to Bolivia without me and the girls. It was the most brutal separation I’ve ever endured because we couldn’t be together to say goodbye.

I was in a daze. Everyone asked me how Mamita and Alex were doing, and I didn’t know. Death isn’t easy, but it’s grueling when you’re separated.

And, indeed, if Papito couldn’t live how he wanted to, in the land he was so proud of, filled with riches way better than any Texas ranch, he’d instead hop on his horse and hit the mother lode on his next stop.

And that’s precisely what he did. He’s off exploring the Wild West of what lies yonder.

And, thankfully, he’s left behind a land of great riches for us to explore and a fabulous son that I’ve been blessed with twenty-five years of marriage.

Alex and I hit the mother lode this year- we’re each other’s silver lining! And, you know where we got to go? No, not Bulgaria, but Bolivia.

Stay tuned to hear about our Wild West escapades (okay, southwest of South America) twenty-three years later and finally discovering those salt flats.

We’ll hit the mother lode of Papito’s Bolivia together.