After three hours of anticipation, one and a half hours of preparation, and a mere minute of actual tattooing, I was permanently marked.

Alé drove me back to Olivers for a drink, and Mike, the American bartender was the first to ask to see it. 

"That's it? You were gone for 3 hours and that's all you got?"

Two days later, when I showed Hugo, he was offended. "I drew you a beautiful design, and instead you got a line?" He laughed and brushed me off.

When I arrived in Lima, Amanda asked about it. "Who did it? Well, its only a line. I guess it doesn't really matter."

Even upon returning to my hometown, my father's best friend asked to see it. "That's it? Why not more? If you're going to do it, you've gotta do it."

But Alé's words ring in my head. "No es para nadie. Es para ti." And I love it. Even after the countless hours I had spent hanging out at Tito's over the last year, I learned a lot about tattooing that night. And even though, perhaps "its only a line...it doesn't really matter" who the artist was, I'm confident (politics or none) that I chose the right person to do it. Someone I trusted, someone who cared enough to make sure it was exactly what I wanted, and someone who in the three weeks since has asked countless times how it is, if its healed, how the color is fading, and if I like it. Maybe I'm just gloating, but now I can't imagine getting a tattoo from a stranger. There's just something too impersonal about that.  

We set an appointment for 8pm on Thursday, but by 8:45 when I still hadn't heard from him, I called to find out what had happened. He was still working on someone else's and said he'd call when he was finished. I was getting nervous, so I went to Oliver's, the bar below my apartment to distract myself. When I hadn't heard from him two hours later, I was convinced I'd leave still a "sin." But around 11pm, Alé walked through my door and escorted me to his car waiting down stairs. We drove to his house, stopping for salchipapas on the way, and arrived around 11:30. We ate, he looked for a foto with the right angle of Illimani, and we talked about US politics. He found a foto, and traced it. He cut it out, and used transfer paper to put it on my wrist. He didn't like it, so used some lotion to rub it off. He printed another foto and traced it, again putting it on my left writs. But he didn't like it as a simple line, so using a pen he added a snowcap and shading. But he still didn't like it and set about searching for yet another foto to use. Again, he traced just the line of the peaks, as originally planned, and transferred it to my right wrist for comparison with the more elaborate version.  

"Como te parece?" [What do you think?] he asked. "Si, esta bien." [Yeah, its good] I replied. And then he was frustrated. The truth was, I was frustrated as it neared 12:30 am and we were still messing around with drawing lines. But I didn't say that. Instead he said, "Es para toda la vida. Tienes que estar segura." [This is for life. You have to be sure.] And he was right. "Es para ti. No es para mi. No es para nadie. Es para ti." And suddenly I realized he really cared. He had told me earlier it was a birthday gift and I couldn't pay him for it, but it was that moment that I realized this wasn't just about him doing one more tattoo. This wasn't a chance to practice. This wasn't a debt that needed to be paid or even gift that needed to be given. This was an opportunity to give me something that we both cared about. And my attitude shifted. I mean hell, it wasn't like I really had anything to do Friday morning anyway.

He said he needed to go upstairs to his apartment, and told me he would leave me alone to ponder which of the two Illimani drawings I wanted. It took me a minute, but I quickly decided the simple line was what I had imagined for months. So when he returned I raised my right arm up, as if asking to be called on by a teacher, and he grabbed the lotion to take the more detailed drawing off.

The old drawing erased, he transferred the line to my wrist yet again, and we inspected it to make sure it was straight. But of course, he decided it was too low and transferred it to his wrist, higher up, for comparison. But his wrist had far fewer fold lines in it than mine, so the comparison was difficult. But after much squinting, we decided mine should be moved up, so more lotion, more erasure, more transferring, and more scrutinizing for perfection. And then we were ready.

"Te gusta?"
"Si, mucho."
"Segura?"
"Si!"
"Esta perfecto?"
"Si. Esta perfecto."
"Ok, me dijiste tres veces. Te creo."

So he covered the arm rest with plastic, and slid two stools over by his tall, bright light. He cleaned and disinfected as I started realizing I was really going through with this.

"You know, its funny" I told him. "I remember in high school, eating dinner at the house of my boyfriend with his parents and discussing tattoos for some reason. I said I would never get one because I didn't like them. But, well, look at me now..."

"Why did you change your mind?"

I had to think about how to explain in Spanish. "Well, its like a scar. I like scars because you see them and you have to remember the circumstances in which you hurt yourself. You look at it and suddenly this memory comes back. And for me, I want to remember Bolivia. I think I've changed a lot here and grown, and had incredible experiences. And I never want to forget that. I want to look down at my wrist and remember."

And then I scooted my stool over and placed my wrist on the plastic covered leather. 

"Lista?"
"No, pero nunca voy a estar lista. Tienes que empezar."

And then, at approximately 1am, the buzzing started. And he gently touched down and did a short stroke.

"Esta bien? Estas bien?"
"Si. Todo bien."

Seventy five seconds later he was done. 

So, a few days before I left La Paz, I got a tattoo. I suppose it was a long time coming. Quite a few of my tatuador friends had offered free services over the last year and a half, and in the end, as Juaquin told me, I just couldn't leave the country without some ink. So, in the parlance of tattoo culture in La Paz, I become one of the "con."  

It was not a decision I made lightly, but one I had been thinking about since my sister visited in June. She wanted to add to her growing collection of inked art, but in the end we ran out of time. However, this set me thinking about if I might want something, what I might want, where I might put it, and who might be my artist.

Since I arrived in La Paz the first time in 2009, I have had a bit of a love affair with Illimani, the beautiful mountain that towers over La Paz. In fact, his picture has graced a number of blog entries here. Some of my favorite places in the city have a view of the mountain, and I always feel lucky when I'm allowed to be alone while viewing him. Its something of a centering mechanism. When I'm frustrated, confused, troubled, or even relieved or happy, it always feels better to stare at Illimani, meditatively. And on cloudy days, when the view's obstructed or he just appears to be another fluffy cloud in a blue sky, I'm a bit disappointed.   

And so, my desire to be able to see Illimani at all times--even when its cloudy, even when I'm far away--made it the perfect choice. And my wrist seemed like the perfect place. Easy to see whenever I want. More visible to me than others. But easily covered by the watch that I go crazy without.  

But the question of who was possibly the most difficult. And obvious choice would be Edwin, owner of Tito's. But then there was Andres who had become my best friend in the last few months. And Hugo had drawn up possible tattoos for me before, unsolicited. Both Diego and Caro had run off to Argentina to tattoo there for a stint, so they were out, and Gonz was in an argument with Edwin and had left the shop. Everyone told me to go with the best artist, but I knew it was only a line. And I knew the politics would catch up with me. So, I went with the underdog, my old friend Alé who had just set up a studio on the floor beneath his apartment. I hesitated for a number of reasons, but I knew in the end my loyalty lied with him. 

I am officially home from the "field." I officially have a draft of a dissertation (excepting the introduction and conclusion). Thus, in a way, this is the beginning of a new stage of student-hood (really really ABD), and a new stage of life. So, to celebrate, commemorate, and lament (just a little) I have spruced up the website. The same pages exist, though some descriptions have been updated (see my dissertation page), and I have added links to my page on Lady Blade now that my secrecy is no longer important and I can tell the whole world how much fun I have doing mariposas and tijeras. Enjoy!