After writing up a draft on the plane bound for Portland following my last entry full of elegant, poetic prose and deep thoughts, I've decided to scrap it and it's come to this: I don't want to go to school! All the adventure, the change, the feeling that the world holds so many interesting and wonderful secrets, it's frankly quite hard to come back to the same house, the same city, the same position. But I should start from where I left off.
Dallion picked me up from the airport and we experienced a strangely awkward hour or so, laughing every time we looked at each other just at the absurdity of our closeness and unfamiliarity, we spent two days in the Portland heat wave, hard put to even find a bar that was open. The next few days was farm time, and during which I realized that a) I really want to try a rural/creative life there and b) I'm going to start a pie-making company called Pooney's Pies, and c) goat's milk can be really tasty. So many good things in such a short amount of time! Takilma (the area Dallion was staying in) is awesome and lovely- good people, good place. And we still have yet to check out Happy Camp, a similar town closeby on the California side.
We took off from Oregon with a fellow traveler- Jim Barile, friend and long-time roommate of Dallion's dad, and his annoyingly fluffy white cute dog Charlie. Charlie could perhaps be described as one of those beautiful people who are just never left alone- it seemed we couldn't walk two feet without Jim getting stopped by some cooing girl to ask the same old run of questions about his little Soft-haired Wheaton Terrier. We went to Glacier, stayed with Mateo (Dallion's friend) and his family at their lakehouse on Flathead Lake, and spent a good amount of time in the small white rich town of Whitefish right during the huckleberry festival, so we got our fill of huckleberry this and that (including delicious beer!) From there we spent questing for a Taco John's -the flavor of West-Mex- with no luck, stopped in a gorgeous natural area near Missoula where we climbed a mountain and bathed in the ice-cold stream and once again, got lucky and didn't get caught sleeping in the back of the Albatross (Dallion's truck). Thank you, Great Spirit!
The next couple of days were spent at the Grand Tetons- truly a grand place, though we had very little time to hike due to our general exhaustion and inability to get out of bed (which has continued for me), and to top it all off, it seemed that things were awry on the homefront, so we booked it back to Austin, driving late nights and early mornings to get back and clean up all the shit that hit the fan.
It's not as bad as expected, but it's still requiring a bit of elbow grease to clean up and some things just cannot be solved. I need to keep my head above water until I say goodbye once and for all to Austin and school and hope for the best for the things I cannot change. After all the excitement and wonders and challenges of traveling and Mexico I'm ready for a break, for things to be quiet and settled, but the world keeps on spinning and life keeps on spinning with it. But perhaps one day soon I'll have a little shack in the country with a goat and pie company and garden, and maybe even a horse (I still think of Chestnut everyday!) With that, though, will I really be happy? Or does discontent come from some other place besides your surroundings? Will I feel tied down? Bored? Only time will tell, and until then I'm going to milk everything, including my goat, for all it's worth. And perhaps my memories and dreams will be the lifesavers I need to keep afloat, along with the wonderful people I'm so grateful to have in my life and without whom I don't know who or what or where I'd be.
Love to all and happy trails!
Allison
Monday, August 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
So Long, Mexico!
As I said in my last post, I did go back to Primero to stay with my family for a couple of days; we ended up going to some ruins and I finally went to the infamous "river" that Isaura kept inviting me to go to; it was a bit dirty, the women had to wash clothes, you couldn't really swim, and there was a half-destroyed bridge upstream so I had to watch out for the metal spikes sticking out the water from it! I also met Isaura's dad because he took us to the ruins in his truck, both of which have interesting stories. The father left her mom when she was little for another women in a nearby town, and now has two wives simultaneously and each of them have kids! One of the wives came with her two little girls; all were quiet and not very friendly and gave me strange looks. And the truck is called the "Sueno Americano"- her father tried to cross the border 4 times without luck, and decided to have a laugh about it by naming his truck after his American Dream.
Unfortunately I was in a weird mood (as usual)- the quiet one that usually is the calm before the storm, so I wasn't as bright and sunny as I would have liked to be for the last couple of days with them. And to add to it, I bought all the women beer when the men where out fishing at night and of course was the only one to get kind of drunk! Add to that watching part of Apocolypto, equally gory and sad made me both mute and deaf. In the morning it got worse- first we watched part of a movie about a dysfunctional family whose daughters were constantly beaten, and then a movie where a happy couple got in a car accident and the woman dies. All my feelings bubbled to the surface a few minutes before my bus left as I was showing pictures of my loved ones to Isaura, and BAM! the hose came loose and I was sitting there in the dining room sobbing, scared to travel again, sad to leave, thinking about how much I love my family and friends and just how crazy and wonderful and delicate life is, how everyone shares that. Needless to say, it was intense, though not in a bad way.
After hugging Isaura, German, Kevin, and Brandon goodbye (while fighting back tears), I accompanied some members of the community to a little market they go to every 2 Saturdays to sell their wares, and from there headed to Papantla for the last time to catch the bus to Cuetzalan, a little town I had heard about the day before from Lindsey and a few others- it was supposed to be really beautiful, and I thought, "Hey, what the hell! I need another adventure," so off I went in a questionable bus on an even more questionable road for three hours, cursing each bump for the sake of my poor bladder. As we hit the hills and started moving upward, the climate and landscape changed- it became more like a cloud forest, with beautiful views and rock formations. I got to town in the rain, and a boy from the bus led me to my hotel, which was run by a group of indigenous Nahual women (who weren't very friendly, actually). Lonely and feeling the shock from changing places again and the heaviness of the day brought a cloud of despair above my head; thus, I decided to go get a beer and some food to try and clear it away.
In the restaurant I chose quite a few women were peddling their wares, a practice I find equally annoying and shameless because they use ruthless guilt techniques on the unsuspecting diners. A man came up a little later, selling some pecan pies, and we got to talking. It turns out he was a guide and invited me to go to some waterfalls and a nature/coffee trail the next morning. I had a good feeling about him; he was friendly and honest and just seemed like a good person, so I decided to join them. The morning came and I met the guide (Delfino), but the couple didn't show up. We headed off to the trail, which is actually a combo organic coffee farm/conservation area, and our guide knew a ton about the local flora, so it was a wonderful trip. After a cup of coffee Delfino and I headed to the waterfalls; they were gorgeous and the little pools below tempted me to jump in. The trail was a bit dangerous going down as we had to climb down a trail made of tree roots; Delfino, a funny old fart, kept saying, "Are you sure you're ok, you're not going to fall?" every 3 minutes, trying to take me hand to lead me, sincerely concerned. In the end though, I just bounced along and it was he who fell with a high-pitched squeal. We bumped into the disappeared couple at the falls, who turned out to be really nice and the guy may come visit Austin, then Delfino and I walked the rather long was back to town. It was worth it, though; rocks jutted out of fields full of maiz and beans, the views were great, and Delfino and I got some more time to talk and I learned more about the area.
We got back to town, I bought some coffee, and he lead me to the hotel to keep talking my ear off even though I was tired from a full day and was ready to head to the bano de tamascal, a little hut made of palm that is basically a sweat lodge.
TO BE CONTINUED
Unfortunately I was in a weird mood (as usual)- the quiet one that usually is the calm before the storm, so I wasn't as bright and sunny as I would have liked to be for the last couple of days with them. And to add to it, I bought all the women beer when the men where out fishing at night and of course was the only one to get kind of drunk! Add to that watching part of Apocolypto, equally gory and sad made me both mute and deaf. In the morning it got worse- first we watched part of a movie about a dysfunctional family whose daughters were constantly beaten, and then a movie where a happy couple got in a car accident and the woman dies. All my feelings bubbled to the surface a few minutes before my bus left as I was showing pictures of my loved ones to Isaura, and BAM! the hose came loose and I was sitting there in the dining room sobbing, scared to travel again, sad to leave, thinking about how much I love my family and friends and just how crazy and wonderful and delicate life is, how everyone shares that. Needless to say, it was intense, though not in a bad way.
After hugging Isaura, German, Kevin, and Brandon goodbye (while fighting back tears), I accompanied some members of the community to a little market they go to every 2 Saturdays to sell their wares, and from there headed to Papantla for the last time to catch the bus to Cuetzalan, a little town I had heard about the day before from Lindsey and a few others- it was supposed to be really beautiful, and I thought, "Hey, what the hell! I need another adventure," so off I went in a questionable bus on an even more questionable road for three hours, cursing each bump for the sake of my poor bladder. As we hit the hills and started moving upward, the climate and landscape changed- it became more like a cloud forest, with beautiful views and rock formations. I got to town in the rain, and a boy from the bus led me to my hotel, which was run by a group of indigenous Nahual women (who weren't very friendly, actually). Lonely and feeling the shock from changing places again and the heaviness of the day brought a cloud of despair above my head; thus, I decided to go get a beer and some food to try and clear it away.
In the restaurant I chose quite a few women were peddling their wares, a practice I find equally annoying and shameless because they use ruthless guilt techniques on the unsuspecting diners. A man came up a little later, selling some pecan pies, and we got to talking. It turns out he was a guide and invited me to go to some waterfalls and a nature/coffee trail the next morning. I had a good feeling about him; he was friendly and honest and just seemed like a good person, so I decided to join them. The morning came and I met the guide (Delfino), but the couple didn't show up. We headed off to the trail, which is actually a combo organic coffee farm/conservation area, and our guide knew a ton about the local flora, so it was a wonderful trip. After a cup of coffee Delfino and I headed to the waterfalls; they were gorgeous and the little pools below tempted me to jump in. The trail was a bit dangerous going down as we had to climb down a trail made of tree roots; Delfino, a funny old fart, kept saying, "Are you sure you're ok, you're not going to fall?" every 3 minutes, trying to take me hand to lead me, sincerely concerned. In the end though, I just bounced along and it was he who fell with a high-pitched squeal. We bumped into the disappeared couple at the falls, who turned out to be really nice and the guy may come visit Austin, then Delfino and I walked the rather long was back to town. It was worth it, though; rocks jutted out of fields full of maiz and beans, the views were great, and Delfino and I got some more time to talk and I learned more about the area.
We got back to town, I bought some coffee, and he lead me to the hotel to keep talking my ear off even though I was tired from a full day and was ready to head to the bano de tamascal, a little hut made of palm that is basically a sweat lodge.
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, July 24, 2009
Primero de Mayo- Finalmente!
It’s come down to this: all those horrible, long, tortuous weeks of suffering, discomfort, and continual nervous breakdowns from worry were for naught- the community is great! Working with them has been a wonderful experience (minus one or two days, of course); most everyone has been so kind and open to me, generous with their time and food and with what they have. I went to go stay for three days starting last Wednesday, arriving in a daze from Papantla with my huge backpacks full of my stuff, sweating profusely from having to walk about 45 minutes from the highway in the sun with my heavy load. I went to the house of the president of the cooperative, Don Basilio, waited a while and tried not to be bothered by the frightened/hateful looks of his two boys (they’re anomalies, thankfully), and got to talk to Don Basilio for a bit and do my first interview.
He then led me to the house I’d be staying at; it is owned by Don Rosendo, a single guy who has consistently migrated to Los Angeles to work at American Apparel and whose wife left him, but his neice and nephew and their two little boys also share the house so I wouldn’t be alone. After getting over the mandatory introductory discomfort, my impressions of the family and house were good. The littlest boy, Kevin, is a cheerful little brat, and Isaura, the mom, is a 25 year old over-worked housewife who was delighted to have someone closer to her age come and hang out. I was fed twice in two hours, a telling sign of things to come; Dona Estela, Basilio’s wife fed me homegrown chicken in the most delicious mole I’ve ever tasted, with handmade tortillas, and when I went to Isaura’s house she fed me fried pork in a spicy sauce with even more delicious handmade tortillas. The facilities are very rural- outhouse for bathroom, river or bucket of water for bathing. The kitchens all have open stoves with wood burning for cooking, masa is made to make tortillas by first chucking the dried corn, grinding it, and making tortillas on a big skillet called a comal. There's no air conditioning and houses are made of different materials; some wood, some cinder blocks, and most are a combination. All in all, though, I loved it! It felt homey and real and not cold or sterile in any sense.
Later that night and continuing into the next day I had more interviews with more farmers, had a tour of the vanilla fields, and was convinced that with just 3 days I would have enough interviews and information for my purposes and was ready to head out. Honestly, I was starting to feel lonely and sick (probably from eating so much food- hasn’t changed- and from the heat, sun, and lack of water), plus the little boys were getting on my nerves- they just wouldn’t leave me alone or stop talking, and I couldn’t understand a WORD of what they were saying. Really, I just needed a break, so I was relieved when Lindsey, a grad student of my “supervising” professor Rebecca, came to do some of her own interviews on migration and get to know the community. I left with her that day to stay in an expensive hotel in Papantla on the other side of town from my old apartment- thankfully I have yet to run into the same people I constantly bumped into before! Lindsey and I continued conducting interviews in the days following, and Sunday took a gringo day to Poza Rica, an awful industrial city belching out oil fumes, to go to a diner for a huge salad and to the movies to see Harry Potter (which was surprisingly good!).
The other interviews have left me feeling much more enlightened about the community and its complicated social, political, and familial structure; almost everyone is related, and everyone has a story to tell. Perhaps one of the most surprising finds was meeting a man named Manuel; he actually migrated to Boerne back in 2001! His story of working there was interesting- for me, he provided a much needed link between my world and this one. It’s hard to imagine what life is like for these people in the States when they migrate, and feel like now I have a much better understanding and can empathize a bit more. The world is opening up some of its secrets, and I feel like everything is a bit clearer, more connected.
The interviews with women were especially interesting; stories of abusive, irresponsible, cheating husbands, long days working around the kitchen and house, and lack of other job opportunities left me feeling that this idealized rural life definitely isn’t ideal for some, for those who don’t know how else it could be. They have to make all the food and tortillas by hand, take the clothes down to the river to wash them, get water from the one well in town with buckets (the men help with that sometimes, too), collect firewood to cook, take care of the kids, take early lunch to the men in the fields, and just in general keep order around the house. Where is the time to read, to relax, to have fun? Most women have the television or radio blaring in their smoke filled kitchens as they cook for company, and perhaps to drown out the kids. Men too work hard, though they just go to the fields usually from 7-2 and are done for the day, coming home expecting their lunch to be ready and their clothes washed and off they go to relax and hang out and play soccer and drink. In Primero it’s not as bad as other communities; men don’t drink as much or as often and also work on community projects. Women have a bit more say in things as well, and are usually included in decisions of the community. Still, it is a very traditional system and one in which I know I couldn’t live, not without some changes.
Again, though, it is more of the culture that is at fault, and not the people as individuals; every culture has its ups and downs, its costs and benefits. Here people make time to keep the community like a family, to have parties and celebrations together, to dance and have fun. They support each other and have managed to stay united, and their lifestyle isn’t nearly as destructive to the environment and other people as that of many in the United States. They eat what they grow, though that is changing too with the years and with the influence of outside forces. And just about everyone is generous and kind and honest, as far as I can tell; you go to someone’s house and they offer you what they have, including their time, food, and knowledge, and sit and chat and take their time, even though they already have more than enough to do. Like any small towns, there are downsides to this familiarity too; everyone knew me before I knew them, and rumors even spread like wildfire- some thought I was Rosendo’s girlfriend whom he brought back from Los Angeles! And when something bad happens, everyone knows. But how are secrets any good, anyway?
Well, I’ve been doing my best to understand the community and have been working hard to try and help out the cooperative; every person I talk to says “we need markets!” so I’m doing what I can and will continue to do so until I meet some success that will last. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep coming back here…in the meantime, I have to catch the next bus to Primero; I’ll be staying there until Sunday morning, swimming in the river with Isaura, hopefully gathering a few recipes and knitting together more information about the community and cooperative, and maybe even going to visit the nearby ruins that I’ve heard so much about. Sunday morning I’ll accompany a member of the cooperative committee to one of the only restaurants in miles- they have a special shindig every 2 weeks and they’re going to take some crafts and vanilla to try and sell. After that, it’s back to Xalapa and then Mexico City, back to where I started, as scared as a squirrel with a dog on its tail, not knowing what would happen, what I was doing, what anything meant. It’s funny how our imaginations play against us, and how powerful that fear and worry is when really it’s just a shadow in our mind, a figment of our imagination. And I’m sure I’ll keep learning and experiencing that. But in the meantime, I’m off to go spend my last 4 days in the country learning and enjoying what I can. Handmade tortillas, hammock, and river, here I come!
He then led me to the house I’d be staying at; it is owned by Don Rosendo, a single guy who has consistently migrated to Los Angeles to work at American Apparel and whose wife left him, but his neice and nephew and their two little boys also share the house so I wouldn’t be alone. After getting over the mandatory introductory discomfort, my impressions of the family and house were good. The littlest boy, Kevin, is a cheerful little brat, and Isaura, the mom, is a 25 year old over-worked housewife who was delighted to have someone closer to her age come and hang out. I was fed twice in two hours, a telling sign of things to come; Dona Estela, Basilio’s wife fed me homegrown chicken in the most delicious mole I’ve ever tasted, with handmade tortillas, and when I went to Isaura’s house she fed me fried pork in a spicy sauce with even more delicious handmade tortillas. The facilities are very rural- outhouse for bathroom, river or bucket of water for bathing. The kitchens all have open stoves with wood burning for cooking, masa is made to make tortillas by first chucking the dried corn, grinding it, and making tortillas on a big skillet called a comal. There's no air conditioning and houses are made of different materials; some wood, some cinder blocks, and most are a combination. All in all, though, I loved it! It felt homey and real and not cold or sterile in any sense.
Later that night and continuing into the next day I had more interviews with more farmers, had a tour of the vanilla fields, and was convinced that with just 3 days I would have enough interviews and information for my purposes and was ready to head out. Honestly, I was starting to feel lonely and sick (probably from eating so much food- hasn’t changed- and from the heat, sun, and lack of water), plus the little boys were getting on my nerves- they just wouldn’t leave me alone or stop talking, and I couldn’t understand a WORD of what they were saying. Really, I just needed a break, so I was relieved when Lindsey, a grad student of my “supervising” professor Rebecca, came to do some of her own interviews on migration and get to know the community. I left with her that day to stay in an expensive hotel in Papantla on the other side of town from my old apartment- thankfully I have yet to run into the same people I constantly bumped into before! Lindsey and I continued conducting interviews in the days following, and Sunday took a gringo day to Poza Rica, an awful industrial city belching out oil fumes, to go to a diner for a huge salad and to the movies to see Harry Potter (which was surprisingly good!).
The other interviews have left me feeling much more enlightened about the community and its complicated social, political, and familial structure; almost everyone is related, and everyone has a story to tell. Perhaps one of the most surprising finds was meeting a man named Manuel; he actually migrated to Boerne back in 2001! His story of working there was interesting- for me, he provided a much needed link between my world and this one. It’s hard to imagine what life is like for these people in the States when they migrate, and feel like now I have a much better understanding and can empathize a bit more. The world is opening up some of its secrets, and I feel like everything is a bit clearer, more connected.
The interviews with women were especially interesting; stories of abusive, irresponsible, cheating husbands, long days working around the kitchen and house, and lack of other job opportunities left me feeling that this idealized rural life definitely isn’t ideal for some, for those who don’t know how else it could be. They have to make all the food and tortillas by hand, take the clothes down to the river to wash them, get water from the one well in town with buckets (the men help with that sometimes, too), collect firewood to cook, take care of the kids, take early lunch to the men in the fields, and just in general keep order around the house. Where is the time to read, to relax, to have fun? Most women have the television or radio blaring in their smoke filled kitchens as they cook for company, and perhaps to drown out the kids. Men too work hard, though they just go to the fields usually from 7-2 and are done for the day, coming home expecting their lunch to be ready and their clothes washed and off they go to relax and hang out and play soccer and drink. In Primero it’s not as bad as other communities; men don’t drink as much or as often and also work on community projects. Women have a bit more say in things as well, and are usually included in decisions of the community. Still, it is a very traditional system and one in which I know I couldn’t live, not without some changes.
Again, though, it is more of the culture that is at fault, and not the people as individuals; every culture has its ups and downs, its costs and benefits. Here people make time to keep the community like a family, to have parties and celebrations together, to dance and have fun. They support each other and have managed to stay united, and their lifestyle isn’t nearly as destructive to the environment and other people as that of many in the United States. They eat what they grow, though that is changing too with the years and with the influence of outside forces. And just about everyone is generous and kind and honest, as far as I can tell; you go to someone’s house and they offer you what they have, including their time, food, and knowledge, and sit and chat and take their time, even though they already have more than enough to do. Like any small towns, there are downsides to this familiarity too; everyone knew me before I knew them, and rumors even spread like wildfire- some thought I was Rosendo’s girlfriend whom he brought back from Los Angeles! And when something bad happens, everyone knows. But how are secrets any good, anyway?
Well, I’ve been doing my best to understand the community and have been working hard to try and help out the cooperative; every person I talk to says “we need markets!” so I’m doing what I can and will continue to do so until I meet some success that will last. Who knows, maybe I’ll keep coming back here…in the meantime, I have to catch the next bus to Primero; I’ll be staying there until Sunday morning, swimming in the river with Isaura, hopefully gathering a few recipes and knitting together more information about the community and cooperative, and maybe even going to visit the nearby ruins that I’ve heard so much about. Sunday morning I’ll accompany a member of the cooperative committee to one of the only restaurants in miles- they have a special shindig every 2 weeks and they’re going to take some crafts and vanilla to try and sell. After that, it’s back to Xalapa and then Mexico City, back to where I started, as scared as a squirrel with a dog on its tail, not knowing what would happen, what I was doing, what anything meant. It’s funny how our imaginations play against us, and how powerful that fear and worry is when really it’s just a shadow in our mind, a figment of our imagination. And I’m sure I’ll keep learning and experiencing that. But in the meantime, I’m off to go spend my last 4 days in the country learning and enjoying what I can. Handmade tortillas, hammock, and river, here I come!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
More stories of Veracruz
Aha! I forgot two stories, the story of the palm reader and the story of the skirt fixer!
So I had bought this dress, an awesome one with zebras that made of a light fabric fit for the beach, and I went to a grundgy bathroom in an internet cafe to change into it from my heavier dress from Papantla. I made a few unfortunate observations after I left the cafe: it was obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra (proof came later when I went up to a hotel clerk to ask directions and he just stared at my boobs for a full 10 seconds); there was hole the size of a quarter at my belly (so that’s why it was half off!); and the bottom was so narrow I couldn’t take my usual gringa strides. A few minutes later, fed up, I sat down on a bench to try to rip the seams of the bottom to make more room for my legs and found one side already ripped and the other almost impossible to get the seams out with my pen tip. I was sitting there, sweating in the sun, obstinately poking away at my dress when an older woman came up and offered to help me, pulling out her swiss army knife. Then in a very motherly way she proceeded to rip the seams as if this happened to her every day, was completely normal occurrence. Hey, maybe it is! We chatted a bit, both sweating profusely now, and when she had finished tearing it up, we stood to say our goodbyes. I thanked her profusely, and she almost didn’t let me give her a kiss on the cheek, embarrassed by the drops falling off of her face, wetting the brick-covered ground. It doesn’t matter! I said laughing, and gave her a couple of hugs and kisses, so happy that this stranger wasn’t a stranger and helped me with the utmost familiarity and kindness of a grandmother. We parted ways, both beaming with mutual humanity.
One of the other women I encountered that day approached me at the Malecon (Boardwalk), head wrapped in a shawl, the usual pleading look in her eyes of someone who is selling something they know you don’t want to buy. In low Spanish she said, “I’ll read you palm, the lines will tell you the future…” I paused; it has been a goal of mine for while to get my future read, and she jumped on the opportunity, grabbing my hand and saying, “20 pesos, the lines will tell you.” And as she read the first one I could tell it was completely bogus, so I smiled my best innocent, stupid American smile and said, in Spanish, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish well, I can’t understand you,” but she kept my hand in her grip until I just kept saying, no thanks, I don’t understand you!, hoping to get out of paying anything before it was too late. I rushed away and thankfully she stayed behind, only to grab her next victim by the palm.
So I had bought this dress, an awesome one with zebras that made of a light fabric fit for the beach, and I went to a grundgy bathroom in an internet cafe to change into it from my heavier dress from Papantla. I made a few unfortunate observations after I left the cafe: it was obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra (proof came later when I went up to a hotel clerk to ask directions and he just stared at my boobs for a full 10 seconds); there was hole the size of a quarter at my belly (so that’s why it was half off!); and the bottom was so narrow I couldn’t take my usual gringa strides. A few minutes later, fed up, I sat down on a bench to try to rip the seams of the bottom to make more room for my legs and found one side already ripped and the other almost impossible to get the seams out with my pen tip. I was sitting there, sweating in the sun, obstinately poking away at my dress when an older woman came up and offered to help me, pulling out her swiss army knife. Then in a very motherly way she proceeded to rip the seams as if this happened to her every day, was completely normal occurrence. Hey, maybe it is! We chatted a bit, both sweating profusely now, and when she had finished tearing it up, we stood to say our goodbyes. I thanked her profusely, and she almost didn’t let me give her a kiss on the cheek, embarrassed by the drops falling off of her face, wetting the brick-covered ground. It doesn’t matter! I said laughing, and gave her a couple of hugs and kisses, so happy that this stranger wasn’t a stranger and helped me with the utmost familiarity and kindness of a grandmother. We parted ways, both beaming with mutual humanity.
One of the other women I encountered that day approached me at the Malecon (Boardwalk), head wrapped in a shawl, the usual pleading look in her eyes of someone who is selling something they know you don’t want to buy. In low Spanish she said, “I’ll read you palm, the lines will tell you the future…” I paused; it has been a goal of mine for while to get my future read, and she jumped on the opportunity, grabbing my hand and saying, “20 pesos, the lines will tell you.” And as she read the first one I could tell it was completely bogus, so I smiled my best innocent, stupid American smile and said, in Spanish, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish well, I can’t understand you,” but she kept my hand in her grip until I just kept saying, no thanks, I don’t understand you!, hoping to get out of paying anything before it was too late. I rushed away and thankfully she stayed behind, only to grab her next victim by the palm.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Veracruz, Veracruz
These last few days have been an adventure- in a good way, and not in a good way where I have to tease out the goodness and make the best of the worst! After an upsetting Friday where my plans, once again, were shot and I was told to wait until Monday to go to the community, I began Saturday not knowing whether I should a)stay and wait for a grad student of Dr. Torres to arrive to Papantla (I didn´t know when she would get in); b)go visit Linda, a dotty but kind old woman who wants to take me to a waterfall in a nearby town; or c)pack up my stuff and get myself away from the heat and stress of Papantla for a few days and go visit my friend Nelly in Veracruz.
I ended up waiting for Lindsey, who called at 3 pm to say she had arrived (at 12 that same day! grrr!), so I went to go meet her and planned on taking the bus to Joloapa afterwards, though the only one I knew of left at 3:15. As always it took longer than I expected to meet and talk to Lindsey, so I ended up going back to my apartment and deciding in a frenzied rush to try to take the last bus to Veracruz that left in 20 minutes. I threw some stuff in my bag, saw a haggard face look back at me in the mirror as I rushed out the door. I flagged down the first taxi I saw and got to the station with 15 minutes to spare, so I got in the line of the only checker, an old woman slower than a dead sloth, and waited impatiently, like a good American. Finally I got to the window, asked for a ticket, and..."no, no hay un autobus que va a Veracruz hoy..." she said, slowly and painfully like death by sword. "Esta segura? Porque dice en el internet que hay uno ahorita..." I pleaded, looking more like a gringa loca than ever, unwashed, practically melting in a greasy ball of desperation on the shiny, tiled floor. The woman just looked at me briefly, then turned back to do some menial task as slowly as possible with utter concentration.
I turned away, stunned, and stood for a moment facing the stares of the small,crowded station. I shuffled outside slowly, feeling the anxiety and desperation and indecision and desperation bubbling up to the surface, leaned against the wall, and started to sob uncontrollably. Not just little sniffles, but those body-rocking, eye-socking powerful sobs that come with snot and weird noises and headaches. People walked by, trying to ignore me and I them, until a woman got out of her car, walked up and stopped right in front of me, looked me in the eyes sincerely and said to me in perfect (if accented) English, "Can I help you?" I just looked at her mournfully, forced a weak smile, and with a little shake of my head choked out, "Maybe...no I don´t think so, but thanks," and I started to cry even harder. The next 20 minutes I spent wandering around, alternately walking back towards town and staggering back towards the bus station, doubting the words of the old woman, still crying and keeping my head down so as not to face the looks of all those who kept staring. I finally decided to just go to the other bus station and go to Joloapa to visit Linda, but still something kept tugging at me, telling me not to go. I got on the bus anyway (after getting off and on at least two times to the confusion of all), paid my fare, and was on my way when I jumped up, rushed to the bus driver, and asked if there were buses of that line that left for Veracruz. "Si, si hay..." I thanked him and jumped off in the middle of the street, rushed back to the bus station, and after an agonizing 15 minutes decided to get on the bus bound for Veracruz.
As we left I felt good about my decision (a good sign!), and after a long 5 hour bus ride full of stops in nameless towns and putting up with half sharing my seat with a man drooling on my shoulder, I arrived at the bus station in Veracruz. Nelly and I found each other, loaded up in her friends truck (4 people CAN fit on one bench seat, by the way), and we headed off for the center of town. After a quick walk about and a little live music (which was great, and I love you Austin!), we went to a friend´s house where I got tipsy off of one drink after not eating since that morning. Needless to say, I slept long and hard after such a day.
The next morning we started off by going to the market, a smorgasbord of vegetables, meat, manufactured items, artesanias, and delicious...FOOD! The smells were overwhelming- in one moment you would smell some sweetly baking bread, in another a smell of rotting meat, and another of newly pumped plastic. We ordered some juice and enchiladas from a jam-packed stand, surrounded by people shoveling down foods of all flavors, colors, and smells, but almost everything containing tortillas. I had the enchiladas sencillas con mole; four tortillas (probably fried) folded like delicate little napkins, doused with delicious sweet-smoky mole, and sprinkled with white cheese. MMMM! I practically licked the plate clean. From there we headed to San Juan de Ulua, an old fort/prison located island full of bloody history. It started as an island of sacrifices for the Totonacs, became the first treasury of the new world, then a fort, then finally a prison, where many a legendary bandit was kept and tortured by the tight quarters, dripping water, and awful weather. Furthermore, floodgates were opened to create a moat full of sharks around the then-island to discourage escape. Pretty cool...
Dead tired, I was in desparate need of some coffee, so off we went to the center of town again to a place called Cafe Parroquia. They´re famous for their signature coffee; they bring out a glass with a shot or two of espresso, you tap the glass as loud as you can with your spoon and wait for the milk-boy, a waiter carrying two silver kettles full of hot milk, which he pours into the cup from a height of 2-3 feet to make it nice and frothy. Yummm- I already miss it (sorry Papantla, but your coffee isn´t fit to throw in some creep´s face!) The only thing that bothered me about the place was it´s tradition of hiring just male waiters, though I guess it beats other places hiring just busty women.
Afterwards- you may not believe this- we decided to go to...the mall, Plaza de las Americas. Apparently the only movie theater in town is there, and it looks just like one here- big, crowded, with carpet a color designed to confuse you into not noticing stains and other distasteful things. Surprisingly, though, the trapped rabbit feeling never came up- either I was just too tired and desensitized or maybe, just maybe, I´m able to cool my jets and not judge so much anymore! And you know what? It was actually wonderful to be in a movie theater, all dark and cool and anonymous, absorbed in a silly film that was in English- I forgot I was in Mexico and started making comments to Nelly in English!
I decided to delay my flight till the next day as we wandered around a bit more then headed over to a Karaoke bar their friend Felipe works at, where again, I didn´t judge or feel awkward and had a great time (and 5 drinks)! We headed home, exhausted, and the next day had to go to Nelly´s and Wendy´s school, the University of Veracruz Engineering Campus, to have their final project assessed. We waited, and waited, and waited for it to be done to go to breakfast, but finally I gave up at 1 and decided to go to the Parroquia again. After my lechero and huevos a la mexicana I wandered around the center all day buying this and that and poking around the churches and Malecon (seaside area), blissfully unaware that just a few blocks from me there had been a shooting at 2! Apparently it was related to narco-trafficking, and was the first of its kind here in Veracruz. With a couple hours to spare, I decided to go on a tour of a barge docked near the Malecon; at the entrance I ended up meeting Angel, a young sailor from Veracruz, who flirted with me so respectfully and, well, un-creepily, that I didn´t mind. After the amazingly brain-freezingly boring barge tour I tried to get to the campus to catch my bus, but after a frenzied attempt with the help of many to get me there on time, I ended up missing my bus and going back to campus with Nelly to fart around on the computer until 1 am (her circuit still wasn´t done! Poor Nelly!)
I got on the bus this morning, a little contrite that the community had been expecting me Monday, but nonetheless refreshed from such a nice little jot. And I learned so much in just a few days, being with people from here I felt comfortable talking to and asking questions. It feels so good to travel, to get out of the little bubble we create that contains our routines, our paths, our thoughts. To just let go and have fun. And the trip back was beautiful- the beaches are incredible and so naturally beautiful, I hope to visit them someday.
I have decided to go to the community (finally!) tomorrow morning with Lindsey, so work shall begin!
Kareoke!
allison
I ended up waiting for Lindsey, who called at 3 pm to say she had arrived (at 12 that same day! grrr!), so I went to go meet her and planned on taking the bus to Joloapa afterwards, though the only one I knew of left at 3:15. As always it took longer than I expected to meet and talk to Lindsey, so I ended up going back to my apartment and deciding in a frenzied rush to try to take the last bus to Veracruz that left in 20 minutes. I threw some stuff in my bag, saw a haggard face look back at me in the mirror as I rushed out the door. I flagged down the first taxi I saw and got to the station with 15 minutes to spare, so I got in the line of the only checker, an old woman slower than a dead sloth, and waited impatiently, like a good American. Finally I got to the window, asked for a ticket, and..."no, no hay un autobus que va a Veracruz hoy..." she said, slowly and painfully like death by sword. "Esta segura? Porque dice en el internet que hay uno ahorita..." I pleaded, looking more like a gringa loca than ever, unwashed, practically melting in a greasy ball of desperation on the shiny, tiled floor. The woman just looked at me briefly, then turned back to do some menial task as slowly as possible with utter concentration.
I turned away, stunned, and stood for a moment facing the stares of the small,crowded station. I shuffled outside slowly, feeling the anxiety and desperation and indecision and desperation bubbling up to the surface, leaned against the wall, and started to sob uncontrollably. Not just little sniffles, but those body-rocking, eye-socking powerful sobs that come with snot and weird noises and headaches. People walked by, trying to ignore me and I them, until a woman got out of her car, walked up and stopped right in front of me, looked me in the eyes sincerely and said to me in perfect (if accented) English, "Can I help you?" I just looked at her mournfully, forced a weak smile, and with a little shake of my head choked out, "Maybe...no I don´t think so, but thanks," and I started to cry even harder. The next 20 minutes I spent wandering around, alternately walking back towards town and staggering back towards the bus station, doubting the words of the old woman, still crying and keeping my head down so as not to face the looks of all those who kept staring. I finally decided to just go to the other bus station and go to Joloapa to visit Linda, but still something kept tugging at me, telling me not to go. I got on the bus anyway (after getting off and on at least two times to the confusion of all), paid my fare, and was on my way when I jumped up, rushed to the bus driver, and asked if there were buses of that line that left for Veracruz. "Si, si hay..." I thanked him and jumped off in the middle of the street, rushed back to the bus station, and after an agonizing 15 minutes decided to get on the bus bound for Veracruz.
As we left I felt good about my decision (a good sign!), and after a long 5 hour bus ride full of stops in nameless towns and putting up with half sharing my seat with a man drooling on my shoulder, I arrived at the bus station in Veracruz. Nelly and I found each other, loaded up in her friends truck (4 people CAN fit on one bench seat, by the way), and we headed off for the center of town. After a quick walk about and a little live music (which was great, and I love you Austin!), we went to a friend´s house where I got tipsy off of one drink after not eating since that morning. Needless to say, I slept long and hard after such a day.
The next morning we started off by going to the market, a smorgasbord of vegetables, meat, manufactured items, artesanias, and delicious...FOOD! The smells were overwhelming- in one moment you would smell some sweetly baking bread, in another a smell of rotting meat, and another of newly pumped plastic. We ordered some juice and enchiladas from a jam-packed stand, surrounded by people shoveling down foods of all flavors, colors, and smells, but almost everything containing tortillas. I had the enchiladas sencillas con mole; four tortillas (probably fried) folded like delicate little napkins, doused with delicious sweet-smoky mole, and sprinkled with white cheese. MMMM! I practically licked the plate clean. From there we headed to San Juan de Ulua, an old fort/prison located island full of bloody history. It started as an island of sacrifices for the Totonacs, became the first treasury of the new world, then a fort, then finally a prison, where many a legendary bandit was kept and tortured by the tight quarters, dripping water, and awful weather. Furthermore, floodgates were opened to create a moat full of sharks around the then-island to discourage escape. Pretty cool...
Dead tired, I was in desparate need of some coffee, so off we went to the center of town again to a place called Cafe Parroquia. They´re famous for their signature coffee; they bring out a glass with a shot or two of espresso, you tap the glass as loud as you can with your spoon and wait for the milk-boy, a waiter carrying two silver kettles full of hot milk, which he pours into the cup from a height of 2-3 feet to make it nice and frothy. Yummm- I already miss it (sorry Papantla, but your coffee isn´t fit to throw in some creep´s face!) The only thing that bothered me about the place was it´s tradition of hiring just male waiters, though I guess it beats other places hiring just busty women.
Afterwards- you may not believe this- we decided to go to...the mall, Plaza de las Americas. Apparently the only movie theater in town is there, and it looks just like one here- big, crowded, with carpet a color designed to confuse you into not noticing stains and other distasteful things. Surprisingly, though, the trapped rabbit feeling never came up- either I was just too tired and desensitized or maybe, just maybe, I´m able to cool my jets and not judge so much anymore! And you know what? It was actually wonderful to be in a movie theater, all dark and cool and anonymous, absorbed in a silly film that was in English- I forgot I was in Mexico and started making comments to Nelly in English!
I decided to delay my flight till the next day as we wandered around a bit more then headed over to a Karaoke bar their friend Felipe works at, where again, I didn´t judge or feel awkward and had a great time (and 5 drinks)! We headed home, exhausted, and the next day had to go to Nelly´s and Wendy´s school, the University of Veracruz Engineering Campus, to have their final project assessed. We waited, and waited, and waited for it to be done to go to breakfast, but finally I gave up at 1 and decided to go to the Parroquia again. After my lechero and huevos a la mexicana I wandered around the center all day buying this and that and poking around the churches and Malecon (seaside area), blissfully unaware that just a few blocks from me there had been a shooting at 2! Apparently it was related to narco-trafficking, and was the first of its kind here in Veracruz. With a couple hours to spare, I decided to go on a tour of a barge docked near the Malecon; at the entrance I ended up meeting Angel, a young sailor from Veracruz, who flirted with me so respectfully and, well, un-creepily, that I didn´t mind. After the amazingly brain-freezingly boring barge tour I tried to get to the campus to catch my bus, but after a frenzied attempt with the help of many to get me there on time, I ended up missing my bus and going back to campus with Nelly to fart around on the computer until 1 am (her circuit still wasn´t done! Poor Nelly!)
I got on the bus this morning, a little contrite that the community had been expecting me Monday, but nonetheless refreshed from such a nice little jot. And I learned so much in just a few days, being with people from here I felt comfortable talking to and asking questions. It feels so good to travel, to get out of the little bubble we create that contains our routines, our paths, our thoughts. To just let go and have fun. And the trip back was beautiful- the beaches are incredible and so naturally beautiful, I hope to visit them someday.
I have decided to go to the community (finally!) tomorrow morning with Lindsey, so work shall begin!
Kareoke!
allison
What to do for fun in Papantla, from July 10
What is this feeling, boredom? Every time it comes, I grow anxious and almost desperate to drown it out, suffocate it however I can. With boredom comes its companion, a deep, lurking fear that life is meaningless. All the actions we do are meaningless. But what is meaning, anyway? Who really defines it? Is that really what I’m looking for? And why am I driven by that fear, that thought? If I let myself keep thinking, I’ll probably spiral downward. I see meaningless and meaningfulness as two sides of the same coin, the same reality that’s just perpetually spinning around and around in the air…
I feel more and more like I’m in a waking dream; isn’t that reality is, though? That sudden, shocking thought surfaced I when I was still so little, just a kid of 4 or 5 years still haunts me: what if this is a dream too, and I’ll wake up any second? Is this the truth? Is there truth?
Life seems so strange right now- I’m sitting in my lightless room and can hear the poor retarded kid making strange noises and laughing outside my door, perhaps on the stairs. Whenever I see him, I think, how does he work? How did this happen? And if I can’t relegate him to human status yet I still respect him as I would a human, does that mean human and animals are all on the same page? The only thing that makes our species think we’re better is that our limited view point and ignorance of the future makes us think we’re the best there will ever be.
Where does that kid live? He’s always here, but I saw Polo the elder being sort of rough and cruel with him, making him carry that big box of rotting stinking trash down the stairs on his dirty back, like a regular Quasimodo, coming down from the bell tower. And Polo is so aggressive, he gets this glint in his eye and I could see how it could be intimidating. That combined with his disheveled out of control eyebrows and crazily glinting silver teeth; might as well be a star in a horror film.
Who is this boy? Where did he come from, who is the stranger that gave birth to him? How old is he? What does he do? I’ve been politely ignoring my own questions, and smile and make small talk with him as much as I can to cover my discomfort and guilt. I barely understand a word he says, but when I saw him on the street he yelled something after me, and earlier he sat at the top of the stair behind my office; I don’t know if he was watching me, but it seemed like it. He is always curious about what I’m doing in my stair step office. Que haces, amiga? I tell him like I tell everyone- working. Talking to my boss. The less questions the better.
Which reminds me- Enrique and I bumped into each other twice today- the first on my way to go find some fruit for dinner, and he walked with me to find there was none and then walked with me to get water. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. I tell him my friend is coming and I’m going to go visit Linda to go visit the waterfalls. “When will you be back?” I tell him I don’t know (and if I did I wouldn’t tell you, I’m sorry). He continues this painful dialogue with an equally painful look on his face, as if he knows he’s a dog being kicked but keeps coming back to whimper, just to be kicked again. He said, “Would you mind coming with me for a second? I’m going to give a guy a massage.” At first I thought he said he was going to give a guy a message, so I agreed, trying to play it cool, and when I figured out what he really meant and we arrived at the man’s house (which was really close) I bowed out really fast and said I had to go. “But wait, I’ll walk with you.” And he walked toward me as if there was no question. No, no thanks, I almost plead, I can make it back fine, I’m ok. Esta bien. I’m worried he might see right through my thin mask, whose veneer is peeling off at the prospect of him following me to my apartment. “Are you sure?” he says, repeatedly. Yes, I’m very sure, thanks. See you later! And with that I turn and walk away, feeling like I just barely got out before the shit hit the fan. The people in the house had looked confused the whole time, even after we had walked up and Enrique said, “oh, this is a friend.” I wonder what they thought; I tried not to look into their faces. Did they think I was some loose little American girl? Did Enrique want me to come so he could show me off and insinuate something that didn’t exist?
I got home safely, did a mandatory email check, and went upstairs to read or something (I already can’t remember!) Soon I got hungry, and so walked down to the corner store to get some peanuts. On my way back, lo and behold- Enrique calls my name in the dark. I call out cheerfully back to him. Play it cool, play it cool. I don’t even think he would really do anything, I just don’t want to give him the opportunity to let the thought even enter his head. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Leave me alone. Just 100 ft to my apartment. I offer him some peanuts, and we repeat the painful dog whipping; he seems to have forgotten the answers to all the questions he had asked before. Perhaps he’s smitten. He almost looks like he’s ready to climb the stairs ahead of me (good god, he knows which room I live in!), but I don’t even go near the stairs. I stay and do the dog kicking, declining his invitations to hang out with a cool face and vague lies like, “well, my professor said she’d be on after 9 to talk” (after asking him the time and saw it was 9), and “oh, I don’t know when I’ll be back but we’ll probably see each other since we always seem to!” (no I don’t want to see you again, bug off!); with perhaps obvious relief I abruptly blurt out, “Well, since we don’t know if we’ll see each other again thanks for everything and it was great meeting you!” He looks confused, a little hurt; perhaps he could feel my real thoughts. Ok, he says, yes it was wonderful meeting you! And shakes me hand a couple of times, kisses my cheek, hugs me in an awkward attempt to hang around for a little while longer while my mind is already hurrying up the stairs, getting away, feeling the relief of his absence.
What gets me is the not knowing- can I trust him? Is he just a friendly, lonely guy looking for a friend? He seems nice enough, but I just can’t take that chance. It’s too risky, and I won’t go down that road. I don’t really feel guilty though, unless by not taking a risk it will have been my own loss.
And as I walked down the dark street tonight, I clenched my fists as a huddle of men, standing in the dim puddle of light cast by the leaning street lamp, turned towards me to look. Or at least so I imagined. And I imagined all the dirty things they were thinking, my jaw clenching as tight as my fists, my eyes growing hard and angry. Don’t look at me, or I’ll beat the living shit out of you, I thought, over and over, more and more angry. I’ll beat the living fucking shit out of you, assholes. Don’t try anything. I felt like I shouldn’t be angry, I had no evidence of what they were thinking, and I have no responsibility for that, anyway. But those same fantasies I had as a kid alone in the car, in the parking lot of the grocery store came back; try to touch me and I´ll kill you.. All that anger, twisting me in it’s hot fury, hot lava spouting from a well of deep hurt and fear whose origin I know nothing of. Fear cultivated by the media? But I think it is deeper than that; when I was so little, no older than 4, I got so angry at people looking at me in my bunny costume. “Stop looking at me!” Mom reports me saying, in a hissing voice poisoned with hatred. What is that hatred, what is that fear? Can I tease it out with rationing and thoughts, or will I just have to do the hardest thing, cut it free, and just let it go?
I feel more and more like I’m in a waking dream; isn’t that reality is, though? That sudden, shocking thought surfaced I when I was still so little, just a kid of 4 or 5 years still haunts me: what if this is a dream too, and I’ll wake up any second? Is this the truth? Is there truth?
Life seems so strange right now- I’m sitting in my lightless room and can hear the poor retarded kid making strange noises and laughing outside my door, perhaps on the stairs. Whenever I see him, I think, how does he work? How did this happen? And if I can’t relegate him to human status yet I still respect him as I would a human, does that mean human and animals are all on the same page? The only thing that makes our species think we’re better is that our limited view point and ignorance of the future makes us think we’re the best there will ever be.
Where does that kid live? He’s always here, but I saw Polo the elder being sort of rough and cruel with him, making him carry that big box of rotting stinking trash down the stairs on his dirty back, like a regular Quasimodo, coming down from the bell tower. And Polo is so aggressive, he gets this glint in his eye and I could see how it could be intimidating. That combined with his disheveled out of control eyebrows and crazily glinting silver teeth; might as well be a star in a horror film.
Who is this boy? Where did he come from, who is the stranger that gave birth to him? How old is he? What does he do? I’ve been politely ignoring my own questions, and smile and make small talk with him as much as I can to cover my discomfort and guilt. I barely understand a word he says, but when I saw him on the street he yelled something after me, and earlier he sat at the top of the stair behind my office; I don’t know if he was watching me, but it seemed like it. He is always curious about what I’m doing in my stair step office. Que haces, amiga? I tell him like I tell everyone- working. Talking to my boss. The less questions the better.
Which reminds me- Enrique and I bumped into each other twice today- the first on my way to go find some fruit for dinner, and he walked with me to find there was none and then walked with me to get water. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. I tell him my friend is coming and I’m going to go visit Linda to go visit the waterfalls. “When will you be back?” I tell him I don’t know (and if I did I wouldn’t tell you, I’m sorry). He continues this painful dialogue with an equally painful look on his face, as if he knows he’s a dog being kicked but keeps coming back to whimper, just to be kicked again. He said, “Would you mind coming with me for a second? I’m going to give a guy a massage.” At first I thought he said he was going to give a guy a message, so I agreed, trying to play it cool, and when I figured out what he really meant and we arrived at the man’s house (which was really close) I bowed out really fast and said I had to go. “But wait, I’ll walk with you.” And he walked toward me as if there was no question. No, no thanks, I almost plead, I can make it back fine, I’m ok. Esta bien. I’m worried he might see right through my thin mask, whose veneer is peeling off at the prospect of him following me to my apartment. “Are you sure?” he says, repeatedly. Yes, I’m very sure, thanks. See you later! And with that I turn and walk away, feeling like I just barely got out before the shit hit the fan. The people in the house had looked confused the whole time, even after we had walked up and Enrique said, “oh, this is a friend.” I wonder what they thought; I tried not to look into their faces. Did they think I was some loose little American girl? Did Enrique want me to come so he could show me off and insinuate something that didn’t exist?
I got home safely, did a mandatory email check, and went upstairs to read or something (I already can’t remember!) Soon I got hungry, and so walked down to the corner store to get some peanuts. On my way back, lo and behold- Enrique calls my name in the dark. I call out cheerfully back to him. Play it cool, play it cool. I don’t even think he would really do anything, I just don’t want to give him the opportunity to let the thought even enter his head. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Leave me alone. Just 100 ft to my apartment. I offer him some peanuts, and we repeat the painful dog whipping; he seems to have forgotten the answers to all the questions he had asked before. Perhaps he’s smitten. He almost looks like he’s ready to climb the stairs ahead of me (good god, he knows which room I live in!), but I don’t even go near the stairs. I stay and do the dog kicking, declining his invitations to hang out with a cool face and vague lies like, “well, my professor said she’d be on after 9 to talk” (after asking him the time and saw it was 9), and “oh, I don’t know when I’ll be back but we’ll probably see each other since we always seem to!” (no I don’t want to see you again, bug off!); with perhaps obvious relief I abruptly blurt out, “Well, since we don’t know if we’ll see each other again thanks for everything and it was great meeting you!” He looks confused, a little hurt; perhaps he could feel my real thoughts. Ok, he says, yes it was wonderful meeting you! And shakes me hand a couple of times, kisses my cheek, hugs me in an awkward attempt to hang around for a little while longer while my mind is already hurrying up the stairs, getting away, feeling the relief of his absence.
What gets me is the not knowing- can I trust him? Is he just a friendly, lonely guy looking for a friend? He seems nice enough, but I just can’t take that chance. It’s too risky, and I won’t go down that road. I don’t really feel guilty though, unless by not taking a risk it will have been my own loss.
And as I walked down the dark street tonight, I clenched my fists as a huddle of men, standing in the dim puddle of light cast by the leaning street lamp, turned towards me to look. Or at least so I imagined. And I imagined all the dirty things they were thinking, my jaw clenching as tight as my fists, my eyes growing hard and angry. Don’t look at me, or I’ll beat the living shit out of you, I thought, over and over, more and more angry. I’ll beat the living fucking shit out of you, assholes. Don’t try anything. I felt like I shouldn’t be angry, I had no evidence of what they were thinking, and I have no responsibility for that, anyway. But those same fantasies I had as a kid alone in the car, in the parking lot of the grocery store came back; try to touch me and I´ll kill you.. All that anger, twisting me in it’s hot fury, hot lava spouting from a well of deep hurt and fear whose origin I know nothing of. Fear cultivated by the media? But I think it is deeper than that; when I was so little, no older than 4, I got so angry at people looking at me in my bunny costume. “Stop looking at me!” Mom reports me saying, in a hissing voice poisoned with hatred. What is that hatred, what is that fear? Can I tease it out with rationing and thoughts, or will I just have to do the hardest thing, cut it free, and just let it go?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
MEAT
Hey everybody,
I´ve decided to do an experiment- I ate meat! On purpose, of my own free will! 2 tacos of barbacoa and bistec. And you know what? They were really tasty, and i feel satisfied for the first time in a long time. Living off of bread and fruit really does the body no good. So let´s see if my conciousness goes down the pipes, I get fat and become an animal hating carnivore that will burn in hell for my lack of compassion for my mammilian relatives. Will update later if I don´t turn into the Allidon (my prehistoric reptilian ancestor.)
I´ve decided to do an experiment- I ate meat! On purpose, of my own free will! 2 tacos of barbacoa and bistec. And you know what? They were really tasty, and i feel satisfied for the first time in a long time. Living off of bread and fruit really does the body no good. So let´s see if my conciousness goes down the pipes, I get fat and become an animal hating carnivore that will burn in hell for my lack of compassion for my mammilian relatives. Will update later if I don´t turn into the Allidon (my prehistoric reptilian ancestor.)
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