Countries added: 3
Total countries thus far: 26.
Finland: people proud of the way their language bubbles and a country of white haired folk. (And yes. Generalizing. Deal.)
Sweden: the friendliest people you've met who think they are unfriendly. Constantly reminds you of how beautiful the city of STHLM is either by the views that sneak up on you or because the STHLM'ians remind you.
Amsterdam: Bikes, food from the wall and a lot of fried stuff. Fried batter, fried mystery meat. Fried hopes and dreams (in that they taste delicious and not in the sense that they're burnt and gone).
Number of 17th century ships seen: 1.
Number of 17th century ships licked: 1.
Museums: 5 but I only saw one bedroom.
Times I was called American only to have myself explain: 17
Bike crashes: 2.
Boats ridden: 3
Party boats: 1.
Times I lost my head 2.
Number of roofs hiked on: 13
Number of roofs hiked on where i feared not for my life but for making a screaming, crying fool of myself: 2 (picture forthcoming but trust me, that ish was narrow).
Castles: 1. (surprising but the original medieval, disney looking one in STHLM burnt down in lieu of a beautiful but functional castle where Silvia reigns supreme.
Cathedrals: 4. Cathedrals carved into a massive rock: 1.
Glog cups drank: 23
Beer horns: 2.
Battered bullets: 9? (things got a wee bit hazy).
New people met: 1,438. New people that know they met me: 11.
Heineken friends: 2
Parties in Amsterdam where despite the northern europe family tree I was still the tallest person there: 1.
It was real - Sverige, Helsinki, Amsterdam. Till we pun again.
Thought given to this post: somewhere between the mcchouffe and the heineken and the glog i found the lilly amongst the thorns.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
3 Gatas
My mind is slower and I just started running away.
I look at the mirror and I have changed. Leaner, meaner, faster...new yorkier? The miles gage (never upgraded to digital is starting to get dangerously high to the point where I might need to pull the trick where I crack the dashboard and run the wires with a drill. Pour some saw dust on the carburator. Super glue the fenders on the front and badonk. Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!
If we could move things with our minds would we start small or would it be the anger or frustration at a mountain that change things?
The story of the three cats is a famous mexican old wives tail (no it's not).
It's one that tells the story of three unique characters (where character here is what define a person and not a person itself). Alone they can stand on their own 2 (4?) legs and carry on and keep calm and get excited about balls of yarn or half eaten birds without need for entertainment. Put the three together in a box (or a bar) and the three are three kittens of the same litter.
And they say finance does not translate. Well the sum of the parts can be greater than the individual.
This is not management. I'm not taking about working teams or teamwork.
People that complement each other and that do things that individually would make the world cringe and internally make them hug, cry and laugh. A shared history - some call it childhood, some call it college - leaves people with an inexplicable filial bond. The kind that allows for murder and a cup of tea as you all cuddle up on a bed and look at the ceiling and talk about boys (girls?), the future, the insecurities.
I have a hard time keeping in touch. My friends know this. My acquaintances know this. The people I hate to have forgotten likely remember better than I do.
Of the top of my head JoanquiAbello, Silvia Hdez, Miriam something or other, Raymond DLS. Call this a brief list of nearly no one but a mark of a number of people that were my best friend for a period of anything between 6 weeks and 3.5 years.
And there are those who "talk" on the daily in the way only people in my generation (and admittedly, the younger generations as far as the younger generation has a cell phone although doesn't that get younger and younger with each passing day). Who share the latest sight, thought and breath with those they love. Can we learn that? Can they teach me?
My one hope is that I have the kind of elephantine memory (occasionally) and photographic ability to recall (mostly just the images in my AP Chemistry textbook from back in 2007) that allows me to pick up where I left off.
It's why when we digress in conversation I am the one that stores key words to help us jog back into the train of thought. I admit, sometimes we have to run and leap into the open train car door but we always get there.
So three cats sat. Mininas.
I look at the mirror and I have changed. Leaner, meaner, faster...new yorkier? The miles gage (never upgraded to digital is starting to get dangerously high to the point where I might need to pull the trick where I crack the dashboard and run the wires with a drill. Pour some saw dust on the carburator. Super glue the fenders on the front and badonk. Bruce! Bruce! Bruce!
If we could move things with our minds would we start small or would it be the anger or frustration at a mountain that change things?
The story of the three cats is a famous mexican old wives tail (no it's not).
It's one that tells the story of three unique characters (where character here is what define a person and not a person itself). Alone they can stand on their own 2 (4?) legs and carry on and keep calm and get excited about balls of yarn or half eaten birds without need for entertainment. Put the three together in a box (or a bar) and the three are three kittens of the same litter.
And they say finance does not translate. Well the sum of the parts can be greater than the individual.
This is not management. I'm not taking about working teams or teamwork.
People that complement each other and that do things that individually would make the world cringe and internally make them hug, cry and laugh. A shared history - some call it childhood, some call it college - leaves people with an inexplicable filial bond. The kind that allows for murder and a cup of tea as you all cuddle up on a bed and look at the ceiling and talk about boys (girls?), the future, the insecurities.
I have a hard time keeping in touch. My friends know this. My acquaintances know this. The people I hate to have forgotten likely remember better than I do.
Of the top of my head JoanquiAbello, Silvia Hdez, Miriam something or other, Raymond DLS. Call this a brief list of nearly no one but a mark of a number of people that were my best friend for a period of anything between 6 weeks and 3.5 years.
And there are those who "talk" on the daily in the way only people in my generation (and admittedly, the younger generations as far as the younger generation has a cell phone although doesn't that get younger and younger with each passing day). Who share the latest sight, thought and breath with those they love. Can we learn that? Can they teach me?
My one hope is that I have the kind of elephantine memory (occasionally) and photographic ability to recall (mostly just the images in my AP Chemistry textbook from back in 2007) that allows me to pick up where I left off.
It's why when we digress in conversation I am the one that stores key words to help us jog back into the train of thought. I admit, sometimes we have to run and leap into the open train car door but we always get there.
So three cats sat. Mininas.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Time
I have a bone to pick with time. Not Rip, Van's cool with me.
It's not an issue about passing time, certainly rush past it as fast as I can making sure that every next second is relatively shorter than the previous one. This also means that every next second has to be all the more intense than the previous one.
It's why I accept challenges with the caveat that the challenger be willing to take it upon himself.
That's how on a faithful college afternoon - the kind that can only happen in a run down apartment building that calls itself the hall of kings but where rat traps are laid everywhere within and without the place. Where exposed brick isn't a nice artsy touch to the place but more of an accident of unfinished business (masonry?). I saw a man eat a spoonful of powdered cinnamon, choke, cough, garggle, whelp only to have the powder cling to his very existence. At one point some of it came out in a cloud but not from his mouth but his nose.
And then I saw his friend do it as well. Challenge challenged.
But just last week I kept thinking it was midnight when in truth it was midday. What gives?
Never been one for watches and since I am part of the cell phone generation the digital display truly speaks more to me than the two slightly disfigured arms. Gotta admit the irony of the short pointing to the long and the long pointing to the short is my kind of humor. Not funny.
And truly our life has become or at least becomes so regimented that a watch is as good as the sun that rides up the horizon and slides behind it. Useful, necessary, but a luxury.
My sisters lives without it for months at a time. Both the watch and the sun just in different seasons.
I think.
And today I asked a coworker what his plans were for the weekend. It was 9AM on Tuesday morning and I'm not entirely certain if I was talking about the proverbial weekend or this one in particular.
It'd be too easy to figure it was driven by ennui or the circumstances at the time - my mind was occupied with the thought - it is the exalted weekend child, and I should have fun.
He looked at me quizzically and he said - are you serious? I don't even know if I'll make it till then.
If we dont, well, time...it'll come to fists.
It's time.
*This one is particularly cantankerous
It's not an issue about passing time, certainly rush past it as fast as I can making sure that every next second is relatively shorter than the previous one. This also means that every next second has to be all the more intense than the previous one.
It's why I accept challenges with the caveat that the challenger be willing to take it upon himself.
That's how on a faithful college afternoon - the kind that can only happen in a run down apartment building that calls itself the hall of kings but where rat traps are laid everywhere within and without the place. Where exposed brick isn't a nice artsy touch to the place but more of an accident of unfinished business (masonry?). I saw a man eat a spoonful of powdered cinnamon, choke, cough, garggle, whelp only to have the powder cling to his very existence. At one point some of it came out in a cloud but not from his mouth but his nose.
And then I saw his friend do it as well. Challenge challenged.
But just last week I kept thinking it was midnight when in truth it was midday. What gives?
Never been one for watches and since I am part of the cell phone generation the digital display truly speaks more to me than the two slightly disfigured arms. Gotta admit the irony of the short pointing to the long and the long pointing to the short is my kind of humor. Not funny.
And truly our life has become or at least becomes so regimented that a watch is as good as the sun that rides up the horizon and slides behind it. Useful, necessary, but a luxury.
My sisters lives without it for months at a time. Both the watch and the sun just in different seasons.
I think.
And today I asked a coworker what his plans were for the weekend. It was 9AM on Tuesday morning and I'm not entirely certain if I was talking about the proverbial weekend or this one in particular.
It'd be too easy to figure it was driven by ennui or the circumstances at the time - my mind was occupied with the thought - it is the exalted weekend child, and I should have fun.
He looked at me quizzically and he said - are you serious? I don't even know if I'll make it till then.
If we dont, well, time...it'll come to fists.
It's time.
*This one is particularly cantankerous
Sunday, October 14, 2012
March Waters
Letters in the most literal way possible have always played a role in my life. They let me imagine places and get to know people that have never been.
Now they take me places.
And I'm reminded of that famous quote - "I am not a crook!"
And that other famous quote - "We are looking for the ros lyn"
And a third quote (for the sake of completion) that I just happen to enjoy - "Amigos con derecho y sin derecho de tenerte siempre".
The weather was crisp and spirits were high as we all united and boarded the train for an underwater adventure towards a mistress of the lower hoods of Brazil.
Where down south Favela would carry the connotation of danger, low income, dancing and hope - that only translates here into delicious caipirinhas, corrugated metal and flimsy flip flops stapled to the roof. The samba was flowing and the drinks kept playing with perception of time, space and season. The smell of feijoada was a tantalizing possibility but I knew there'd be more to come so instead i egged people on and carried light conversation smiling in the compulsory way only the happy can.
No reason and cheeks hurting we left the lady - my shoulders still itching to follow the smooth tones of samba and bossa nova.
Thighs and pies. Enough said. Deep fried chicken in hot sauce with a buttery biscuit that's served in a style reminiscent of the german bratwurst in an positively diminutive bun and called a hot dogs despite merely being a handle with which to grasp the goodness.
Back up driggs and past my cousin's cleaner we perfectly timed it in such a way that we ran into sisters that managed to look alike and not alike disarmingly at the same time. A block down we picked 3 more for our crew and lined up outside BB.
Where beer dispelled any illness we may have once had.
And we had a Blast (2 chips). And a defender and an celebration of the month between september and november.
I'm going to call these daycations from now on.
And listen to Aguas di Marco (pretend the c has a little curlycue below it) for a little while.
Now they take me places.
And I'm reminded of that famous quote - "I am not a crook!"
And that other famous quote - "We are looking for the ros lyn"
And a third quote (for the sake of completion) that I just happen to enjoy - "Amigos con derecho y sin derecho de tenerte siempre".
The weather was crisp and spirits were high as we all united and boarded the train for an underwater adventure towards a mistress of the lower hoods of Brazil.
Where down south Favela would carry the connotation of danger, low income, dancing and hope - that only translates here into delicious caipirinhas, corrugated metal and flimsy flip flops stapled to the roof. The samba was flowing and the drinks kept playing with perception of time, space and season. The smell of feijoada was a tantalizing possibility but I knew there'd be more to come so instead i egged people on and carried light conversation smiling in the compulsory way only the happy can.
No reason and cheeks hurting we left the lady - my shoulders still itching to follow the smooth tones of samba and bossa nova.
Thighs and pies. Enough said. Deep fried chicken in hot sauce with a buttery biscuit that's served in a style reminiscent of the german bratwurst in an positively diminutive bun and called a hot dogs despite merely being a handle with which to grasp the goodness.
Back up driggs and past my cousin's cleaner we perfectly timed it in such a way that we ran into sisters that managed to look alike and not alike disarmingly at the same time. A block down we picked 3 more for our crew and lined up outside BB.
Where beer dispelled any illness we may have once had.
And we had a Blast (2 chips). And a defender and an celebration of the month between september and november.
I'm going to call these daycations from now on.
And listen to Aguas di Marco (pretend the c has a little curlycue below it) for a little while.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Mobius
Dear Friend,
I'm leaning on fairly obvious inspiration today but I'm ok with it. I have too many disparate short stories to tell you about today for a normal thing (for that is what it is to suffice).
Do you know how few people know that every post I write is about a person? And though admittedly 40% of the time that person is me (which probably speaks to a wee bit of narcissism likely (or hopefully) inherent in all humans and not just the sign of an inherent character flaw) the other 60% I write about people. Sometimes it's the people in the stories, and sometimes it's the story itself that tries to create the vision of the person. Does that make sense? I don't know why I'm telling you this.
On Saturday I visited Sam's Town. Or better yet it wasn't really Sam's Town but an equally slightly decrepit piece of Americana that attempts to entertain the modern day American (Mexican). Just me and two friends trying to branch out a little outside the urban jungle and we found ourselves in a geometric island. We all feared the hurricane last year and yet we embraced the cyclone.
Maybe it was curling my toes in the sand and walking down the beach trying not to step in half broken glass bottles, watching a 65 year old man "jog" in a hammock for bananas and a small middle aged man in a fisherman's hat hunt for treasures with a metal detector - I couldn't stop smiling. The landscape was nothing like the one I wonder at every day. Instead of Skyscrapers I had The SteepleChase, the Soarin' Eagle (I don't know why I got a kick out of the ') and the Slingshot.
The latter was ridden by a young kid named Lewis. I regret not going on that.
And then we had beers after a log plume called Wild River - likely because of copyright.
Neptune Jam was there. Not the candied type I imagine Jupitanians consume but the kind made up of an eclectic group of men in love with the music they are creating on a boardwalk where kids and adults alike swim through the air in what can, by some, be called dancing.
It was great and I'm glad I got a number of moments where I got to appreciate the space and time of the present without worrying about the future and the past.
It was four when I thought it was really 7.
****
And I start to write the second story my dear friend, I'm worried the third is escaping my memory already so I'll toss out the word taxicab now before it's too late. This will help me remember and leave you with an inkling of the kind of people I engage in conversation in the middle of America.
Let me tell you about these people I met. Not the taxicab drivers but the others.
They are engineers of sorts - of all sorts. They are not only in charge of engineering solutions to major health and health system problems but they are also techno geeks deeply committed to a .net system that is interoperable. Picture Windows and Microsoft being forced to play nice not because it's $ but because it's the law and because otherwise people die.
People so passionate they are moved to tears by the CEO of an IT company or the President of a Consulting Division.
Healthcare is personal but the future of it will likely require us to separate those two words and focus on health first and reach only for care as the last option possible.
This digitization of the healthcare system today has led me to believe IT will provide where others can't and I realized my writing style has changed friend and I blame the song choice more so than anything.
I turned to asleep again.
The smith is a great restaurant.
***
And the last part of this story is the shortest one.
I met two cab drivers this week. It's a little sad you never meet the drivers in NYC. The first cab driver was on his third wife and was originally from far far away - he had a college degree which he showed me (because he always keeps it tucked away in the little flap on the ceiling of cars and he told me sometimes it's just easiest and best to smile and nod. Ha! I already knew that because you taught me that! The second cab driver had graduated college 5 years ago but he was 69 and had a 14 year old child from his third wife. He came from everywhere because his dad had been in the military and so had he. He had left for tour from Kansas 44 years ago and when he returned 4 years later he got off the plane to a new airport - the one that still stands today.
And all of this reminded me of the time my little cousin, aged 4 at the time came up to me at my grandparents house and he asked me "can i show you that i know how to count to 100?".
"Yes"
And off he went until he hit 100. And he looked at me inquisitively for some guidance. I said "one hundred and one" to which he raised his hand to stop me lest I give it all away. And we worked our way up to a thousand. And he looked at me inquisitively for some guidance. I said "one thousand and one" and at that point we started skipping the nonsense in between, going into the thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, billions, trillions.
And his eyes lit up in wonder.
"They don't stop"
I smiled - "They're infinite".
He's been a great math student for the last 6 years.
Love always,
D
I'm leaning on fairly obvious inspiration today but I'm ok with it. I have too many disparate short stories to tell you about today for a normal thing (for that is what it is to suffice).
Do you know how few people know that every post I write is about a person? And though admittedly 40% of the time that person is me (which probably speaks to a wee bit of narcissism likely (or hopefully) inherent in all humans and not just the sign of an inherent character flaw) the other 60% I write about people. Sometimes it's the people in the stories, and sometimes it's the story itself that tries to create the vision of the person. Does that make sense? I don't know why I'm telling you this.
On Saturday I visited Sam's Town. Or better yet it wasn't really Sam's Town but an equally slightly decrepit piece of Americana that attempts to entertain the modern day American (Mexican). Just me and two friends trying to branch out a little outside the urban jungle and we found ourselves in a geometric island. We all feared the hurricane last year and yet we embraced the cyclone.
Maybe it was curling my toes in the sand and walking down the beach trying not to step in half broken glass bottles, watching a 65 year old man "jog" in a hammock for bananas and a small middle aged man in a fisherman's hat hunt for treasures with a metal detector - I couldn't stop smiling. The landscape was nothing like the one I wonder at every day. Instead of Skyscrapers I had The SteepleChase, the Soarin' Eagle (I don't know why I got a kick out of the ') and the Slingshot.
The latter was ridden by a young kid named Lewis. I regret not going on that.
And then we had beers after a log plume called Wild River - likely because of copyright.
Neptune Jam was there. Not the candied type I imagine Jupitanians consume but the kind made up of an eclectic group of men in love with the music they are creating on a boardwalk where kids and adults alike swim through the air in what can, by some, be called dancing.
It was great and I'm glad I got a number of moments where I got to appreciate the space and time of the present without worrying about the future and the past.
It was four when I thought it was really 7.
****
And I start to write the second story my dear friend, I'm worried the third is escaping my memory already so I'll toss out the word taxicab now before it's too late. This will help me remember and leave you with an inkling of the kind of people I engage in conversation in the middle of America.
Let me tell you about these people I met. Not the taxicab drivers but the others.
They are engineers of sorts - of all sorts. They are not only in charge of engineering solutions to major health and health system problems but they are also techno geeks deeply committed to a .net system that is interoperable. Picture Windows and Microsoft being forced to play nice not because it's $ but because it's the law and because otherwise people die.
People so passionate they are moved to tears by the CEO of an IT company or the President of a Consulting Division.
Healthcare is personal but the future of it will likely require us to separate those two words and focus on health first and reach only for care as the last option possible.
This digitization of the healthcare system today has led me to believe IT will provide where others can't and I realized my writing style has changed friend and I blame the song choice more so than anything.
I turned to asleep again.
The smith is a great restaurant.
***
And the last part of this story is the shortest one.
I met two cab drivers this week. It's a little sad you never meet the drivers in NYC. The first cab driver was on his third wife and was originally from far far away - he had a college degree which he showed me (because he always keeps it tucked away in the little flap on the ceiling of cars and he told me sometimes it's just easiest and best to smile and nod. Ha! I already knew that because you taught me that! The second cab driver had graduated college 5 years ago but he was 69 and had a 14 year old child from his third wife. He came from everywhere because his dad had been in the military and so had he. He had left for tour from Kansas 44 years ago and when he returned 4 years later he got off the plane to a new airport - the one that still stands today.
And all of this reminded me of the time my little cousin, aged 4 at the time came up to me at my grandparents house and he asked me "can i show you that i know how to count to 100?".
"Yes"
And off he went until he hit 100. And he looked at me inquisitively for some guidance. I said "one hundred and one" to which he raised his hand to stop me lest I give it all away. And we worked our way up to a thousand. And he looked at me inquisitively for some guidance. I said "one thousand and one" and at that point we started skipping the nonsense in between, going into the thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, billions, trillions.
And his eyes lit up in wonder.
"They don't stop"
I smiled - "They're infinite".
He's been a great math student for the last 6 years.
Love always,
D
Sunday, September 30, 2012
East River Run
There’s something about running in the pre-dawn of New York City. Right around the time when the people around are not ones to be feared - bleary eyed and clutching a small cup of coffee from the carts.
Left-right left-right pounding the pavement still hot from the sun the day before. It is in that rare quiet where thoughts can shake free from the multicolored distractors of 3rd Avenue, the inherent delight of Time's square or the neon colored signs of ktown. The city is a symphony of lights.
Fewer sirens disturb the fragile moments captured between the techno blasting in my earbuds and the sound of heavy breathing. I still like to have myself tied to the mast while my rowers stuff their ears with wax and I listen to their sweet song.
Taxi horns sit silenced as drivers steal a few moment’s peace, preparing mentally for a day full of stop and go's.
And I rush past them all. The East River rises on my approach my feet carry me further from the haze of Midtown, down uneven paths sprinkled with the occasional tree or patch of grass. Oh and a rat. A rat ran past me, about five inches away from my foot. And I squealed a little.
Sure, there are moments where I long for the open green of just about anywhere else, trying to escape the concrete and steel hemming me in. When the idea of wide open spaces is defined beyond the 1000 square feet limit. But it in such moments as this, the Brooklyn Bridge looming ahead of me, or even as I stand jostled for space on a rush-hour 6 train, that I realize what people talk about when they mention the magic of the city.
You get an insiders look into the guts, (the trash), the people.
And then you've run for an hour, have no idea where you are and start seeing avenues you didn't know existed (and are not convinced they do).
Run past places you know you need to try and find gardens that make no sense - stuck between two walk ups and behind a van that looks like it belongs in the 80s. Or a regularly sitting man who seems to be completely enthralled with the idea of braiding his own hair every day. And the basketball courts with weekend tournaments that make JV feel like you are running out under the spotlight at the barclay's.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Mackarel
One of those times when you go buy fries and you get cod.
Or crave a grilled cheese with plenty of velvetta and no care for the sweet and savory mix of fig jam and brie.
Look for a pinot and find a sustainable blend that goes well with sustainable, cage free, free range, organic, melodramatic seafood harvested not hunted and done so lovingly.
And then there's the idea of a quest.
Funny - the videogames title fables that promise 10s of Thousands of Combinations and Options. It's a pick your own ending RLStein Goosebump excepts it's a visual and creative and still far far short from our every day life.
That's just one man's thought. Though I've conquered nations, won the world cup of everything and travelled through bi-colored portals solving puzzles - it's all fallen short.
I've stood at the top of the Avenue of the Dead looking east, north, west, south and felt connections. I've seen Kukulcan snake his way during the solstice and equinox. Hurtled myself hundreds of miles and hour across time (zones) and space (well really some lower levels of the atmosphere that still hugs to us). I've carried babies deadly afraid of the soft spot, seen a child's amazement when he realizes that his own two feet are capable of motor skills.
I've eaten truffles. Hunted for chanterelles.
Now picture sports drinks promising hyper ionized energy. Oh good. Salty water. Or salt dissolved in water where the magical process of dissolving allows for a wholesale stealing and borrowing of electrons.
Shot rapid fire or subtly inserted into a sentence or word. They're interesting and drive conversation and human curiosity and I get to explore all of them now.
Well built they can be inserted in poetry and high literature. They can disarm arm dealers and confuse the posers. They can unveil truths and complicate them.
***
"You can cross!" I yelled.
"I'm going to take your arm now" I said as I closed in.
And i reached out and grabbed his elbow as his hand found my forearm. The man was walking with a purpose - more purposed than most of us not wearing sunglasses at 745 am.
"Where are you going"
"I'm going to the subway station - are you walking there?" I knew I was.
And so we walked with a quick back and forth over 3 city blocks. He was from Jamaica and going home after a swim at the Y.
And I haven't seen him again but I wonder if I'll see him every morning.
Or crave a grilled cheese with plenty of velvetta and no care for the sweet and savory mix of fig jam and brie.
Look for a pinot and find a sustainable blend that goes well with sustainable, cage free, free range, organic, melodramatic seafood harvested not hunted and done so lovingly.
And then there's the idea of a quest.
Funny - the videogames title fables that promise 10s of Thousands of Combinations and Options. It's a pick your own ending RLStein Goosebump excepts it's a visual and creative and still far far short from our every day life.
That's just one man's thought. Though I've conquered nations, won the world cup of everything and travelled through bi-colored portals solving puzzles - it's all fallen short.
I've stood at the top of the Avenue of the Dead looking east, north, west, south and felt connections. I've seen Kukulcan snake his way during the solstice and equinox. Hurtled myself hundreds of miles and hour across time (zones) and space (well really some lower levels of the atmosphere that still hugs to us). I've carried babies deadly afraid of the soft spot, seen a child's amazement when he realizes that his own two feet are capable of motor skills.
I've eaten truffles. Hunted for chanterelles.
Now picture sports drinks promising hyper ionized energy. Oh good. Salty water. Or salt dissolved in water where the magical process of dissolving allows for a wholesale stealing and borrowing of electrons.
Shot rapid fire or subtly inserted into a sentence or word. They're interesting and drive conversation and human curiosity and I get to explore all of them now.
Well built they can be inserted in poetry and high literature. They can disarm arm dealers and confuse the posers. They can unveil truths and complicate them.
***
"You can cross!" I yelled.
"I'm going to take your arm now" I said as I closed in.
And i reached out and grabbed his elbow as his hand found my forearm. The man was walking with a purpose - more purposed than most of us not wearing sunglasses at 745 am.
"Where are you going"
"I'm going to the subway station - are you walking there?" I knew I was.
And so we walked with a quick back and forth over 3 city blocks. He was from Jamaica and going home after a swim at the Y.
And I haven't seen him again but I wonder if I'll see him every morning.
Monday, September 10, 2012
I'm coming home
Not literally.
Not metaphorically.
I'm actually just going back to the old country. Which in my case would be Spain, or Rome depending on whether I ascribed to the notion of the "old country" either by racial heritage or religious legacy. But the truth is that I'm going to the lower countries to visit a friend that I don't know in her natural habitat. And then I'm going to Sweden and spending a week in the family home of a sister I barely know.
And I'm being lenient on the barely.
But her daughter is a soccer player in college in the U.S. on a scholarship. I used to love seeing pictures of my niece, the only dark, soulful Mexican tan amongs a sea of platinum blondes and pale skins playing indoors. She was the shortest but she had hops. I've met her twice.
I remember a nephew in that I bought video games for him that were from time to time passed on via mail or personal courier. No idea what his face or personality might be like.
My sister poses as different challenge - a grown woman, with a husband she met online and has been happily married to for years - I wonder how she knew my dad. How I know my dad and whether or not we'll ever Venn Diagram our experiences and get a full picture.
But I'm finally excited for a trip outside my bi-national experience this past lustre.
I'm tired of speaking English and Spanish and look forward to once again have the doe-eyed, deer-in-headlights, glassy stare of the misunderstood not because they have some deeb psychological angst but because no matter how loud, and enunciated, Swedish is nothing like anything I've ever heard off. What should be even more exciting is Dutch. Tantalizingly close to German but just off enough where it's not enough. Like when you're standing on the deep end of the pool and you can feel the tip of your toe graze the bottom long enough to "be" there but not long enough to stand or give you a sense of balance.
And the winters are brutal in Europe but I'm hoping for one of those random sunny weekends where the continent grows alive as its denizens rush to the street in a desperate land grab of vitamin D.
Gregarious Pluto will be my guide but I'll also allow for a great deal of spontaneity in hopes of finding a strange street that no one has ever heard of before with delicious coffee or maybe hope to get picked up by a 1920s crank car that inspires me and teaches me a thing about Nostalgia. Or maybe I'll end up at Tesla (re: Electronic) party where the hero wears a masks and spins flash drives like it's his job and a mob of youngsters push through the crowds with video cameras held high in the air by extendable poles in an effort to make a mass concert available to the huddled masses (of the economically fragile ROE). But I can also hope for a bar concert that straddles the line between cabaret act and dark Dead Kennedy's vibe with a lead singer that comes in multiples, is French, possibly Bulgarian and who sings Sweet Emotion like she's Marilyn Manson but that can also croon Too Drunk To F*** like it's an sweet old Charles Trenet song.
And I expect Sweden to be covered in snow and the people to be friendly and kind and I expect myself to constantly debate for five days whether or not I'd ever actually wear wooden shoes. Maybe I'll get to see one of the communal living arrangements that make people so happy, kids well adjusted, and adults in their mid-forties feel self-fulfilled and like better parents?
Oh and I'm travelling in comfort - happily alone joined by friends, blood and in-law.
Not metaphorically.
I'm actually just going back to the old country. Which in my case would be Spain, or Rome depending on whether I ascribed to the notion of the "old country" either by racial heritage or religious legacy. But the truth is that I'm going to the lower countries to visit a friend that I don't know in her natural habitat. And then I'm going to Sweden and spending a week in the family home of a sister I barely know.
And I'm being lenient on the barely.
But her daughter is a soccer player in college in the U.S. on a scholarship. I used to love seeing pictures of my niece, the only dark, soulful Mexican tan amongs a sea of platinum blondes and pale skins playing indoors. She was the shortest but she had hops. I've met her twice.
I remember a nephew in that I bought video games for him that were from time to time passed on via mail or personal courier. No idea what his face or personality might be like.
My sister poses as different challenge - a grown woman, with a husband she met online and has been happily married to for years - I wonder how she knew my dad. How I know my dad and whether or not we'll ever Venn Diagram our experiences and get a full picture.
But I'm finally excited for a trip outside my bi-national experience this past lustre.
I'm tired of speaking English and Spanish and look forward to once again have the doe-eyed, deer-in-headlights, glassy stare of the misunderstood not because they have some deeb psychological angst but because no matter how loud, and enunciated, Swedish is nothing like anything I've ever heard off. What should be even more exciting is Dutch. Tantalizingly close to German but just off enough where it's not enough. Like when you're standing on the deep end of the pool and you can feel the tip of your toe graze the bottom long enough to "be" there but not long enough to stand or give you a sense of balance.
And the winters are brutal in Europe but I'm hoping for one of those random sunny weekends where the continent grows alive as its denizens rush to the street in a desperate land grab of vitamin D.
Gregarious Pluto will be my guide but I'll also allow for a great deal of spontaneity in hopes of finding a strange street that no one has ever heard of before with delicious coffee or maybe hope to get picked up by a 1920s crank car that inspires me and teaches me a thing about Nostalgia. Or maybe I'll end up at Tesla (re: Electronic) party where the hero wears a masks and spins flash drives like it's his job and a mob of youngsters push through the crowds with video cameras held high in the air by extendable poles in an effort to make a mass concert available to the huddled masses (of the economically fragile ROE). But I can also hope for a bar concert that straddles the line between cabaret act and dark Dead Kennedy's vibe with a lead singer that comes in multiples, is French, possibly Bulgarian and who sings Sweet Emotion like she's Marilyn Manson but that can also croon Too Drunk To F*** like it's an sweet old Charles Trenet song.
And I expect Sweden to be covered in snow and the people to be friendly and kind and I expect myself to constantly debate for five days whether or not I'd ever actually wear wooden shoes. Maybe I'll get to see one of the communal living arrangements that make people so happy, kids well adjusted, and adults in their mid-forties feel self-fulfilled and like better parents?
Oh and I'm travelling in comfort - happily alone joined by friends, blood and in-law.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The general
I'd need a radio in order to dispatch what I'm about to say:
My driver today was from Haiti (as an inordinate amount of my drivers from Newark driving into Manhattan at 5:30pm typically are). I asked him if he spoke Creole and in a somewhat accented English he replied with "Of course I speak Creole, I speak French, a lot of English, and some of other stuff" in the way that only speaking something oddly francophonic for the majority of your life can do.
You somehow ignore the hard sound of an h and emphasize that "oo" sounds like "uhhhhh"
I told him I was from Mexico and after the perfunctory (<-- is this the right word?) about "futbol" and "quotations" the truth came to be. Being from the little island of Haiti the man had little aspirations for his nation's soccer team. To him, like apparently to many of the Caribbean islands, Mexico is the tallest little person in the room. The only one in the scrappy, upstart geographic coalition that includes everything south of the Rio Grande that can dream of greatness and the world cup.
Mexico is the only one that can do it. Short but you jump (in reference to a legendary goalie in Mexico affectionately known as "the rabbit" and reminiscent of the French goalie of world cups past.
Mexico is the only country to have qualified for every World Cup and never won. That is, we've played at every single one but never made it to the finals.
He suggested we could make a real run for the Cup this year on the back of a new generation of Mexican footballers that defeated Brazil at the Olympics and the previous generation that won the sub-17 world cup. But they've never spoken of my people like they have of the current generation of Spanish balonpie.
Nor will they ever. We stand in the shadow of their turbulence. Still.
Pause as he wrestles with the Holland Tunnel traffic
And the conversation naturally veers to Mexico boom industry. Tech. Ha!
He probes here and there with a couple well placed questions that suggests he's far more studied than his faded Jets jersey and porcelain cat on his dashboard suggest.
Last Saturday my mother texted me a simple "Honey, your father and I are ok but just wanted to let you know they did it again but we are safe and at home! Love you" which prompted me to call (i dont do well under vague allusions to threat). The drug lords at home had taken to some of the key avenues and as they've done before in protest for this or that, boarded public transportation buses, politely asked the populace to get the f*** out, please. With an automatic gun in hand. The buses, once commandeered, were parked crosswise and torched.
You know, the casual things that happen in the "Second world" that are more reminiscent of war lords than of a country only a 3.5 hour flight and a free trade agreement away.
Casual.
I told him we were a democracy. He said that is good, that Haiti had a democracy but that the problem was that the definition of democracy at home for him was different than what a political science professor might use to describe it. An obvious stalwart supporter of democracy he admitted the weaknesses of the system in an uneducated nation more distressed about the day to day survival than the circus held at the nice government buildings far, far away.
I asked him about dictatorship.
Too much power in one family. it goes straigggggt to their heads (in obvious reference to Duvalier)
And then he surprised me - who is your general?
Frankly I don't know. I've met generals in the Mexican military. Battle scarred men who have never seen a war, faces pockmarked by the skin breakouts created by years of greasy beans and rice and though with less pomp and circumstance than some of their compatriots up north - they can still gut someone bare handed without taking a second breath.
Who is your general?
Frankly I have no idea, but it occurred to me that I come from a country that is fighting a war on drugs. We call it that, and it's fast and it's furious (cough cough) and that maybe its time we start figuring out who really runs these efforts. And the claims that some may make of the endangerment of those in the middle of the war - it's moot, masked the judges like they do in colombian but let the people shooting know their committing acts of civil war. That the children they recruit can also do the fighting.
We need a decorated general with a heart of gold - maybe with a beard to cover his scars on his face.
My driver today was from Haiti (as an inordinate amount of my drivers from Newark driving into Manhattan at 5:30pm typically are). I asked him if he spoke Creole and in a somewhat accented English he replied with "Of course I speak Creole, I speak French, a lot of English, and some of other stuff" in the way that only speaking something oddly francophonic for the majority of your life can do.
You somehow ignore the hard sound of an h and emphasize that "oo" sounds like "uhhhhh"
I told him I was from Mexico and after the perfunctory (<-- is this the right word?) about "futbol" and "quotations" the truth came to be. Being from the little island of Haiti the man had little aspirations for his nation's soccer team. To him, like apparently to many of the Caribbean islands, Mexico is the tallest little person in the room. The only one in the scrappy, upstart geographic coalition that includes everything south of the Rio Grande that can dream of greatness and the world cup.
Mexico is the only one that can do it. Short but you jump (in reference to a legendary goalie in Mexico affectionately known as "the rabbit" and reminiscent of the French goalie of world cups past.
Mexico is the only country to have qualified for every World Cup and never won. That is, we've played at every single one but never made it to the finals.
He suggested we could make a real run for the Cup this year on the back of a new generation of Mexican footballers that defeated Brazil at the Olympics and the previous generation that won the sub-17 world cup. But they've never spoken of my people like they have of the current generation of Spanish balonpie.
Nor will they ever. We stand in the shadow of their turbulence. Still.
Pause as he wrestles with the Holland Tunnel traffic
And the conversation naturally veers to Mexico boom industry. Tech. Ha!
He probes here and there with a couple well placed questions that suggests he's far more studied than his faded Jets jersey and porcelain cat on his dashboard suggest.
Last Saturday my mother texted me a simple "Honey, your father and I are ok but just wanted to let you know they did it again but we are safe and at home! Love you" which prompted me to call (i dont do well under vague allusions to threat). The drug lords at home had taken to some of the key avenues and as they've done before in protest for this or that, boarded public transportation buses, politely asked the populace to get the f*** out, please. With an automatic gun in hand. The buses, once commandeered, were parked crosswise and torched.
You know, the casual things that happen in the "Second world" that are more reminiscent of war lords than of a country only a 3.5 hour flight and a free trade agreement away.
Casual.
I told him we were a democracy. He said that is good, that Haiti had a democracy but that the problem was that the definition of democracy at home for him was different than what a political science professor might use to describe it. An obvious stalwart supporter of democracy he admitted the weaknesses of the system in an uneducated nation more distressed about the day to day survival than the circus held at the nice government buildings far, far away.
I asked him about dictatorship.
Too much power in one family. it goes straigggggt to their heads (in obvious reference to Duvalier)
And then he surprised me - who is your general?
Frankly I don't know. I've met generals in the Mexican military. Battle scarred men who have never seen a war, faces pockmarked by the skin breakouts created by years of greasy beans and rice and though with less pomp and circumstance than some of their compatriots up north - they can still gut someone bare handed without taking a second breath.
Who is your general?
Frankly I have no idea, but it occurred to me that I come from a country that is fighting a war on drugs. We call it that, and it's fast and it's furious (cough cough) and that maybe its time we start figuring out who really runs these efforts. And the claims that some may make of the endangerment of those in the middle of the war - it's moot, masked the judges like they do in colombian but let the people shooting know their committing acts of civil war. That the children they recruit can also do the fighting.
We need a decorated general with a heart of gold - maybe with a beard to cover his scars on his face.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Boats
My first memory on a boat goes back to an age best remembered amidst the blurry blackouts of a 2-3 year old who only has flashes of images where reality and truth are as uncertain as depth perception and the "tides" (of emotion).
When I was little I used to go to a pool - a YMCA of the sort Mexico has I imagine - in the Distrito Federal. My cousin, who at the time seemed like an adult but in hindsight (and math) could not have been a day over 16 was a swimming instructor. And though i would hold on to the edge at the deep end of the pool to keep the thrill level high, the thing i lived for was the end of the day. My cousin would pile together swimming boards and fashion a multicolored red, green and blue raft of a delicate nature. He would them plop me gently aboard and shove into the deep end. The slow swaying would begin the slow and inevitable process of disintegration until I had to abandon ship.
The musicians were almost as good as the ones on the decks of the unsinkable. And the music would play on although at the time I'm pretty sure it wasn't something classic but something popular in the early 90s at home - Reik probably, or Fey.
My love for water, open or otherwise was sealed in those moments amidst my confused and childish screams of happiness and terror of the dark bottom. As I grew up older and discovered girls (where had they been?) and water sports (if ever something can make a man feel so grand and so little other than not being able to hammer a nail in straight) I found pleasure in speed.
Whether tailing a large boat jumping in and out the waves on a jet ski with nothing holding you back other than the earthly bounds of sanity and self restraint or the pleasure of being dragged behind a speed boat, water rushing in, enema-style until you "got up" - it was incredible. And that was all well within sight of land. But I was more of a Columbus and less of one of his earlier crews. I wanted to see nothing but water, feel myself at peace amidst the big sloping waves of the open sea.
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day.
My (fairy?) godfather came along and showed me how to fish.
And he didn't walk on water. His gait is slow, slower now even, and at the center of his chest (clearly exposed whenever he's close enough to hear the ocean waves) is a bulbous, abnormal scar that protrudes. That's where the doctors have cracked his ribs open multiple times, reached in and squeezed a little bit more life out of him. His skin is parched and spotted but still retains a glimmer of the youth he once was and still thinks it is. Wake up at the crack of dawn, board the boat, sit on the boat trolling for swordfish and marlin. That's where i learned to love the ocean in the non-suicidal Hemingway style.
And did seriously, did none of E.H's friends pick up on the suicidal undertones of the old man and the sea, for whom the bell tolls, and a farewell to arms?! Something about fighting with a sword for hours on end, knowing when to give and when to pull, when to sit down and when to call for help getting back to your chair as your quads and forearms burn from exhaustion and the sun. When to wait it out, let the fish really sink into it while you sip on a beer - not so quietly - taunting it.
The "dorado" is a dinosaur of a fish. A neanderthal head, a golden hue that turns blue and a nasty kick to it. Bring one on board and all hands on deck to subdue the monster that will flay shins and break the occasional finger. Then a thud and a celebration as the smaller fish make breakfast lunch and dinner.
6 years later i haven't really been out on the water like i miss. I've gotten to learn the true sundowner experience, wearing a cowboy hat, celebrating the birthday of a nation other than mine - smiling and happy. Ironic that I now, for the first time in my life live on an island that feels nothing like one (though it's still teeming with dinosaurs). Maybe someday I'll get to go back and seek out a small mexican fishing village. One where i can fish, sell, cook and then sit down at the town square with a bunch of my friends while singing and drinking. I'll probably sit down as the last waves of heat rise from the asphalt and the cobblestones and wonder something about the crazy idea of growing the fishing business to a multinational empire. Wonder about the quote - "monopoly? monopoly is just a game senator - I want to rule the world". And vaguely remember terms like IPOs, DCF and EBITDA amidst the blurry blackouts of a 22-24 year old who only has flashes of images where reality and truth are as uncertain as depth perception and the "tides" (of emotion).
Te quiero Tio Ray.
When I was little I used to go to a pool - a YMCA of the sort Mexico has I imagine - in the Distrito Federal. My cousin, who at the time seemed like an adult but in hindsight (and math) could not have been a day over 16 was a swimming instructor. And though i would hold on to the edge at the deep end of the pool to keep the thrill level high, the thing i lived for was the end of the day. My cousin would pile together swimming boards and fashion a multicolored red, green and blue raft of a delicate nature. He would them plop me gently aboard and shove into the deep end. The slow swaying would begin the slow and inevitable process of disintegration until I had to abandon ship.
The musicians were almost as good as the ones on the decks of the unsinkable. And the music would play on although at the time I'm pretty sure it wasn't something classic but something popular in the early 90s at home - Reik probably, or Fey.
My love for water, open or otherwise was sealed in those moments amidst my confused and childish screams of happiness and terror of the dark bottom. As I grew up older and discovered girls (where had they been?) and water sports (if ever something can make a man feel so grand and so little other than not being able to hammer a nail in straight) I found pleasure in speed.
Whether tailing a large boat jumping in and out the waves on a jet ski with nothing holding you back other than the earthly bounds of sanity and self restraint or the pleasure of being dragged behind a speed boat, water rushing in, enema-style until you "got up" - it was incredible. And that was all well within sight of land. But I was more of a Columbus and less of one of his earlier crews. I wanted to see nothing but water, feel myself at peace amidst the big sloping waves of the open sea.
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day.
My (fairy?) godfather came along and showed me how to fish.
And he didn't walk on water. His gait is slow, slower now even, and at the center of his chest (clearly exposed whenever he's close enough to hear the ocean waves) is a bulbous, abnormal scar that protrudes. That's where the doctors have cracked his ribs open multiple times, reached in and squeezed a little bit more life out of him. His skin is parched and spotted but still retains a glimmer of the youth he once was and still thinks it is. Wake up at the crack of dawn, board the boat, sit on the boat trolling for swordfish and marlin. That's where i learned to love the ocean in the non-suicidal Hemingway style.
And did seriously, did none of E.H's friends pick up on the suicidal undertones of the old man and the sea, for whom the bell tolls, and a farewell to arms?! Something about fighting with a sword for hours on end, knowing when to give and when to pull, when to sit down and when to call for help getting back to your chair as your quads and forearms burn from exhaustion and the sun. When to wait it out, let the fish really sink into it while you sip on a beer - not so quietly - taunting it.
The "dorado" is a dinosaur of a fish. A neanderthal head, a golden hue that turns blue and a nasty kick to it. Bring one on board and all hands on deck to subdue the monster that will flay shins and break the occasional finger. Then a thud and a celebration as the smaller fish make breakfast lunch and dinner.
6 years later i haven't really been out on the water like i miss. I've gotten to learn the true sundowner experience, wearing a cowboy hat, celebrating the birthday of a nation other than mine - smiling and happy. Ironic that I now, for the first time in my life live on an island that feels nothing like one (though it's still teeming with dinosaurs). Maybe someday I'll get to go back and seek out a small mexican fishing village. One where i can fish, sell, cook and then sit down at the town square with a bunch of my friends while singing and drinking. I'll probably sit down as the last waves of heat rise from the asphalt and the cobblestones and wonder something about the crazy idea of growing the fishing business to a multinational empire. Wonder about the quote - "monopoly? monopoly is just a game senator - I want to rule the world". And vaguely remember terms like IPOs, DCF and EBITDA amidst the blurry blackouts of a 22-24 year old who only has flashes of images where reality and truth are as uncertain as depth perception and the "tides" (of emotion).
Te quiero Tio Ray.
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