don't stop can't stop won't stop

Don’t stop can’t stop won’t stop. An adrenaline junkie, adventure, swapping continents with regularity, on the move, ex-pat. I take the scrunched up napkin out of my pocket and unfold it. Its one of those recycled napkins, there’s stuff in it, bits of things, specks of their former lives spliced and minced and combined and now this grayish thing holds the cursive scribble that I’ve read over and over tonight:

Sofie Sørensen
-leaving for
Marokko the 20th of July
from Rådhuspladsen CPH :)

A few things stand out to me, how Sofie spelled Morocco the Danish way, Marokko, CPH, the acronym for Copenhagen, this glorious city of no frills I’ve called home for much of the past year, the smiley face- what does it mean? What do smileys mean these days anyways?

It was a few months ago- call it two, a rainy Danish spring night, I was sitting on the upper level of a café I frequent here, a not for profit one, currently supporting an ashram in India. That’s all good but I like the ambience of the place. Sofie was closing up the café. I was on the typer, probably feigning writing but likely checking facebook messages while downing my third cup of coffee. She wiped my table and smiled. I made some mindless comment, maybe about the rain or saying something like “its that time” indicating closing time or whatever. She takes a moment, she gives me this, a smile, some exclusive attention. She asks me something what I don’t remember. But we get around to something she’s very excited about. A plan. She gives me a vague notion of some great adventure about to unfold, when she’s on her summer holiday which seems ages away. I tell her it sounds crazy, but exciting nonetheless. Fact is, I live for things like what she’s proposing. Come, she says. I smile, there’s an electric moment where I see the possibility, even so it’s ages away and I say who knows.

Ages later- I walk into the café. I see Bea, a good friend who volunteers at the place a couple times a month. I met her at a bar job I had in the city, we clicked, I love her openness and willful charge to find the hip and happening, the irregular and alternative, and she’s a genuine sweetheart. We greet, she’s in conversation with a girl next to her, there are a few others sprawled on chairs and couches around, people sipping beers or tea, I greet I acknowledge, I take a seat next to Claude, who at present is rolling a cigarette. Claude is French. Claude also works in the café. Claude is almost mock-stereotypically wearing a beret, this is true, a black and white checkered scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, and a red tee with “CCCP” emblazoned on it, the Russian Acronym for “USSR”. We give each other a hug- “take a fucking seat man” he says in a heavy French accent. We catch up, he takes swigs of his beer, we relate stories. Claude has stories. He claims to have been an exhibitionist at age 5. He claims to have left the communist party at 17, though a poster of Lenin (among others) still hangs in his room. I share conversation with Bea and Claude and the others, people come and go around me, switch places on the couch, go outside for cigarettes and come back, etc. Then she comes in. I see Sofie. We both smile. I know little of the girl, conversations here and there, there was a night we all went out, Me, Bea, Claude, Sofie and some others to see some jazz. Horns wailing, thick blue smoke, a nice ale, some whisky some coke over ice. We talked some that night and some in bits after. But there is something to her. She’s from the Danish countryside, and maybe that’s it and maybe that has nothing to do with it. There’s something in her eyes, they’re warm and calm, they sparkle, they say much when Sofie doesn’t. Claude gets up to get another beer, I get up to give Sofie a little kiss on the cheek. She sits.

“What have you been up to?” I ask.
“I’m on holiday,” she says smiling. “Few days now.” I nod. “How was America?” she asks me, referring to a trip I just made back home, three weeks, New York, L.A., Pittsburgh.
“Amazing,” I say. “Really nice to see family, friends.” She smiles. “And it’s the little things you miss, the things you’re used to, grew up with,” I add. “Like this diner I went to, they automatically bring you tap water when you sit down, and they have ten kinds of hot sauce, and when I asked for barbecue sauce they brought me a bowl of the stuff and they don’t charge you for it,” I say rather excitedly. Sofie laughs and nods in understanding.
“Its funny what you appreciate.”
“Yeah!” I say. We sit for a moment and I ask, “so what are you going to do on your holiday?”
“I’m going to Morocco,” she says. Suddenly I remember everything. She had told of wanting to go there. I had been before, a marvel that trip was. I was a student studying in the south of Spain. A far cry from anything I had expected. Morocco to me was black and white, Humphrey Bogart telling Sam to play it again, Morocco was unoccupied France, Morocco was Casablanca. Morocco, was not Casablanca, but a very special place the same. It was exotic and had its charms. I looked back to Sofie.
“Yeah! Yeah that’s right, you told me about it, a while ago I remember.” There’s a momentary blank expression on her face, then thankfully her face lights up. Funny how we worry about things like that, it legitmates them, makes them real for us, two people can confirm, it happened, it was mutual, reassurance, comfort. “There was a thing to it, right? Something about it.” That big smile nods back.
“We’re hitchhiking the whole way to Morocco,” she says.
“That’s right! That’s it,” I say. I think about it, the logical course, Denmark, Germany, France, Spain, ferry to Tangiers.
“We leave the 20th of July and have a return ticket home the 5th of August from Marrakesh,” she says. Just over two weeks, a hell of an itinerary. Five countries, varied weather, much travel, erratic sleeping arrangements, random occurrences, countryside, food on the go, I picture standing in the rain trying to hail down a truck or car or anything on wheels, maybe for hours, maybe something comes but what if nothing? All those rides there’s bound to be a night if not three sleeping out in the middle of nowhere. The packing would have to be light but precise. Only what you need, basics. I see the thing unfolding.
‘There’s four of us Danish girls,” she says. “Well me and my friend, and two others, we’re teams, competing”
“A race?”
“Exactly,” she says.
“You should bet something, or the winner should get something.”
“Yeah we’re deciding that, maybe a treat once we’re in Morocco, we’re not sure.”
“Well it sounds incredible.”
“You are welcome, we’d love another.”
“Might be tough,” I explain, “I’m maybe starting a job tomorrow, I mean I have a meeting anyways to see, and I’m pretty broke.” I get nods of understanding.
“We’re going to try to do it cheap as possible.” I nod. I tell Sofie I’ll have to get her Facebook name, that there’s little chance but… I talk the next couple hours away with Bea and Claude, it’s near 2a.m., I’ve got to get up early for this meeting, a sort of interview and tryout for this restaurant, the manager called me on the phone and the details were vague but I was told to wear nice clothing. I look over to Sofie, I tell her I’m leaving, make a little scribble motion with my hand, she smiles and jumps up, walks past, comes back a couple moments later, I’m in conversation with a guy about a new film out, she hands me a napkin with something scribbled on it, I glance at it, see her name at the top, nod to her, fold the thing, smush it into my pocket. I say goodbye, I walk out, earlier there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just that late Danish sun setting, now I find myself in a downpour. I go back in momentarily, ask for a trash bag, the rain doesn’t seem to let any, I put on the bag, puncture a hole for my face, plod through already formed puddles, head for the main square, the night buses are running, as I get there I see I just miss my bus, I stand in the rain, the pattering of the rain magnified in that bag, I wait, I wait, the rain softens enough for me to take the bag off. Screw it, I’ll walk. I want to think anyways.

Don’t stop. I’ve been on an extraordinary journey, a wondrous collage of images come to me, five continents, faces, emotions, I’m young, I’m able. I’ll only be twenty-seven once I say. A couple months before my twenty-fifth, my bags were packed for Buenos Aires. You can only be twenty-four and go to Argentina once, I said. A year and a half later it was a similar situation, London with a vague notion of spending time in Spain. Now here, Copenhagen.

Can’t stop. It comes to me that everything I’ve embarked on was a reaction to the way I saw my life going. Steady job, decent pay, an even life, the long steady climb, settling for things, comfort, a great prospect for most. But I’ve a terribly restless soul, a needy greedy want. It claws at me regularly, at night, just a scratch. I can never see that claw, can’t face it, fight it. I just see the scratches that let me know its there, its within me.

Halfway through my walk the rain almost stops completely. Just the faintest drizzle remains. I take the bag off, it’s quite wet, I give it a good shake, crunch it up in my hand and carry it with me should the sky have some more surprises in store. I cross a bridge and look out at Islands Brygge, at the water glimmering in the moonlight. I’m thousands of miles away from home(or am I home?), I’m happy, I’m living a life on my own terms, doing what feels right. I continue walking and before I know it I’m in front of my flat in Amager. I wrestle my hand into my pocket and fetch out the keys, fiddle with the front door lock, open it, walk up a small flight of stairs to my shared flat, wipe my feet, open the door, come into my room, place my things down, sit on my bed, I take off my shoes, and fall back on my bed. My mind races. Won’t stop.

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Así es y Así son, los Iquiqueños

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Well? How do you find it? Iquique, the city? How does it seem to you? It’s uh- I’m fumbling for words. And I don’t fumble for words. But what? I’ve only been here a matter of hours, but already I can tell, no rambling diatribes, no sea-scrolls filled for the ages with the emotion like a Buenos Aires or Paris, easy, a New York, or Los Angeles which I bitterly defend. He answers for me. It’s particular. Particular, no? I can’t think of a more accurate description having ever been used for any old place, ever on this earth, or any planet recognized or acknowledged. Particular.

I met Marcelo in the South of Brasil, in Florianópolis. And now I was here in Chile, his country, his city. After a lunch at the Mercado Centenario of salad and shellfish in a seafood broth and fish and mashed potatoes I put a call in to his office. The architects were working in a temporary office in a wing of the city hospital while their new ones were being remodeled. After hopping a bus to the hospital and asking several people in different wings, I found him. He introduced me to everyone and before I knew it we were all in a car driving to the site of their new offices to inspect everything. People minded the paint job and beams and stairs, there was a lot of walking in and out of rooms and comments and agreements and nodding. When do you guys move in? I asked wanting to participate. A month if everything goes well. There was nodding and arm-folding and examining. Before long we bid farewell to the coworkers and were at the clinic where Marcelo has just designed the new wing, which is all but complete, a few last touches, one week maybe. We walked along the boardwalk back to his place. We passed a pack of winos and a group of wild dogs and looking at their eyes I came to realize them as similar beings.

At his place we had some cereal and milk splashed on and he told me about his weekend trip to Arica, how he liked it, met a girl who he felt understood him, how maybe he’d move there but maybe in time. It was interesting to me to see how he lived, to learn more about his life in Iquique. For instance at work I saw a dedicated professional, successful and ambitious. On the walk home he ran into surfer friends and his connection with this life became obvious. At his place he showed me the view on the balcony and we went across the way to see “El Flaco”, his friend who stayed at his apartment when he was in Brasil, and was able to get the very apartment next door. He’s a dentist and in the Air Force. At his place the two chewed up a half hour talking about their weekends until their lawyer friend showed up with the beer, and we went back to Marcelo’s. Slowly people just started showing up. More beer was poured, wine was brought and opened, more people showed up, a couple left, cigarettes were smoked, joints rolled, lit, passed, conversation flowed light with the wine.

I became hungry and Marcelo’s fridge was vacant, I ate a few offerings with zeal, prunes in desperation, two ripe kiwis, before I knew it a small group of us were off to El Wagon in Centro, for dinner and more wine. I ordered a mixed seafood platter, Marcelo and Alvaro a cazuela de jaiba, the lawyer shellfish and ceviche and potato salad. There were three others, René, Ezequiel, and Christian. Introductions were made, crude jokes mixed with sentimental musings. The place was first-rate, not cheap by American standards, everyone seated privileged. Parking the car outside Alvaro had to give a few coins to the bums who in turn “watch over” the car, and a few cigarettes for good-nature. You’d think money would be enough, he said.

When the plates where cleared and bottles empty we paid the check, arrangements were made to move the festivities to Oxigeno, a posh bar. The place was half-empty, it was a Tuesday night, but we sat and ordered drinks the same. A girl Marcelo knew greeted us and in her presence crude jokes were made and she was off, as was Marcelo. When he came back he spoke his mind, and a fuss was made. Marcelo looked tired, he had barely slept the last few days, it had been one long party. He arranged for Ezequiel to see me home, said to call him and we said good-night. He and the girl were off. I was tired, I had arrived that morning but not to insult anyone I kept up conversation while another round of drinks were ordered. At some point, lucky for me as I consciously had to keep my eyes open, the group decided to call it a night on account of work in a few short hours. How? I’m a decade or more younger than these guys on average, and I’d be unable to function.


Everyone said goodnight, but not before a little fuss was made that Marcelo had said he didn’t have a good time with those guys, and what disrespect, and what? How long has he known us? Two years? And the girl? The Mina? Two months? There’s a code. It’s not written. No writing! In fact- unwritten. No words I tell you! A code. Are you getting this? Yes. You are? Good. It’s a code! No words! Understood. Or it could be- an unwritten code, that’s understood between friends. You follow?

Ezequiel drove me home. He drove slow, maybe to hang on to the night, maybe because he wanted to hide how much he drank and if he drove faster it would show. He pointed out historical buildings, told me when he moved, how life was at a slower pace, he said things pensively, with weight that can only be achieved after twenty-waking hours. We arrived at my residencial. It’s not right you know? He couldn’t be back to this. There’s a code, he said with an index finger confirming the code’s existence, possibly lodged somewhere in the fabric of the car’s roof, or invisibly etched in the windshield. You know there are no words to this code. I gazed out wondering if I would still be in the car when it was light out. As if the bored, mischievous cats looking on at the car from wood-paned windows would view us in time-lapse, with people strolling past and cars, specters rushing by, the sky going from black to increasingly light shades of blue.

Hey! I’ll give you my number. Listen I work off the plaza, if you want to go to lunch, call this number. It doesn’t matter when. Or for anything you need. Understand? I took the slip of paper. Lunch! Or anything, eh? Yeah? Yeah. We mutually commented on the pleasure it had been, we’ll see each other, hey Chile and Perú tomorrow night World Cup qualifier, eh? Understand? It’s gonna be Perú, get it? And Chile? Yeah? In the lobby of the residencial I asked for the key to room number ten, I walked down the long corridor, fiddled with the key and knob, chucked my shoes in the corner of the room, ripped the covers exposing a fresh, naked bed, and plowed in. There’s a code, you get it? Understand? Yeah? Faces scrolled through my head, not thirty-seconds elapsed and I was in a deep, profound sleep.

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Time Yet and Time Still

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I think I shall like to grow old,
I’ll be good, when I’m old
But there’s time yet and time still.
I suppose I don’t have much choice, anyway.
Being young suits me fine, I quite enjoy it.

My Dad is in his seventies
And he’s enjoying being young
As are my brother and sister in their thirties.
Mom’s in her young-late fifties.
We’re just a young family, I guess.

I’ve near mastered time
Rare is the occasion when I’m bored
I can’t even remember the last.
Maybe the ways in which I spend my time,
Will be viewed as more legitimate, albeit the same,
When I’m older.
My humor and wit, more relevant,
As I’ve earned them through the years.

But things are far too good now,
Here in this moment, every moment,
To think to far ahead, into a personal future,
The years are inevitable.
Time is passing, know that it is so
Don’t fret, rather celebrate, it’s passing.
How many great tears have yet to fall?
Smiles, and how much laughter remains?
There’s time yet, time still.

There are moons to pass, suns to come
Rain to fall, snow to play in
Leaves and trees and drought.
There is fruit to be picked, vegetables to be chopped,
What colors have you not seen?
What sounds have deceived you thus far?
Mind the textures, have you awareness of them all?
There’s coffee to sip, tea to brew
Candles to burn, fragrances and aromas lingering, unknown
Landscapes to be discovered,
Innumerable waves to crash, Seas to rise
Motion and harmony,
There’s time yet and time still.

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A Tuesday Hike Trek Tramp, Tafí

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I’m in Tafí del Valle, a pueblo in foothills of the Tucumán province, Northern Argentina. I set out for my mini-hike, after filling my water bottle and eating a couple of bananas and tangerines that I pick up at a fruit stand and use a handful of the water to wash my hands after peeling the tangerines. I look around, the air is dry and the landscape barren. Immediately hearing gravel under my feet is liberating, as if there is nothing better in the world I could be doing. The valley slopes below the higher I ascend, some trees and casitas scattered about. Half-way up I take a leak, all the more alleviating with miles of open space in front of me, all the way to the mountains in the great distance, dark peaks of the sacred Andes protruding into the cloudless-blue above.

At the top I lay down and experience a novel sensation, above me is only sky. Sky, sky, sky and nothing else in the periphery of my vision. No buildings or trees, mountains or people. Just a light caressing breeze, the warm sun shining down on me, and blue. I close my eyes and pleasant thoughts drift. When I open my eyes some minutes later I perch up and the great gaping valley greets me. The valley feels vacant, there is a great absence of noise. Then, I pick up on some. The rustling of brush, the faint crow of a mighty rooster, what may be a propeller-plane, invisible, far-off somewhere. I decide to add to my own soundtrack and persist with the crunching gravel beneath me, the water slapping against the inside of the bottle, now dusty from the dirt I’ve kicked up. I walk around the mini-cordónes, a cactus native to the region, some aspire immodestly and reach fifteen feet in height.

I begin descending with the glorious valley encompassing the whole of my vision. I look for a way down the backside, it’s steep and there’s no defined trail. I spot some dried-up horse dung and figure if they could make it down I’ll be alright. My foot-holds give way a couple of times causing me to slide, but I come out fine, a few scratches from the brush on my shins. A hare races past, hopping in a hurry. There’s a lot of loose stones, quartz and what I think is limestone. At the base there’s a carcass. A horse picked clean to the bone. Two hoofs remain, another leg is twenty feet away, hide and bone. Walking towards the creek I spot the fourth hoof. If I follow the water I should be back in town soon. I pass a farm with chickens and a lamb, cows and a dog, pigs in a blanket. No wait, actually they’re in mud.

In town I buy up some vegetables and herbs, pasta, tomato paste, three eggs, and I’m going to cook up a big meal and eat it on the thematically-rustic rooftop terrace, and afterwards I’ll buy a slice of cake from next door and boil up some spiced black tea and start my new book. The tea I’m informed, bless the boardroom brainstorm that went down in Oregon, is “In the style of the hill-dwellers of the Himalayas”. When the sun’s all down I’ll head for my room and light my travel candle and think about the day, if I get restless maybe I’ll go for a walk in the town.

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Stock at the Quarter

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Stock at the Quarter


A Quarter-century old and wild,

To compose verse, to fuck, and wander.

I’m not sure

Of the order.

For ale, for vino, and rum,

Or nothing at all,

Possibly,

In that order.



To talk my head off,

Or say nothing at all, To absorb and soak,

Learning

Every second

Or teaching

Every minute.

Good for food, Of that I’m sure.

Give me music, Give me my friends.

Let me love my family

More than all.

Stay awhile, let’s talk, drink tea.

Give me every minute of yourself

For two days,

Leave me be

For three.



Give me coffee and the papers,

A good city

In which to roam-free,

Or abundant nature,

In which I can freely roam.

Call me good friend or brother,

Or don’t call upon me at all.



Give me books to read,

May they never end,

Or I shall as well.

Laugh with me and smile,

You owe it to yourself,

We

Deserve it.

Hug often, embrace, kiss,

Your family,

Friends

Or lover.

There is nothing greater.



Doing good

Is not

For those who can.

Everyone

Can,

Should

Often.

Who

Have you helped?

Today?

This week?

What

Shall you do?

For your own accord?

By your own volition?

Have you satisfaction in life?

We are all equally

Entitled.

Be sure

Of yours,

Help others

Get theirs.



Tell people

They’re important,

They mean something to you,

There is nothing greater.

Travel, know people and cultures,

All

Are beautiful,

Have much

To offer.



Read

To feed your soul,

To laugh,

To learn.

Find your inner-poet,

If only

For yourself,

To express the beauty

Seeded

Flourishing

Within you,

All about you,

You need not look far,

Nor think much,

It is there, I assure you dear friend.

Embrace

The pleasures in life,

As much

As you can bear,

For they are infinite.

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Ode to BsAs

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Ode to BsAs

Spires in mist, the boulevards of grace,

As good as ever, better than ever, never before so great,

Progression is perpetual.

Blood shed, babies born,

We take growth from the stain.

People fall,

Or persevere,

Death and art,

Progression is perpetual.

The city

Always grows,

With it’s history.

We are for nothing,

If not for this, foremost.

Incessantly,

The city

Flickers, moves, breathes, ever-expanding.

Cafés and parks,

Are not permanent.

Buildings are significant,

But

Will

Go.

Growth and history

Are forever,

Progression is perpetual.

Not

For the weak,

Not

For the irresolute,

Is this city.

For

The passionate,

For

Those that are aware,

Your home

Is here.

Not

For the fickle,

Be a true judge upon yourself,

The beauty

And glory,

The pomp

And misery,

All reside here,

Are to be taken

As one.

Always bear in mind,

Progression is perpetual.

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Floss and Errands

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I’ve been reading the Argentine papers in the morning with my coffee at this hostel, or rather, when I wake up which isn’t always in the morning (nor always in the first couple p.m. hours, tho I’ve been good lately, mostly motivated by the breakfast selection here). Today I was reading Clarín, a Buenos Aires daily that I quite like when the T.V. was on in the background, Dr.90210 to be specific, and this girl on the show says “I’m really excited because I’m gonna have facial procedures done,” then, “on my face.”

I don’t mind it, prefer it, possibly, definitely, having something on in the background but not this. I also want to go to the internet café and check email and messages and figure I should get up to speed on what’s going on back home. On the Yahoo! homepage the top headline reads Keep Him From Straying- this advice will help your man want to stay faithful to you >> 5 tips. Then below:
-Are you being too clingy?
-Flirting vs. Cheating
-7 cool midnight dates
This, I swear is what greets you today on Yahoo! This is at least Cosmo-ish, yesterday the top headline was Tommy Lee apologizes to MTV and Alicia Keys for brawl, but no kind words for Kid Rock, who he refers to(sadly I read the article) as “Kid Pebble”. The Spanish version of Yahoo! featured Brtiney Spears saying during her performance she looked like a pig, or a hog, or perhaps a boar, saying she looked like a boar, that one was in Spanish and I had to look up that word.

This English guy just walked into the internet café and likely thinking himself a multi-lingual savant, asked the woman at the desk “es posible for me to download some stuff?” and sassily doing this neck and shoulder thing she said “Que!?” and confidently he amended “can yo download from the In-Ter-Net?” Unwisely, I translated, ending what surely would have been a delicious succession.

Today, I actually have a frighteningly-long list of things to do. Usually my agenda, and I actually keep one on the calendar function on my cell phone, has “Read” which follows my preliminary alarm that, as it is set to wake me up, actually is alarming. That one says “Up n’ Out!” although the last time I can actually remember hearing that was the last time I was in this glorious city, some three months ago.

So today’s list reads “Floss, Pens, Read (a staple), Anne Oli, United, Phrases”. “Pens” refers to the three pens I need to buy ink for, two G2’s, one blue and one black, uni-ball Signo’s, and one Pentel EnerGel metal-tip, black, all of which are 0.7mm. There’s a stationery store on Avenida Sante Fe which I frequent, but they were out of the refills last time. Checking out stationery stores is one of the first things I do in a new city, and one of my favorite things to do. “Read” is self-explanatory. “Anne Oli” refers to two Belgian friends that I have, who I have to give recommendations to regarding some of my favorite New York spots, most of which will probably be places to eat, including my favorite bakery and such, neighborhoods and museums. “United” (family members please skip ahead directly to the next line) refers to the airline, which I have to call to push my ticket back, yet again. “Phrases” refers to phrases that I thought of last night while overly-caffeinated, lying on the top-bunk of a bed at the hostel in darkness and trying to sleep. I plan to use these in public, surrounded by English speakers, at some point today, possibly in a café where I know there will be some. These include: “I think my hamster, Jean-Michelle(said in an overly-articulated French accent), has cancer. I took Jean to the Vet for reconstructive surgery on a torn ligament, which by the way, occurred on that damn wheel, and, they found a lump. They’re giving him a couple years to live.” I’m also hoping to use “I think I’m gonna try abstinence. At least for the next, few hours, you know?”

“Floss” actually refers to a major dilemma. I actually have to go back to a pharmacy because that’s where they sell dental-floss here. I ran out a couple days ago and I tried to buy some yesterday, but it was too daunting. I have now come to really understand why rappers say, “flossin’ ain’t easy”. You tellin’ me. There’s the “Farmacity” generic brand, that comes with 25meters of dental floss and is a good deal I guess. There’s also the 50meter length, there’s a name brand which we’ll just say rhymes with “pole-gate” and contains two boxes, each 50meters long, so 100meters in total, and is way more expensive, but what I have normally used, and then the most expensive, the same name brand, the “pole-gate” has another version which we’ll call “pole-gate eight-ball”, which makes me think of a dodgy, sketchy strip-club, but is actually everything you would ever want in floss. It includes, in gleaming-holographic letters, new “floss-technology”. Now, I feel I should give my teeth the best, but I can be cheap with certain things, and isn’t dental-floss just fancy thread to stick between your teeth? But the name “Farmacity”, thoroughly depresses me. I hate anything that uses the words city, world, or universe in it. Names like computer-world, electro-universe, and salad-city, are supposed to entice you, signifying endless options of that particular thing, like how many more options can you have than a whole city of salads? Or a universe of electronics, that’s hard to top. For whatever reason these names just make me think of the 80’s and are just plain depressing. So faced with cheap (brain says good) “Farmacity” brand (power-down noises), “pole-gate” (sounds like political scandal, abort-abort), and “pole-gate eight-ball” (makes me think of strippers, brains says naked-women-good, eight-ball=dodgy, which might be exciting, but super-expensive for floss-per-meter-count, alas, power-down noises again). So defeated, I left the pharmacy confused, scared, and flossless, and now have that on my list of errands for today.

Once I was with my dad and brother, and my brother said he spent the day running errands, and my dad nodded understandingly, then asked what “errands” were. My brother explained, which was dangerous, because for the next two-months every weekend on the phone I would ask my dad what he was up to and he would say “Oh, just uh, errands. Errands, you know? Errands.” And then I would say “Oh, that’s nice” and then he would follow “you know what errands are, right? Errands?” –“Yes dad, yes. I know what errands are.” Unbelievably, this continued for two months until I would see his number on my caller ID and pick-up “dad I can’t talk right now I’m running errands” and he’d say “oh me too” or I’d pick up and say “Dad are you running errands? Do you want to call me back?” And he’d say “oh how did you know?”

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Rambling Journal

There’s so much rambling and babbling I do in my journal, and if you’ve traveled with me then you’ve undoubtedly seen me with one of my spiral notebooks, or scribbling something down every seven-seconds. Below, is a sampling of some of the things in my journal, and some weather-notations which I check frequently in places I’ve been or will be very soon, an increasingly exciting addiction of mine.


8/19/07 2:43a. Che Lagarto Hostel, Rua Anita Garibaldi 87, Copacabana, Rio.

I ended up giving out a half-dozen bananas on my walk home. There was one kid asking for money, and I offered him a banana, he said he didn’t want it but took it from me anyway and asked for fifty-cents. There was a woman who was very grateful, and a man whose face lit-up so brightly that I began tearing and had to walk away fast, his smile and eyes branded in my thoughts. Here I was, gorging my face in a buffet, privileged, and at the offering of a banana (what is it?) he was, if only momentarily, so happy. I need to do more things like this. Whether or not I see an enigmatic smile that lights up two faces at once, these people are in need, and I’m in a position to help. The bananas or any fruit are nutritious and easy to consume, it does some good if only in a miniscule way, it supports local fruit stands and people picking crops and delivering them etc., but mainly it gives hungry people something nutritious. The only bad thing as far as I can see, is it encourages begging or these people loitering in these neighborhoods, but that doesn’t seem reason enough not to do these “fruit runs” or “banana runs”. Excited about the idea! Gonna do some quick stretches.

Oh and I went to Maracanã stadium tonight where Brazil lost to Uruguay in the 1950 World Cup, and watched two of Rio’s biggest rivals, Flamingo and Flumenense go at it. At the game the energy was so intense, the level of play was whatev but these fans were out of control and there was crotch-grabbing and pointing and something about mothers that I didn’t quite get. I didn’t know the chants but deciphered that all the chanting was basically a combination of vowel sounds and I just got by on that. On the way there we were in this van and this Brazilian guy’s telling me all about the teams we’re gonna see and we’re talking about some other stuff and I’m thinking his English is decent, and I say “hey your English is pretty decent” I mean he’s not making too many grammatical errors, and then he just says “what?” –“Your English, it’s pretty good, better than most Brazilians I’ve met”. “Yo man I’m from Queens”. My turn “What?” “Oueens, brother, New York.” “Oh,” and we sat in silence while I retraced our conversation.”

9/1/07 10:51p. Hostel Bambu

I uploaded all my pics online! Feeling slightly sick, drinking liquids, gonna go get food, maybe call N first then.

Some current weather in Celcius at 10:55p.

Foz de Iguazu, Brazil: 19, fair
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil: 23, fair
Bariloche, Argentina: 5, fair
Las Lenas, Argentina: 15, clear
Portland, Oregon: 27, sunny
Boston, Massachusetts: 21, clear
West Hollywood, CA: 29, sunny

Left a message for N. Food? Or Sleep? I’m pricing more flights, and money is a concern…

9/2/07 1:01a. Hostel Bambu, Foz do Iguaçu

So tonight was exciting for two reasons. One, I spent forever on the phone with United MP to see what cities I could fly to, and two, the whole thing was so ridiculous I wrote it up and will surely use it in the novel, or post it as a blog soon. It’s past one, I’m sleepy and going to bed!

9/2/07 10:37a. Hostel Bambu Foz do Iguaçu

The English and one Aussie and one Irish went out drinking and got in late and in the morning were still potentially drunk, or potentially obnoxious. Actually a couple of them are cool. Anyway they’re all going to the Argentine side of the falls today, and I’ll probably get over to the other side later today. I wasn’t feeling great in the morning, so I’ve decided to soak up some of this sun on the deck here, pour through Leaves and get a little color while there’s still some to get. I checked the ski resorts in Chile and Argentina and there’s no snow in the forecast, nothing in the next ten days. The bus to Salta is something like 26hours, and so I’m confused as to what to do.

1:31p.

I read a little while lying out, it got really hot (right now its 29, sunny although weather.com says “fair” and feels like 30). I did some push-ups and curls and back exercises (lat-pull downs) with some equipment they have by the pool, and stretched. Just had a great shower and shave and got an email from R saying he’s on his way, which means he’ll be here sometime tomorrow around noonish I believe. I’m gonna head out and eat in a bit.

Some weather:

Salta, Argentina: 23, sunny
Foz do Iguaçu: 29, feels like 30
Córdoba, Argentina: 23, sunny and windy
Córdoba, Spain: 34, feels like 33, partly cloudy
Buenos Aires, Arg: 14, cloudy
Santiago, Chile: 13, haze
Lima, Peru: 16, cloudy
Bogotá, Colombia 16, partly cloudy
Chicago, Illinois: 26, feels like 27, sunny

4:00p.

I stuffed myself at Bianco, a churrascoria a few blocks away, telling the guy I didn’t want any meat, maybe just some grilled chicked (true) and mostly salad and I bargained the price down from 18R drinks apart, to 15R with one included. After I ate I wanted to find a place to have a good coffee but everything is closed, not a soul on the streets, as it is Sunday. So I’m back here, I spoke with the Argentines who work here and got them to find the coffee and I’ve made some Ice-coffee. It’s really hot, with a warm breeze even here in the shade and I love it.

7:10p.

Just heard gunshots, which means the sounds I head a couple nights back were gunshots as well. The English girls sitting out here asked the bartender if they were fireworks, and he said no, there’s a favela 5Km to one side, and another the other way and its common to hear shots. I asked about going out tonight, as it’s Sunday, but there’s not a whole lot going on. I’ve also come to learn that a mall is to be opened here in two months, information that, surely will be of great use to me in my future endeavors. Talked to N earlier, I told her about the falls I could tell she was giddy remembering her own experiences. She’s in Cape Cod, going to a concert at the beach.

8:20p.

I just took an Airborne and am feeling okay but have a little mucus. I’m surprisingly not tired, possibly because of the coffee, but considering I was laying out in the sun, and then worked out a little, then masturbated, remembering the faces of girls I passed on the street the first day I got in, then sort of creating their bodies to how I imagine them, or fantasize them, and it started off with one of them giving me head, then it was sex and there were two or three, all brunettes, surprisingly, and then finished with this girl who I talked to for five minutes on the bus sucking me off, but with all her clothes on, and I was mostly just fixated on her eyes, green and beautiful, against the contrast of pale white skin and jet-black hair, probably dyed. Anyway I have some energy now and I’m going to read this poem that I didn’t finish earlier today that’s fairly brilliant.

9/3/07 3:00a. Hostel Bambu, Foz do Iguaçu

Posted The Call, and began writing Leaving Rio. Took a Theraflu going to bed.


9/5/07 12:31a. Hostel Bambu, Foz do Iguaçu

Current weather:

Foz do Iguaçu, Brasil: 28, feels like 27, clear
Buenos Aires, Argentina: 15, fair
Salta, Argentina: 20, clear
Los Angeles, California: 24, clear
Victoria, Canada: 14, partly cloudy


9/10/07 3:30p. on the 59 colectivo, 9 de Julio to Museo MALBA (or a few blocks away), Buenos Aires.

I had a great jog today, around San Telmo where I inquired about space and prices at a hostel on Estados Unidos and Bolívar, ran down to Puerto Madero where I jogged along the river-front and it started to drizzle, and back to the hostel to shower. This morning I was late for breakfast, but possibly because I asked in Spanish they gave me a big coffee and milk and cereal and two seconds later this girl walked up and asked in English and they said sorry, breakfast is over. She looked at me with my bowl, and I just shrugged. I’m all packed up to switch hostels, to something more my onda, but first Malba (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires)! I’m not sure if it will work out but I’m having K possibly meet me there, now. I said b/w 3:30 and 4, either just outside or in the café. I also sent a message to P, but she probably won’t get it on time. On her Facebook her friend that’s arriving today said “have you met any cool people? NOT including Americans!!” And I was peeved when I read it, but really I was annoyed myself at a group that was in Boutique yesterday, just the same as I was at some Aussies and Irish and English who were still drunk and loud and boisterous this morning when I was eating my cereal. By the way, No, I have never heard of Buenoz Ayreez, nor have I heard of Leemer, Peru (Lima). The other night or morning around 6:53 a.m. one of the guys came back into the room, loud, smashed, pissed, possibly on some brain-inhibitor, was crashing into everything, stammering, tried to climb up to go to the top bunk, which, I can only assume, is actually his bed but who really knows, and then he collapsed-back Smack! onto the floor. And either passed-out or fell asleep or didn’t realize he was not in his bed, but two minutes later he attempted the same feat, unsuccessfully, heaving himself up and during exertion either let out a very small, tiny audible moan or a petite wet-fart, I was too sleepy to decipher which, and mid-step collapsed back onto the hardwood floor. Miraculously, when I woke up he was mostly on his bed, with the exception of one leg dangling off.

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The Call

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Call to United Airlines Mileage Plus, the frequent flyer program for United.

-In a robotic voice- Thanks for calling the United Mileage Plus customer service line. Would you like- reservations? Upgrades? Enroll in Mileage Plus? Or for everything else say- account services.

-Reservations.

-You’d like to enroll in Mileage Plus, correct?

-No.

-Sorry, I didn’t hear you.

-No reservations.

-You’d like upgrades correct?

-RES-ER-VA-TIONS.

-Okay, reservations. Is this for a reservation you’ve already made?

-No.

-Is this for award travel?

-Agent.

-I’m sorry, I didn’t-

-AGENT AGENT REPRESENTATIVE AGENT

-Okay, I’ll trans-

-AGENT AGENT! (transferring noises, brief hold).

-Good evening thanks for calling United Mileage Plus. You’d like to make a reservation is that correct?

-Yes.

-From where are you flying?

-Actually I’m in South America, I’d like to know which cities you guys serve. I know I can use miles to fly within South America, but I don’t know what my options are.

-I’m sorry what city was that?

-No. I’d like a list of cities you fly to in South America. Is there some kind of list?

-From what city will you be flying out of?

-OH MY GOD. I don’t have one. Fine, let’s pretend Buenos Aires.

-How many people will be flying?

-Me.

-Is that one person?

-(pausing for mental anguish)Yes I’m- one person.

-And what date will you be flying out?

-Any date.

-I’m sorry I didn’t get that.

-ANY date. This isn’t real. I just want to know my options.

- (pause) I’m sorry sir I need a date.

-September 15^th.

-You’d like to fly out Septem-

-September 15^th September 15^th September 15^th.

-Okay, I have for one person departing Buenos Aires on September 15^th. And the destination?

-I don’t know - where can I go?

-I’m sorry I didn’t get your destination.

-I don’t Have One. Is there a List? A list of Cities-To-Pick-From? A list of of places United, or it’s Partners serve from Buenos Aires?

-Please hold one moment sir (composing myself). Sir?

-Yes.

-Do you want to go to Paraguay, Uruguay, Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia-

-Colombia. Yes.

-You want to go to Colombia?

-Yes, that’s fine.

-Let me check sir (insufferable wait). Sir?

-Yeah.

-Is that Bogota?

-Sure.

-You’d like to go to Bogota?

-YES.

-Please hold (quickly). Sir?

-Yeah?

-I have one passenger departing from E-Z-E Buenos Aires flying to Bogota B-O-G on the 15^th of September, is that correct?

-OH MY GOD, YES, Yes its correct.

-Please hold (short wait). Sir?

-Yup.

-I have nothing on that date.

-Try any day in September.

-You want me to check every day?

-Any day will do.

-Please ho-

-Yeah.

-Sir?

-Ma’am?

-Sir?

-Yes Oh My God, What’d you find?

-(pause, possible confusion on her part) Sir there is nothing for September.

-Are you sure you even serve Colombia?

-There’s nothing for September sir.

-How about October?

-What day in October sir?

-(pause, some difficulty on my part) Any day. All of them. Try Everyday.

-Please hold.

-Sir?

-Still here.

-None for October sir.

-Is there Ever availibility? Are you sure you serve Colombia?

-Nothing for October sir.

-What about for the rest of the year, or even In the next year? What about that?
Anything?

-I’ll check the next twelve months sir.

-(Long, long pause in which I think of exciting things like taxes, cucumbers, hybrid bell-peppers, fizziness-level of South American soft-drinks-) Sir?

-Yes.

-Sir I have nothing for the next twelve mon-

-CLICK-.

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