Cafe Cosecha

Travel to Guilford!

2012-12-02T15:57:00.001-08:00

I know my audience, mostly. You are probably either a fellow fledgling travel writer, or someone who knows me personally (hi dad). So my sympathetic reader, here is my situation. I am currently enrolled in an interesting, online, travel-writing course. My first assignment is to write an article on my home town (this article). I started it with a pretty good first line, “clouds seem to float closer to the ground in Guilford, Maine.” That’s when the problems started. I became distracted. You see, I am in La Paz, Mexico on the southern tip of the Baja peninsula. I have been traveling by motorcycle, on repose for a few days while I wait for a ferry to cross the Sea of Cortez. The plan is to meet up with an old friend, a beautiful Mexican woman with the hopes of rekindling a love while taking a scenic train ride through the Copper Canyon (if that wont do it, nothing will!). It is hard to concentrate on anything but the present, and my hometown of Guilford is not part of my present. Also Reggi, the old Moroccan guy down the hall, is always inviting me to go drink tequila with him and his local buddies.

Guilford (mi pueblito) is a small town in Piscataquis county, the most rural county of the most rural state in the union. The innocent town was my cocoon, and when my wings developed I flew, like most of my peers. Small towns in Maine have a problem with retention of their youth. Most of my current observations, who I am, what I think, are at least partially based on where I spent those most impressionable young adolescent years, Guilford.

Physically beautiful, central Maine can be as lush and green as a tropical forest in Guatemala or as harsh and desolate as the high Sierra during the long winter. The Guilford I know is through the eyes of a 13 year old boy with a bicycle, that is, I know Guilford very intimately. The smell of mud season, (defrosting dog shit) the song of chickadees, “chicka dee dee dee,” and the boredom, the desire to leave.

When someone asks me where I am from, without hesitation I say Maine, although now I have lived outside Maine for more time then I have lived there. I often use Guilford as a conversation starter spitting out facts about my old home. I say, “in my hometown, we produce 90% of the worlds golf tees,” (I’m not sure if that was ever true) or “where I come from the mosquitoes and black flies are so bad that there have been reports of moose being driven into suicidal rampages” (I have never seen such a report). I have a plethora of Maine “facts” at the ready.

If your car ever breaks down in Guilford, (why else would it be a destination?) you are in for a treat. You are in the very footsteps of Henry David Thoreau. Thoreau came through Guilford on his way north to Moosehead lake and Mount Katahdin looking for wilderness and isolation. And although the trip to the north is now much easier, (you don’t need an Abnaki Indian guide) much of that wilderness, and isolation desired by Thoreau is still there. Too bad his mom wasn’t around to do his laundry, or maybe he would have chosen the banks of the Piscataquis river in Guilford, to write about solitude and self reliance instead of the comparably urban Walden pond in the “woods” of Massachusetts.

So, like I was saying. Clouds seem to float closer to the ground in Guilford, Maine. The sky is smaller. I am not sure what causes this effect. It could be that the northern end of the worn down Appalachian mountains don’t stretch that high into the heavens and that the thick, mixed conifer hardwood forests don’t produce the towering trees one sees out west making the sky seem more accessible, closer. Or maybe this is some sort of psychological effect only perceivable by one who regards Guilford as home.

Well, you will have to excuse me as I am off with Reggi to go drink wine with his expat friends at a local, La Paz pizza joint. Maybe they will want to know where the machine gun was invented (really close to Guilford).

The Good Life---Le Bonhuer De Ce Monde

2012-03-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

I used to stare up at this old French poem that my father hung on our cabin wall. A beautiful piece of paper, painted with time, once belonging to my grandmother who was a woman of great taste, especially when it came to buying souvenirs. Phyllis (grandma) had the opportunity of world travel during a time when there was a plethora of quality handmade goods, unlike today’s plastic junk, and hurried handicrafts. With her good taste and the wonderful selection at her disposal she ended up with some fantastic items. Some of them were passed on to my father who wisely displayed these anachronistic handicrafts around our warm cabin in the Maine woods. He would tell my sisters and I, his wide-eyed children, the stories of their origins.

Out of these objects this French sonnet really struck me. I was interested in foreign language and poetry at a young age, and although not a dedicated student, I somehow managed to learn a little French in high school. I would try to translate this poem from its archaic French and my father who speaks French would help me along. This poem still fascinates me to this day, and to this day, unfortunately I still don’t speak French.

The Sonnet is called, “Le Bonhuer De Ce Monde” by a French bookbinder, print maker,(and poet evidently) Christopher Plantin, who lived in the 16th century. The title roughly means, ‘This World's Good Fortune” or more simply, "The Good Life" and the sonnet is basically suggestions on how to live the good life.
As I have traveled through life I recently have noticed that I have not exactly lived by this wise poem's suggestions. Before I talk about it more I will post the sonnet, and it's English translation.

Le Bonhuer De Ce Monde







Avoir une maison commode, propre et belle,
Un jardin tapissé d'espaliers odorans,
Des fruits, d'excellent vin, peu de train, peu d'enfans,  
Posséder seul sans bruit une femme fidèle;
 
N'avoir dettes, amour, ni procès, ni querelle,
Ni de partage à faire avecque ses parens,
Se contenter de peu, n'espérer rien des grands,
Régler tous ses desseins sur un juste modèle ;
 
Vivre avecque franchise et sans ambition,
S'adonner sans scrupules à la dévotion,
Domter ses passions, les rendre obéissantes,
 
Conserver l'esprit libre et le jugement fort,
Dire son chapelet en cultivant ses entes,
C'est attendre chez soi bien doucement la mort.
  



THIS WORLD'S GOOD FORTUNE

To have a house convenient, clean and fair;
A wallèd garden lined with fragrant trees;
Fruit and fine wine, few servants and few children;
The only lover of a faithful wife;

No debts, no love-affairs, lawsuits nor feuds,
No wills to haggle out with relatives,
Simply content, dependent on no magnate,
And by a righteous rule to rule one's life;

To live in frankness, from ambition far;
With conscience clear devoted to devotion,
To tame one's passions until they obey,

To keep the spirit free and judgement strong,
Saying one's prayers while looking to one's pear-trees:
A kindly way at home to wait for Death.

 
(translated by Roger Kuin






So as I move from youth, this poem has become even more relevant.  As a teenager trapped in Maine this strange philosophy French philosophy seemed boring to me!

Donde Vivo Yo

2012-02-23T13:42:00.000-08:00

Vivo en Otay Mesa, 2 millas norte de Tijuana, en un ranchito de chivos.

I live in Otay Mesa, 2 miles north of Tijuana, at a small goat ranch.

Hay caballos donde vivo yo.

There are horses where I live.

Hay gallinas y gallos k cantan sin parar.

There are chikens and roosters that crow without stopping

Es bonito no?

It's pretty no?

Mi vecino tiene dobermans---la perra se llama Sadie
En la foto Sadie esta corriendo hacia al sur, hacia Tijuana.
La frontera es mas o menos 2 millas desde el ranchito de chivos, donde vivo yo. Veo diario los que patrullan la frontera, la migra, con sus vehículos rápidos y nuevos. Siempre están mirando, espiando. Pero a mi, me dejan en paz.

My neighbor has dobermans ---the bitch calls herself Sadie
In the photo Sadie is running towards the South, towards Tijuana.
the border is more or less 2 miles from the little goat ranch, where i live. I see those who patrol the border, the migra, with their fast new vehicles. Always they are watching, spying. But they leave me alone.

Hay dos cárceles donde vivo yo.

They watch everything from the tower!

A continuación----

to be continued----

OSCAR THE GOAT

2011-12-30T18:40:00.000-08:00

      There was this goat named Oscar who was born on the Gonzales strawberry farm in Irapuato, Mexico. When Oscar was just a young kid, too young to remember, his mother and father died. So instead of being raised by a goat, like a normal goat should, Oscar was raised by a very loving and motherly dog named Gloria.
     Gloria was a good parent and treated Oscar as if he were one of her own pups. She taught him all she knew about life, the basics: barking, growling, begging, and above all, her favorite past-time of chasing cars, motorcycles and bikes.
   Gloria was well respected in the dog community and was very strict with all the other dogs, making sure that Oscar never felt out of place. So Oscar, the goat, grew up believing he was a dog.
   Now as you can imagine a goat running with a pack of dogs, chasing cars, barking and growling is a pretty unusual sight and all the Mexican town folk in Irapuato got a big kick out of it. They would hoot, holler, point and laugh at Oscar. They would throw sticks and Oscar would fetch them back. It was great fun!
     But all fun must come to an end, because the truth of the matter is a goat has a very different ending then a dog, especially in Mexico on Sunday afternoons. So on an early Sunday morning in Irapuato, Oscar the goat was sacrificed to the birria gods (birria is a delicious, spicy, goat stew).

     Señora Gonzalez, who happened to be known as incredibly gifted in the kitchen, put up a sign on her front yard advertising her delicious birria made from fresh goat meat (Oscar) and soon enough people came to eat the steamy, spicy, oily, red stew for 35 pesos a serving along with hot, homemade, corn tortillas with a small but delicious dessert of strawberries covered in cream. That's when a black Toyota pickup truck with California plates pulled up in front of the Gonzalez house with loud mariachi music blaring.
   A Gringo popped out of the pickup truck. He was as Gringo as they get---blond hair, blue eyes and tall. But there was something funny about this Gringo---he dressed just like a Mexican farm worker. He had on huaraches (homemade Mexican sandals) and donned an old beat up straw hat. He spoke fluent Spanish with lots of slang mixed in----"no mameys" he said, "chido," he said. Everyone was impressed with his Spanish and a little confused. He slurped down his order of the birria, stuffed his face with the strawberries, stood up, then politely said, "provecho" (bon appetite) to the others still eating and asked how much he owed for the meal.
     "50 pesos" replied señora Gonzalez keeping a straight face.
   The Gringo gave a big smile and handed over the fifty pesos and then drove off.
     Everyone hooted and hollered with laughter at the irony. The gringo that thought he was a Mexican who ate the goat that thought he was a dog.

----Por Pablo Estali----

Ten Years of Mexico!

2011-12-30T10:03:00.000-08:00

As I was walking along the hotel-lined sea wall (the malecón) in Mazatlán, Mexico, watching the sun crash magnificently into the Pacific Ocean something occurred to me. Ten years ago, when I was a wided-eyed twenty year old youngster on my first trip through Mexico, I witnessed the very same scene in the exact same spot. I remember it clearly--one of those moments when you say to yourself, "I am going to remember this forever." I snapped a picture of the sunset with my disposable camera right before hopping on an overnight bus to head deeper into unknown Mexico. Little did I know what an effect Mexico would have on my life.

(not the photo I took, but similar!)

My Mexican friends I work with now jokingly call me a Mexican and most people that know me well, know that if I am in charge of the I-pod they are going to be listening to a Cumbia. Truthfully, I don´t know why I have such a fascination with the Mexican culture. It doesn´t make sense. But It isn´t going to change or go away. I will never be completely fluent at Mexican Spanish nor know everything about Mexican culture, nor do I strive for that imposability. All I know is that somehow my blood was mixed with limones and sal and in some way my life´s works involves our wonderful Southern neighbor. Viva Mexico and thanks!

La Fantasma Contenta, The Happy Ghost

2011-05-14T20:13:00.000-07:00

La Fantasma Contenta

La fantasma vino en una mañana en marzo.

Tuve vergüenza por mi cuarto sucio,

pero a ella no importaba.

Fuimos a caminar juntos, mano en mano, el aire fresco.

Caminábamos lentamente, cruzando la sombra de los árboles.

Me miro con sus ojos curiosos, contenta y calma.

Monto mis hombros, yo era el caballo.

En la noche, acaricie su cabello negro, suave,

y dormimos juntos, seguros, el espíritu y yo.

Así había por una semana,

y antes que se fue, sin el dolor de una despedida,

yo sabia que la muerte no existe,

porque ella vino contenta y así se fue.

The Happy Ghost

The ghost came on a morning in March.

I was embarrassed by my messy room,

but she didn’t mind.

We went walking together, hand in hand, the air cool.

We walked slowly, crossing the shade of the trees.

She looked at me with her curious eyes, happy and calm.

She rode on my shoulders, I was the horse.

At night, I caressed her soft, black hair

and we slept together, safe, the spirit and I.

It was that way for a week,

and before she went, without the pain of a parting,

I knew that death does not exist,

because she came content and that’s the way she left.

Paul Staley

Drive-by Meet and Greet

2011-05-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

The rogue WiFi signal coming from the Day’s Inn was booming that night. I was laying on the bed of my camper taking advantage of the normally fickle signal. Relaxed by a half a bottle of cheap pinot noir and a wad of Grizzly straight chewing tobacco that delivered warm nicotine from my gums directly to my heart then back to my brain. That’s when I heard, “bang, bang-bang bang, bang, bang-bang! Anyone else would have been surprised, would have known, not me. I thought the shots were fire crackers. You see, I was new to Chula Vista. In Oaxaca, Mexico, where I came from, where I had been living for the past year and a half, rude explosions throughout the night were the norm. In Mexico there is no such thing as a city ordinance against noise, or fire crackers-and let me tell you, Mexicans take advantage of that fact. It wasn’t until I saw the blue lights bouncing off the walls of my camper and heard the sirens that I realized those crisp explosions were gun shots.

I jumped into my dirty jeans and slipped on my fake crocs to go outside and investigate. I walked through the trailer park, Fogerty Brothers trailer park on Broadway and E street towards the blue lights. My neighbors were already gathered together on Broadway gossiping and pointing, a motley crew. As I found out that night, nothing brings a trailer park together like a drive by shooting. There were about seven cop cars lined up across Broadway, in front of a Mexican restaurant, their lights were flashing like blinding blue lightening.
“What happened?” I asked Bruce, the boyfriend of the Park’s manager, Michelle.
“Just a drive by,” Bruce said with his normal grin.
“Anyone hit?” I asked trying to be as nonchalant as him, a longtime veteran of Chula Vista and the trailer park.
“Nope, I think they tagged that Explorer though, I think I see some holes in the side panel there.”
Embolden by the pinot noir, I left my pack of neighbors and headed closer to see if I could get substantiated information. I stopped about ten feet from the supposedly wounded Ford Explorer. I couldn’t see any holes in it at all but a man was lying in the back seat and a cop was scribbling on his clip-boards. I asked one of the cops what happened. He ignored me.
“Can’t tell me anything, huh, ongoing investigation?” I asked.
He nodded, and walked away from me.
I walked back to my group of neighbors and they all wanted to know what information the cop gave me. I was an anomaly, nobody had even considered walking up to the cops to ask what happened, a lot of the people in the park have good reason to stay far away from the police, but I have nothing to worry about, I have never been caught.
We all stood gathered together and I shook hands and introduced myself to some of the neighbors that I still hadn’t met. The drive-by was like a meet and greet. Stories were recounted of past drive-by shootings and the party lasted about half an hour, the blue strobe lights were still gleaming when I said goodnight and headed back to the camper, the rouge WiFi, my pinot noir and Grizzly straight.

Homeless, Hungry and Horny

2011-04-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

This morning when I was walking down the street looking forward to my morning coffee, I ran into a group of homeless folks. Not an uncommon occurrence in my adopted city of Chula Vista. After a few months of riding my bike around and then a couple months walking around (my bike tires got stolen) you start to recognize the local riffraff. There is the guy that is always hanging around 7-11 who asks for change. I often see that grizzly old man when I go to pick up a movie from the Red Box vending machine. The last time I saw him he said he was hungry and asked if I had any spare change. I was in a good mood because my body was still full of endorphins from the gym so I emptied my pockets. Then we both walked into 7-11. He didn’t even try to hide his lie and I spent 10 minutes waiting behind him in line as he counted out change for his Steel Reserve that he would soon be “eating.”
The other day I was on a pay-phone outside of Chevron with my bank. I was on hold a long time. That’s when a group of homeless ladies came walking by. I tell you what, there are few times in your life when you get to feel like a rock star but that group of inebriated women walked by me and gave me so much attention I felt like Mick Jagger. Well, actually maybe I should say like Eminem because that is who the said I looked like. I wanted to run away but I had been on hold for almost 20 minutes and I would just have to wait again. So I stood there, the phone to my ear, a shy smile and took in the compliments. They even got a little physical giving my butt a slap. They eventually started to move on but one of the women turned around. The others teased her but she wanted to talk with me some more. When she was alone with me the flirting turned to crying. She told me in an incoherent way about her awful life. That was horribly depressing.
Today my encounter with the homeless inspires the title to my Blog. I was walking behind the new tamale shop where I encountered a group of four women and one older man, a diverse group, White, Black, Hispanic. They were passing around a Colt 45 and I don’t think it was their first of the morning.
   They asked me, “Hey buddy can you spare any change?”
   "Not right now," I answered in a pleasant demeanor.
“We are homeless,” one of them said.
“I live in a trailer,” I told them shrugging my shoulders.
“You cute,” the black lady said. She had on a tight, pink shirt and obviously wasn’t wearing a bra.
Apparently I am very attractive to homeless women as this has been happening a lot. I kept walking. Then the old man said.
“You can’t even spare a dick?”
   I kept walking when the black woman yelled out one more time.
“Come on we are homeless, hungry and horny.” Then she reflected on what she had just said. “Damn that would be a good title for a book.”
I turned around and said, “yeah your right!”
“Thanks,” she said with a smile.

Sleek, Sexy Titles For Massive Traffic
http://hubpages.com/hub/sexysleektitlesformassivetraffic

Point of view

2011-02-25T14:22:00.001-08:00

The Crying Man

What a pathetic scene. I would never cry like that over a woman. She is gorgeous though. Ok, here we go, I hope this isn’t awkward.
“Excuse me ma’am, would you like to order now, or just the coffee?”
“Just the coffee for now.” She told me with a forced smile making only quick eye contact.
“ OK no problem, I’ll come back later and check.” I smiled back, my most sympathetic smile. That pitiful dude didn’t even look at me. His face was buried in his hands and his chest was heaving.
Oh man, maybe I would be crying like that after all. She had those huge supermodel eyes with dark eyeliner that made them appear even larger, olive skin that made me think she was of middle eastern decent. I thought of what she would look like in one of those Arabic headdresses, a hijab. That is one beautiful woman. When I got to the kitchen I told Jose, “man, buddy take a break from those dishes for a second and look at this scene, this pathetic dude crying over this gorgeous woman.”
We peered through the round window of the stainless steel door.
   “That aint no woman dude, that’s a man bro.” Jose said with a smile, “I knew you was gay?”
“What, whatever man, that is a woman, she is like Jazmin, an Arabian princess!”
She was rubbing the poor guys back. Then she looked around, surveying who was watching, and she saw us, obviously staring at her with our stupid grins. We both ducked.

Fabiana didn’t want to be in this position. She genuinely loved Rob, but, she was bored, emotionally and sexually. Her philosophy on love was simple, you can never lose a love, it is innate, and therefore it only changes focus, never lost. She rubbed Rob’s back, he had on the fuzzy wool sweater, that she had bought him for Christmas. She was embarrassed, the restraunt was bustling with people, an audience. Fabiana was not used to a man crying. Brazilian men don’t cry. She had never seen her father cry, not once, not even when they visited her sister, bruised and unconscious in the hospital. Rob was panting like a baby. The waiter came up and asked for the order. He looked sympathetic, embarrassed.
   “Excuse me ma’am, would you like to order now, or just the coffee?”
Fabiana couldn’t meet the waiters eyes for more then a second. She told him they were fine. The waiter left and Rob blurted out in a sickening mixture of snorts and words,
   “My mom, snort, she told me, whimper, not to marry a Brazilian, sniff, sniff, she will only use, you.” Rob looked up at Fabbiana, his face red and liquid snot ran down his nose. “You used me!”
Fabiana didn’t answer the accusation. She looked around to see if anyone heard, if anyone was watching. She saw two faces starring at her from the round window of the swinging kitchen doors. They both disappeared as soon as she noticed them.

There comes a point when you just aren’t embarrassed anymore. Sure I was breaking down publicly. But that cold bitch did this to me, let her be embarrassed. I sat there in the busy diner, crying, all I could think about was her with another man. Would she make the same sounds that she made with me when she made love to some stranger? She taught me to be so emotional, she put me through roller coaster of emotions. We never had a day where we didn’t fight. We didn’t have a day that we didn’t make love.
The waiter came up to take the order. I couldn’t even look at him. Let that bitch deal with what she did. She was rubbing my back, trying to comfort me. I bet she doesn’t even notice that I am wearing the sweater she bought for me. I told her that she used me. She did use me. She didn’t even have the guts to answer. She was fine, she had her armor, a philosophy that just serves to protect her from hurt. She will regret this.

Massage

2011-02-12T16:20:00.000-08:00

She was fat and not that pretty kind of fat, you know, that kind of fat, smooth skinned curvaceous type, that giggly, pretty fat girl, that wasn’t Maureen. She had a crop of short red hair and a powerful build, Scottish stock. She didn’t put up any airs, she was loud. I say loud but maybe she just seemed loud the way an older confident, larger woman can seem loud. When I met her at the farmers market, when I had that horrible stiff neck, she was wearing a loose fitting black dress, with a purple scarf, a shawl, made somewhere in India. Four big silver hoops dangled on her ears and clinked like wind chimes.
I walked rather skeptically up to her booth, “Maureen’s Body Work.” There was this sort of whale music playing, that kind of new-age meditation music. I explained to her my problem, my neck, the popping noise that it had made when I tried to bench-press too much weight, how for the last two days I hadn’t been able to turn my head from side to side, the loss of mobility.
“Hop in the seat pumpkin,” she told me, “ I’ll check you out in a second.”
I was willing to try anything, having a pain in the neck is, after all, a pain in the neck. I sat in the massage chair and rested my head face down on one of those special made head-donuts, exposing my neck and waiting for her diagnosis. As I sat, my head buried, I heard Maureen talking to a passer-by in in Spanish. ‘Huh,’ I thought, I didn’t expect that woman to know Spanish.
She came close, and I heard a plastic bottle squirt it’s contents into her hands. The smell of patchouli oil or something very similar found my nose. I rolled my hidden eyes. Then I felt her oily hands on my neck. She wasn’t playing around. Her hands instantly found tight knots high up on my neck. That place that almost never gets attention where the very end of your spine connects to your head.
“You men, you macho men, lift weights like gorillas.”
I didn’t reply, I couldn’t, the sweet pain of her strong, knowing hands kept me quite.
“Women, they know when they’re overdoing it, you need to breath when you work out. Does that hurt honey, Is it too much?”
“No, esta bien,” I said, showing off my own Spanish.
“Oh you speak Spanish! That’s good,” she said her hands were kneading me, caressing me, curing me.
“Spanish is my love making language,” she said. She reached down gave my butt a push, it tickled. I jumped a little.
“You see you are sensitive down there.” She continued on my neck with small karate chops.
“We are taught in the west that sex is dirty. That makes certain areas on our bodies sensitive”
“Ahh mi amorcita me cojes el mejor que he estado cojida.” She said in dirty Spanish, it basically means, “ahh my little lover you fuck me the best I have ever been fucked.”
“You, see how sweet that sounds in Spanish? Oh baby fuck me!" She said and gave a couple of gorilla grunts. “Now that just sounds horrible. But you know that don’t you honey?”
She told me to sit up, I did.
“Try to move you head now Hun.”
I did, and I looked to the left and to the right without any pain.

Mood Swings

2011-02-12T14:20:00.001-08:00

What a strange time to be alive. I wake each day with sweepingly different outlooks on life. Two current events provide me with a an analogy of my moody pendulum. Egypt offers inspiration and the power of youth, revitalizing my outlook. Then, close to my heart, Mexico and her immense, seemingly unsolvable problems overwhelms and fills me with a deep sadness. My personal outlook battles between youth, a limitless future and the unsolvable puzzle, a devastating acceptance. That is where I am, waking at times, twenty-nine years old, young and excited, twenty-nine years old, stagnant and uninspired.
I need to stick with my Egypt and use her to converse with my Mexico. Accept and swim toward the uncharted waters of the future, my wide eyes held high above the water. Keep learning, keep swimming and moving forward. Because my Mexico is a great nation and even, although stricken with lead has too much potential to sink at any age.
Maybe a little sappy, but sap rises!

“Seymour”

2011-02-02T23:11:00.000-08:00

What I remember most was his hands. The way he would use them brown hands, with his long fingers to reach out and grab my old man hands. They always felt warm and kind of damp. When I lived in the park, before they made me move here, to this sterile shit box, Jose would come by maybe once or twice a week. I could tell it was him, by the way he knocked; three quick knocks, a pause, then one more knock. He always came around dusk. I lived in space number one thirty-six and I had a nice trailer. They told me not to give him any more money, but I didn't mind, I liked when he came to visit. I’m not a queer, I mean, I was in the Navy. He was just a friend, ya know, a friend that needed help. Pauline, she was my neighbor, space number one twenty-nine, right on the corner, she told me that Jose was drug addict and that her son Paul, if she wanted him to, would pound him good. Pauline always fed them god damn cats, her trailer smelled like cat piss. I never went over there.
When Jose came he always brought me something to eat. Usually some kind of fruit. He said it was good for me. He told me that his mom has diabetes too and the doctor says fruit is the best medicine for the diabetes. Sometimes he would ask if he could take a shower. I told him, “ok Jose, you can take a shower but I’m sorry, I don’t have any money today.” He would take off his clothes with the bathroom door open. I didn’t look at him but I saw him, ya know? The trailer would steam up, he took long showers, for fifteen minutes, or so. Not like me, I take quick showers. I’d stand up when I heard the water turn off. I can’t stand up for that long no more, my knees don’t hold up so good. I would go to the kitchen and make like I was doing something, like the dishes or looking for something in the cabinet ya know? That’s when he would grab my hands, he had nice hands. He never wanted that much money, just ten dollars, or so. But I would always tell him, no, ya know, at first. He would take both of them hands and grab one of mine and look at me with them oval eyes, those eyes were the color of that rock, that rock made of that prehistoric sap, I can’t remember the name. Those was powerful eyes, dang sad eyes, desperate, ya know. He’d tell me the money was for cigarettes. I’d tell him to quit that shit, cigarettes aint nothing but a waste of money.

The police came one night right after Jose visited. They said they was from elder abuse prosecution unit. I hadn’t never heard of such a thing. They asked me all kinds of questions and wanted to come inside my trailer. I told them I was just fine but they had there clip board and was writing all sorts of things down and looking around. They even opened up my cabinets. They asked me about Jose and if I was giving him any money. They told me about a senior self-defense class or something like that. I told them that’s just crazy I cant do no damn karate, with my knees and my diabetes. They said it wasn’t that kind of self defense, more about protecting my assets. My assets imagine that. Before they left one of them cops, a woman, she told me, “Seymour we are going to be coming around more often to check up on you.” She told me , “you need to remember to eat more fresh fruit.”

Alive in Mexico

2011-01-30T22:46:00.000-08:00

   Karl brought the wrong motorcycle to Mexico. It was too big, old and heavy. “The Tank,” he called it, was a 1976 Honda CB750. In it’s hay day known as the first super bike, a classic, but a poor choice for Mexico’s Swiss-cheese, gravel covered roads. A more nimble, modern, enduro style bike would have been more appropriate. But Karl reasoned, ‘that’s the bike I have’ and he liked how that sounded.
The accident occurred on the trip home while trying to navigate a gravely corner on the intercontinental highway north of San Cristobal de Las Casas. He was trying to make it all the way to Oaxaca. Sweat perspired from under the layers of his clothing, his fingernails were left uncut and dirty, his facebook status had been neglected for a week. His eyes were red and irritated from the dusty dry air, his ears rang from the constant battle of the four cylinders struggling over the agave covered mountains. At that point he didn’t even know if he was still in the state of Chiapas or if he already entered Oaxaca. He was tired and like most days still had a long way to drive. He wanted to be home in Chicago and was driving north like a madman.
The trip, although a thorough introduction to Mexico, had not been what he expected. The social aspect had greatly disappointed him. He spoke only menu-Spanish and found that almost everywhere he stopped there were only a few tourists. Most of the pasty snow-birds had been scared off by the weekly graphic reports of beheadings and shootings by narco-traffickers. And to Karl’s dismay it was just too hard to have a real conversation with the Mexicans that didn’t involve whether he wanted corn tortillas or flour tortillas. He had discovered what is known as travelers sadness; only observing, not participating in conversations. He was lonely and hadn’t really talked with anyone since meeting his firefighting friends in Antigua, Guatemala. The two night rendezvous with his fellow crewmates on new years was really the highlight and maybe even the whole point of the trip. His fantasy of finding a curvaceous, adventurous fellow traveler to ride on the back of his motorcycle never even came close to materializing.
The bike and Karl separated on a stretch of snakey highway in the Sierra del Sur mountain range. As he drove the highway seemed almost abandoned despite the occasional bus, but no other vehicles were involved in Karl’s accident. When his motorcycle’s tires lost traction on one of the many curves the reality of having to abandon ship, elevated his senses, and slowed the course of events, a slow motion, life-saving, human reaction. He seemed to float in the air above the motorcycle and like a kid leaping over a fire hydrant pushed down on the sweaty seat with his hands between his legs he was able lift his temporarily suspended body up and away from the trajectory of the monstrous, hot machine. He hit the ground upright, to the left of the motorcycle, standing on two legs. The whole accident looked almost graceful had he not been going twenty-five miles an hour, even his long powerful legs were not able to compete with the momentum of his two hundred and ten pound frame. His body slapped against the pavement.

   The sound of a little girl singing and the comforting smell of disinfectant inspired his awakening. He didn’t move he just opened his eyes. In his line of sight sat little girl swinging her legs on a red wooden bench opposite his bed, across the cool tiles. She had big dark eyes, brown skin, and her long black hair was loosely braided. She wore a traditional white shirt embroidered with vibrant flowers and was occupied with an handmade ball and cup game. She continued to hum the pretty, but unfamiliar tune, seemingly unconcerned with Karl. Karl tried to burn off the fog that enveloped his mind, ‘where am I.’

   “Tia! El Guero desperto!” The little girl yelled hoping up and off the bench running towards an open door.

Only Karl’s eyes moved across the room to the door where the nurse walked in. She was dressed in a crisp white uniform that demonstrated the pleasing shape of her body. She carried a plastic pitcher of water and a glass. With a big smile she looked at Karl and said, “hola.” He attempted a nod and his heart gave one pronounced thump and suddenly his whole body hurt. Not a pain that aspirin or ibuprofen can alleviate but a pain so intense that one rightly deserves a morphine drip. The nurse raised her eyebrows in concern as Karl grimaced. She said, in broken English.
“You need drink water. I help drink.”
She filled a glass with water and placed the pitcher with the filled glass on a piece of furniture next to the bed. She stroked Karl’s red hair, the gentle motherly touch lingered on Karl’s scalp relaxing him. She encouraged him to sit up with hand gestures. That’s when he noticed his left arm and the pain in his body suddenly had an awful focus.
It is a strange feeling to look at ones own arm and to see it so obviously broken. In Karl’s case an overwhelming sense of mortality flooded his mind turning quickly to nausea and utter disgust. He looked away. The young nurse leaned over him and put her hands in his armpits and proceeded to try and prop him up on the pillows against the headboard as if he were a six year old child. She had no hope of moving the large gringo. She gave a grunt trying to get Karl to help her help him. Karl used his right arm that seemed to be in a good state to push himself up. She exhaled, still holding her comforting smile, “eres grande” she said, and gave him the glass of water. Karl didn’t know that he was thirsty until the water hit his mouth and like a drought stricken desert receiving the first spring rain his mouth absorbed the water before it entered his throat. The nurse asked.
“Aspirina?”
She opened a small paper packet, handed him two aspirin, then refilled his water cup. He took the pills and gulped the water. The haze in his mind started to break, ‘the accident!’. He was skeptical about the effectiveness of the aspirin and started to realize where he was and the gravity of his situation, mortality and nausea again flooded his mind. Looking around for the first time, he noticed that there were no other beds in what he had thought was a hospital. It was a large room with cement walls and a high ceilings mostly empty except for stacks of folded chairs in one corner. To his left, through some rot-iron windows he could see outside where he saw an empty basketball court and an ambulance with the Cruz Roja insignia parked in the brilliant midday light.
He wanted to show the nurse the seriousness of his injuries. He lifted up his broken arm with his right arm, carefully avoided looking at the misshapen extremity. He held out the arm and asked for sympathy.
“Do you have something stronger? My arm hurts a lot, pain, ow horrible.” He spoke slow and clearly pronounced each word.
Yes, no te precupes, no worry el doctor ya viene, he come, she said with a casualness that was calming. She did not seem to be too disturbed by Karl’s misshapen arm.
“Mi motocicleta, where is my motorcycle?” asked Karl.
“Wit Joel, con Joel el mecanico”
“Wrecked?” Karl asked.
She looked puzzled so Karl tried another word.
“Destroyed?”
Her face showed recognition “No, destruida, no, Joel es un buen mecanico very good.
You talk tomorrow wit him, manana.” She spoke slowly nodding as she said each word.
“Now give medicine, medicina.” She squeezed her hand into a pocket on her uniform and pulled out a key. She then opened a padlocked cabinet door under the pitcher of water. As she knelt down Karl noticed the upper-part of a red tattoo that extended down from her clavicle disappearing under her uniform.

je je je..................not quite finished but tell me what you think.....please.....

An idea!

2011-01-21T14:16:00.001-08:00

Writing is like a battery storing electricity. It is a way of capturing an idea. It is not, as I once naively thought, an affirmation of ones beliefs, because beliefs and ideas are fluid, written words are not. It is a uniquely human way of capturing a fleeting thought. It is an opportunity to refine an idea and the ability to communicate a state of mind in a seemingly timeless sense. Therefore writing is dangerous. Because writing something down can too easily be mistaken as a truth. The complexity of who you are and what is, never can be caught by words alone. Then what is the purpose of writing? It is just a very good medium of storing and communicating a well thought out idea. To write is dangerous and I like that.

Eternal Youth

2011-01-15T11:06:00.000-08:00

The bicycle is an opportunity at eternal youth. The silent efficiency of zooming down the street powered by your own heart, the smell of fertile earth and blooming vegetation forced into your nose makes a potent elixir bringing you closer to some sort of truth. Like a child experimenting with first freedoms that require no more then slow-twitch muscles fueled by peanut-butter and jelly, an adventurous spirit, a smile is forced on your face and your blood warms. You shout in your mind, "Youth, sweet youth!" Do you want to feel younger? Hop on a bike and return to the day when your training wheels came off, when each day your world grew exponentially; down the block, down to the store, to the next town. Oh, the sweet freedom of the bicycle!

Unlimited Toilet Paper

2011-01-09T21:40:00.000-08:00

   I have been out of the United States for an extended period of time twice in my life. Both times the return home was a culture shock. The first trip I came home from India where I attended an international boarding school. The school, located in the foothills of the Himalayas was sweet and innocent. When I came back to the United States I was immediately thrown into the last month of public school, an eighth grader in rural Maine. I remember the first day of school clearly. Some of my classmates put pencil shavings in the teachers coffee when he left the room. I couldn’t believe how rude the students were to the teachers and how cruel they were towards each other. The opposite of the innocent missionary boarding school in India. It took me about two weeks to adapt. But soon I was one of those cruel, rude kids, giving the teachers the finger as they turned their backs and destroying public property with my skateboard at my side.

   Now I am returning from a long stay in Oaxaca, Mexico. I crossed the boarder in Tijuana and entered the United States with fresh eyes. Here in San Diego there are clean bathrooms with unlimited toilet paper, no litter, and in the midst of a recession what seems like unlimited resources. Stores are filled with items that would break the jaws of someone living in rural Mexico. I don’t want to adapt to the sense of entitlement that we have as Americans. I don’t want to forget what I saw and lived. Here we are fat with privilege, with everything we want, collectively whining like spoiled toddlers at Toys R Us. I know that I am lucky. Lucky for the opportunities given to me at birth. I think as a society we are blind, sucking up the worlds resources and complaining about it.

   I am lucky to be from the United States not proud. Now excuse me as I need to go get a few things from Wal-Mart and use their spectacular bathrooms with unlimited toilet paper.

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Parque Colosio

2010-11-02T18:39:00.000-07:00

Cerro de San Felipe, about 10,500', my favorite mountain in Mexico

Parque Colosio

Mexico is a country full of parks, plazas and zocolos. In the typical Oaxacan park- lovers lay, bodies entangled, on the grass, a bench, or simply stretched out on the hard green cantera, eyes locked in passion. Vendors stroll about, their wares hang from their chests, musicians circulate, a far off accordion can be heard, and the smell of boiling corn and chili warm your appetite. I love Mexican parks. They are different from my small-town American conception of what a park is. A park, to me, is where there are jungle gyms and swings, the focus being entirely on the kids, not a social gathering point for all ages. In Mexico everyone uses the parks.

As you get to know Oaxaca, you start to know her various, wonderful parks; the zocolo, el llano, parque conzatti, cerro del fortin and many more. When I moved to el barrio de San Felipe del Agua, I discovered my new favorite park, parque Colosio.

Parque Colosio is closer to my American conception of a park. This is a place to let the kids go wild! Relatively unknown to the backpackers and tourists, actually relatively unknown to many in Oaxaca, it is an absolutely beautiful, well kept, unique, peaceful place to go. Especially conducive to those with kids or those who want to exercise. Parque Colosio is a pretty park in a very pretty neighborhood.

What surprises me about Colosio is that it always feels empty. It is most crowded in the early morning when the locals take advantage of the pleasant gravel walking paths that covers the circumference of the park. But even during peak hours it feels open and private in comparison to the bustling city below.

     For the athlete, there are permanently installed exercise equipment- pull up bars, sit-up benches, and a gravel path with a nice incline to get your heart pumping. It is nice change to run on dirt rather then cement or cobblestone. There is a big baseball field over looking the city, a small but nice soccer field, and two mini basketball courts. For kids there are slides, jungle gyms and swinging rings. There is even a library full of wonderful children's books and many cool toys available! For lovers, lots of hidden corners so that public displays of affection are a little more private.

The views from the park are spectacular; to the north the cerro de San Felipe, to the south the busy valley below.

To get to Parque Colosio you have to take the bus up to San Felipe del Agua, (the bus says san felipe del agua) which runs frequently from Pinos Suarez. The bus will wind its way up the cobblestone streets to San Felipe. Get off at the iglesia, the church, (well close to it, you can't see it from the bus, you have to ask) and then it is a short walk (four or five blocks from there). Don't be afraid to ask the friendly San Felipians which direction the Parque Colosio is. A taxi from the center should cost around 50 pesos if you prefer a speedy cab. The parks hours are 8am-8pm and there is always a security guard present.

Check out an Article I wrote on an Oaxacan alternative to the temezcal: http://hubpages.com/hub/Mexican-Steam-Room-El-Vapor

Or on how to really learn a foreign language: http://hubpages.com/hub/Language-and-Love-Advice-On-How-To-Really-Learn-A-Foreign-Language

Sit-up bench in afternoon light

Baseball field

No need to pay for the gym.

Si se puede!

Slight incline on the walking/running path

Sit-ups in sepia

The goatherd and the wild goats.

2010-11-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Aesop fable adaptation.....rememberd as told by my dad.

Pablo was a young goatherd. He just took over the family goats. But he was ambitious and a dreamer, he wanted more in life then to tend goats. He wanted an X-Box 360. One sunny afternoon while returning from pasture he noticed that there were five new wild goats among his herd. His heart began to beat faster thinking of the financial benefits of five more goats. Five goats closer to his dreams!

He returned to his cave and shut the goats in for the night when he had a brilliant idea. He separated the wild goats from the new goats and gave the new goats triple rations of hay, to make them happy, and eager to stay. But unfortunately he had to cut the rations of hay to his old goats, who went to sleep hungry.

That night he had dreams filled with video games. He woke up happy but it was snowing outside and he wouldn’t be able to let the goats out to graze. So he fed his goats in the same manner, triple rations of hay to the new goats and fewer rations to his old friends. The snow didn’t melt for a week and he kept up the same feeding pattern all week long. The old goats groaning from hunger and the new goats with full tummies.

Finally after the snow melted he opened up the gates to let the goats out to graze. As soon as the gates were open the five new goats bolted towards the forest. Pablo’s dreams suddenly vanished and he yelled angrily at the five goats running away.

“K poka! What the heck, I treated you new goats so well! Why are you running away?”

One of the goats turned around before disappearing into the forest and yelled back to Pablo.

“Do you think we are stupid? Look at how you treat the goats that depend on you!”
Just then one of the old goats gave Pablo a dirty look as he marched towards pasture.

Temazcal Moderno

2010-10-11T08:08:00.000-07:00

Temazcal Moderno

     It has been about two weeks since I had my last cigarette. The physical pains have already gone. But, I think, the mental dependence on cigarettes; the forced break, the social ritual, the excuse to escape, these spaces of time are hard to fill. My answer: I have been cleaning everything.


   I washed all my clothing, I washed my car, I have been brushing my teeth as if I were shining rare pearls, I shaved, I cleaned my nasal passage with a Nettie pot( I nasal douched!), and I went to, “el vapor” one of my favorite, uniquely Mexican, ways of getting really, really clean.


     In Oaxaca, a well known ancient tradition, and tourist trap is the temazcal. Temazcal means literally in the Nahuatl language, house of vapor (casa del vapor). I attended a temazcal once, not my best experience. The temazcalera, the guide, she passed out from what I believe was carbon monoxide poisoning and we all left with headaches.

I prefer Oaxaca’s lesser known, more modern version of the temazcal, “el vapor.” Los Vapores are steam room/shower houses where for 70 pesos/ 6 dollars, individual(a little less then double that for a couple). You rent not just one steam room but three little rooms for an hour.

There you can buy, if you didn’t bring with you; water, soap, razors, beer, even mezcal. After you pay, the cashier hands you two incredibly crisp, clean white sheets and a towel, then rings a bell. A man appears and shows you to your private rooms. He leaves and you lock the door to prepare for your deep cleaning.

    The rooms are covered in ceramic tiles. The first has a sink and a massage table, where one of your sheets can be put to use. You open another door to the shower room. There are two different showers: the first operated by a chain with a handle, you feel like Darwin doing hydrotherapy, an industrial washing, incredibly powerful, large quantities of cold water shower down. The other shower has a hot water option. You stand on a metal platform like you would a scale and piping hot water rushes out.

     But the real reason to go to el vapor is the last room, the steam room. This business of banos/vapores are often a side-business run in conjunction with a dry cleaning place to share the huge industrial boilers.

You open the door into the steam room and there are some pipes with a lever in the corner. You crack the lever and there is a throaty gurgle and then like a locomotive’s whistle hot steam hisses into the room.

   The first time I went to a vapor I naively opened this valve all the way. The steam came bellowing out so fast that I when I sat down, I was disoriented and could not even see the valve I had just opened. I felt my way along the wall, eyes burning and lungs full of steam. I eventually shut the steam off, more respectful of the industrial boiler powering the impressive steam.

   I think this potential for self injury, the piping hot pipes, the scalding steam, prevents this type of business from being feasible in the United States. Insurance companies wouldn’t allow it. But the control of how much steam you want and when you want it is what I like about these places.

    Here are some tips if this deep cleaning, pore opening experience appeals to you. Bring a huge bottle of water.  Bring your expensive toiletries. Buy a little bit of eucalyptus oil (not sold there) or bring some fresh eucayptus leaves with you to open your lungs. Going as a couple? Bring a little massage oil!

   There are two vapores that I know of in the city. One downtown on Reforma, http://oaxaca.infored.com.mx/18787/Banos-Reforma.html and another one near the Periferico. Both have similar hours 6am- 6pm.

    I hope you enjoy and please leave comments and advice. I am intrested in feed-back.
Also today I am going to the vapores to take some pictures that I will post here.

Check out this link to one of Oaxaca's lesser known parks: http://cafecosecha.blogspot.com/2010/11/parque-colosio.html

Or an Article on how to find a Significant other: http://hubpages.com/hub/Wheretomeether

El Vapor

2010-10-10T12:20:00.001-07:00