Ah-ight, ya’ll, the fourth person has asked me, “Where are you now?”
which brought to my attention that I haven’t sent out an update in
months. The good news is I’ve been so wrapped up in my book that I
haven’t had any writing juice left in me by the end of the day. There’s
supposed to be bad news when there is good news, isn’t there? The only
thing I can think of is on Friday I start the first real job I’ve
had since May of 2010, which in and of itself isn’t bad news at all.
It’s very exciting actually. It’s all the “have to’s” that come with a
real job that is bad news. In other words, I’ve got to clean up, and
stop acting and looking like my permanent residence is a tent. I’ve got
to give a rat’s ass about my personal appearance. I’ve got to look in
the mirror before I walk out the door, and not just to pop zits. I’ve
got to start showing up, and on time! I’ve gotten sooooo lax living in
Latin America. “I’ll be there,” means wait until ten minutes after you
were supposed to be there and then drag ass to the event, if and when
you feel like it. Ya’ll ain’t even believing I could live like that, are
you? Ms. Stressed Out, Uptight, Perfectionist, Punctuality Pants
herself. The whole reason I started this self-induced life douche which
has landed me here in a fishing village in Uruguay is I had a nervous
breakdown from taking things too damn seriously.
Anyway, as first
steps toward a return to professionalism, I bought a travel hairdryer, a
new dress shirt (not from the Thrift!) and some eyeliner. I know you
want to know about the new job: One of the many positive things Obama
has done while in office is open relations with Cuba, and it is now
possible for Americans to enter the country directly, instead of having
to sneak in through a backdoor, i.e. another country. It’s got some
stipulations. Not just any American in white tennis shoes, dark socks,
Bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt carrying a camera around his neck can get
in. If your reason for going to sit on the beach and drink Pina Coladas,
forget it. The visit must be in a group, authorized by permit, and have
the intention of participating in an educational/cultural exchange with
the Cuban people. My particular program is called “People to People” (http://www.grandcirclefoundation.org/cuba/12day-itinerary-cuba-a-bridge-between-cultures.aspx)
and my job is as an adventure travel tour operator leading groups that
leave from Miami. The bestest part of all is that we are assigned a Cuba
tour guide who provides the facts, dates, history, blhaa, blhaa, bhlaa
commentary on the sites we see. My job is to sniff out ADVENTURE, to
find opportunities for us to interact with the people off the beaten
path.
If you’ve been following these travelogues you know thatsort
of thing is my specialty. In the interview I had to talk about a time
when I stirred up my own adventure. Of course, I had a plethora to
choose from, but I told the story about getting the 75 year-old bank
guard in the Dominican Republic to escort me up to the waterfalls in
Limon. Remember we started out in the back of a truck with a bunch of
yahoos just dragging out of the bars? Then we went to his house (more of
a tin roof shack) and his wife made me a big breakfast? Then I refused
to ride a horse up to the falls, like everybody else in their right mind
does, and he had to carry me on his shoulders to ford the rivers? My
retelling of that one was a ringer—bam, hired. (If I had told the one
about visiting the cocaine lab in the Colombian jungle, I would have
ruined my career.) As I said, the training starts this Friday, so I’ll
fill you in on details next time, assuming my alarm goes off and I make
it to Miami….haven’t had to use it for so long.
It’s a great day
to catch you up. It’s so foggy that if the mist molecules were to have a
group hug, we’d be in a downpour, which is what might happen if this
pattern plays out. Last weekend we had two gorgeous days (like
yesterday) followed by fog, followed by a
blow-the-hide-right-off-your-hair- red- alert tropical storm. I swear I
thought I was going to end up in Kansas, when I took off to the store on
my bike.
------------------------------------
As always, I started writing a travelogue way back when and I hate to waste it, so:
October 2, 2012
Once
again I bring you old news narrated in present tense, but hopefully
with this one I’ll get you caught up all the way to the moment at hand,
which is a bus ride back to my little village on the coast of Uruguay.
Time should be no excuse for not finishing given it’s a four and a half
hour trudge. {ha! that didn’t happen} It rains outside the
window; I’m quickly moving through a pack of oatmeal, chocolate chip
cookies to cope with the wet and grey. Even without them, though, I’m
mostly sunny on my inside.
September 9-29, 2012
After
reluctantly leaving the Texas ranch that became so dear to me, I landed
in a most comfortable situation in the Oakland, CA penthouse of my dear
friend of 20+ years, Roxanne. We met way back in 1995 in Ecuador, lost
contact for over a decade, reconnected and picked up where we left off
as if we’d just had lunch yesterday. I hope you are fortunate enough to
have friendships like that.
If you’ve been following my travels
since the first trip to Spain in 2010, you will remember my flatmate and
charge, Kitty Conan the Barbarian, whose claw marks I still bare today
and on whose throw up I slipped and busted my ass, but good. Again I am
sharing space with furballs, but Roxanne’s four cats are of a
delightfully docile temperament and mostly ignore me. There is one
little, teeny tiny….what do I call it?.... hindrance to a metaphorically
clawless cohabitation: Patches… or Sprouts… or Mr. Tabbs… or maybe it’s
Scratchy, anyway, one of them, suffers from Meow Mix reflux disease.
After a squashy step on a few sick spots, I’ve trained myself to cross
the living room on tiptoes, as if navigating a minefield in the shadowy
morning light. It’s a good idea to scan the cushions, too, before taking
a seat, but that’s as automatic to me as buckling up in a car. During
the stay on the ranch, I learned to always look down and back for
rattlesnakes before plopping my hindparts on a rock.
While we are
on the topic of snakes, a highlight of this trip to California has been
to meet some first cousins I’d only heard about and seen in photos. In
general, we are colossally different in how we turned out, that’s to say
in our lifestyles. One similarity, though, is how we welcome strangers
into our homes. If you had come to our house when I was a kid, we would
have plucked from the rafters the teenage bobcat we raised in the
basement and handed her to you so as to make you feel at home. Truth is,
if she didn’t warm up to you, she would think you a rabbit, stalk you
through the house and then sneak attack your ass with a pounce from
behind. My cousins got that beat, though. They bust out a 6ft red tail
boa constrictor to give you a warm hug (actually, it’s cold. “Demon,”
as he/she/it is called, is hoping you provide the warmth). Once I
emerged from my 30 min, get-your-shit-together pep talk with myself in
the bathroom, it was a very bonding experience for all of us, especially
Demon.
--------------------------
It’s not a g-logue without a “seatmate story”:
The
seat in front of me creeks loudly with every move of the 250lb,
restless rugby player trying, unsuccessfully, to get comfortable. A news
flash comes to mind I had heard the day before about a row of seats on
an aircraft that came unbolted in turbulence. The seats did a jig across
the aisle and the plane made an emergency landing. Of more note to me
than the incident itself was the insight of an expert aeronautical
engineer they brought in. He commented, “ Seatbelts are of no use in a
case like this when the seats aren’t attached to the plane itself. The
passengers will just go wherever the seats go, if they aren’t bolted
in." Hmmmm….never would have imagined that!
Forget that preflight
speech about oxygen masks and floatation devices. We’ve all heard that
so many times we know it by heart. I want some new instructions on what
to do when my seatmates slam the top of their heads into the overhead
compartment and get a concussion. I’m usually the shortest one on the
row, so they are going to take the brunt of the blow and I’ll be left to
deal with the injuries.
If the row I’m on ever comes unbolted,
I’m going to pray for some religious fanatic types to be seated around
me, the kind that believe in the laying on of hands and speaking in
toungues. They will keep us grounded, and so confused we won't even
notice we are about to have a neck reduction. I’d be much more worried
about whether or not they were putting in a good word for me than
hobbling around the cabin in a three-legged race toward first class.
-------------------------
On
a final note, I’m over this book nagging at me to be birthed. Talk
about a difficult labor. I’m not messing around anymore, so when people
ask, “Are you a writer?”, as they so often do because I’m forever
scrawling in my diary in public places and bumming pen, paper or a
crumpled napkin off someone so as to not lose an inspiration, I’m going
to stop answering, “Well, kinda, I like to write stuff” and affirm,
“Yes, I am.”
I bought in the airport bookstore a memoir and a
collection of humorous essays. Before leaving I returned to the shelf
where I got them, laid my hand on an open spot and said to myself and
the Universe, “This is where mine goes.” Then Maya Angelou came to mind.
I heard her deliver a speech at Radford University in 1990 that she
opened by singing a line from a poem she wrote: “I shall not be moved.”
It applies to my conviction to overcome the barriers that keep my voice
unheard. The rest of me is movin' on....to Cuba!!!!!!! And then VA for
Thanksgiving!!!! And then back here to Punta del Diablo for sun and
beach!!!! And then…..wherever the winds blowing toward fun take me.
Happy Halloween and love, G
