Travelogue 26, Salem, VA: An Honorable Parting for Pop

My Dearest Friends and Family,
As most of you know, Pop died three weeks ago yesterday, but that’s not the reason I am cleaning out the deep freeze. We weathered a mountain hurricane last Friday when Virginia saw the worst wind storm of its history, leaving a record number of homes without power. At my house we were 6 days without electricity and I dug it—reading by candlelight, bucket bathing in the backyard buck naked. I call it residential roughing it. Best of all, I had the whole house and 64 acres to myself, save the wild critters, because my brother took his family to the in-laws where there was A/C.
The storm was wild. My sister-in-law and niece had gone to the store.  The lights started blinking and a few seconds later went out. Then my brother got a frantic call from his daughter saying they were trapped on the road by a fallen tree. The call dropped and we couldn't get them again. I looked out the window at a black cloud covering the entire sky and it sounded like a train was going to bust through the gray wall any second. I was sure we were in a tornado. The windows were shaking and the doors moaning and the monstrous trees on our land whipping around.  I took my 10-month-old nephew to the basement while my brave (crazy?) brother went out with the 2-year-old, Bryce, to tie down the trampoline, which had "walked" across the yard. All secured, my brother got his chainsaw and left me in the dark with the boys while he went to rescue the women.
Thank god my brother had filled little Bryce’s order before the electricity went out. That clever rascal pulled a kitchen chair under the microwave, crawled up with the big Halloween candy bowl and shouted, “Popcorn! Popcorn!”

Once we were left alone in the dark with no Thomas the Train on a screen to captivate him, it saved me. Handing me a piece of popcorn for every piece he put in his mouth kept him entertained for quite a while. I buttered his good behavior with a heavy slathering of, “Thank you! What a sweet boy!”  Too, it helped that he never caught on that every time he looked away I dropped the handful of sweaty pops I’d accumulated back into the bowl.
Over an hour went by and I realized I don’t know jack shit about babies except they are cute when they aren’t crying. When the little one started wailing I found a half full bottle of milk under a sofa cushion, said a blessing over it that it wasn’t spoiled and stuck it in his mouth. Worked like a charm.
FINALLY, they got home. They had to go all the way around to the back entrance to the 'holler and my brother had to cut several trees out of the road for them to get through. They found the toddler happily rocking in his rocking chair and the baby asleep on my chest--it turned out to be one of the sweetest moments of the difficult week we had been through.
Back to the reason I am here. Sadly so, the finer–than-frog-hair-split-3-ways, popcorn-fart- in-a-hot-skillet, stud-horse-piss-with-the-foam-farted-off Pop, famous for his sayings, has moved on to the heaven he believed so strongly in. He lived his life according to the Bible as he understood it, to make sure he wasn’t left outside the pearly gates. Even if heaven doesn’t exist, the man made a big dent in any bad karma he had accumulated and racked up a lot of brownie points to make life easier on him his next time around.  Mangus Hollow, Virginia has lost a treasure and I would even go as far as to say the United States has lost one of the members of the Greatest Generation. I have heard Pop’s war stories a zillion times, but he was a humble man and did not brag much of his military honors. While searching for his discharge papers to apply for VA burial benefits, I came upon newspaper articles about his merit, a certificate for the 58 missions he flew and his purple heart.  He truly was a hero of this country.
I’ve got to stop there. If I keep on talking about Pop I’ll be  boohooing instead of writing and never finish this long overdue travelogue. I’ve written about so much about him, that if you’ve been with me since the inception of these adventure sharings back in 2001, you know why I loved him so much.

Pop telling stories at Thanksgiving

If you are caught up on the ‘logues, you will recall that all was not frog-hair fine last time I came to visit.  Bluntly put, it was an emotional disaster and I had said I might never come back. Obviously I did. Pop was a very peaceful man and to honor his way, the siblings and sister-in-laws put their differences aside and joined hands in a circle to weep our collective tears into the abyss he has left behind.  That’s the romantic poet in me painting the scene. What actually happened was just before walking into the sanctuary for the funeral service, I grabbed suit collars and bra straps as if they were jerseys and pulled everybody into a huddle like the starting lineup of a football team preparing to hit the field. We stacked hands in the center and everyone committed to civility and unity and to never going back to the way it was before.
That lasted about as long as it took for the dirt to settle on Pop’s grave. It was enough, though, to get us through living under the same roof while the obligatory ceremonies and receiving of the steady flow of visitors took place. That’s all I’ll say about family stuff this time around.
At age 90, I can’t say Pop’s death was a surprise, but I certainly didn’t expect when I woke up on June 21 that later that day I would have to drop everything to close up shop in Punta del Diablo, throw together a suitcase, board a bus for a five hour trip, nap the night on an airport bench, and spend the next 48 hours working my way home via 5 flights, crisscrossing South, Central and North America. Needless to say, it was a yank on my system, but not so much that I couldn’t gather the material for the expected entertaining public transportation anecdote.
As I mentioned, it took five flights for me to travel the 4,300 miles between Punta del Diablo and Mangus Hollow. For the last leg of the journey I was seated by a smelly teenager, riper than he would have been had the air conditioning on the little twin engine been working. He was gangly, too, and unapologetic for his knees and elbows crossing all over into my space. He fell into a deep sleep and starting doing that reflexive jerking which sent his obtuse triangles into my ribs and thighs. He was so asleep that when the flight attendant came down the aisle with the cart and his size 14 foot was flopped out blocking traffic, that the man across from us had to push his unruly extremity out of the way several times, but it kept falling back out into the aisle. It was like trying to house a jack in a box that has a broken latch. Finally, the gentleman  picked up the leg and stuffed it back in the space it had been assigned.
I was about to suggest to the flight attendant that she hand me that sample seatbelt and buckle they use for the preflight pep talk to see if we could strap that leg to something to hold it in place…though I wasn’t offering my leg as that something.   Finally, the kid roused and he turns to me to ask, “Was I sleep talking?”
“Excuse me?,” I answered.
“Was I sleep talking?”
“You mean talking in your sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“You better believe it,” I wanted to say, “Look down at that bulge in your shorts. We all heard your elaboration on the beverage service question, ‘What can I get you, Hon’?’”
This dude and I had started off on the wrong foot, anyway.  First of all, he wasn’t in his assigned seat and had a bit of an attitude about getting out of mine. He moved across the aisle to someone else’s seat who got on after us and gave him the boot as well, which is how he ended up occupying what would have been my backpack’s seat once we reached cruising altitude. He was obviously not in the mood for musical chairs despite his standby status, which meant he should have been grinning with gratitude that there was a space open for him to plop his bony ass down.
He had some other irritating quirks, too, like pinching the top of his little foil bag of snack peanuts between thumb and forefinger and slinging it violently, for a long time. I’m guessing it was to settle the salt. After all that effort one would think he would delicately pick out individual peanuts for consumption, but no. He turned up the whole bag and downed it as if it were a shot of tequila.  Sodium chaser? I don’t know. I had slept a max of 5 hours of the last 48 and I wasn’t in the mood for jabs,  pokes, disagreeable smells or illogical, obnoxious behaviors.  I wish him well on his journey toward adulthood and I hope he gets a bar of soap, some deodorant and a lesson or two in manners in his stocking this year.
The Mangus Hollow Rehab Center for Mutts and Other Strays has again taken me in (see travelogue 24). Remember Banana Split, Hank, my  schizophrenic kennelmate? The one that hides under the furniture at the slightest crinkle of a plastic bag?

Hank out from under the furniture.

I must congratulate myself for finally passing the sniff test after 99 failed attempts. He now has a bipolar attachment issue and at moments clings to me like a dryer sheet to a sock in the permanent press cycle. Some nights I get a slobbery foot bath and a doggie breath facial vapor treatment before bed to boot. I’m glad. I need a needy companion right now to sooth the pains of grieving. Thanks, Hank, for being just the way you are.
Well, I have a half-written travelogue updating life in Uruguay, but I’ll save it for later. What’s next? Back to Dallas on the 19^th to take care of business with the house and other practical matters. I will be returning to Punta del Diablo, but it may not be for a month or so. Truthfully, I miss the sunrises and my students, but I’m in no hurry to get back to winter. Hope to see the Dallas friends while I’m in town.
I leave you with a picture taken from the chair Pop was sitting in the moment he passed.  The man was in so good with his God that I know he was granted a right so few are given, to choose the time and place from which we depart this earthly life.
As always, much gratitude for reading and for being who you are in my life… with a scoop of love on top, G

Travelogue 25, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: The Return

Gwynne and Joe meet some of friends here in the first "Cena Internacional" in Uruguay. Represented: Argentina, Sweden, England, Uruguay, USA

Travelogue 24, Salem, VA: The Mangus Hollow Rehab for Mutts and Strays

My Dearest Friends and Family,
Greetings from The Mangus Hollow Rehab Center, Salem, Virginia, USA. Usually the Rehab only accepts stray dogs, but they’ve made an exception and taken me in. I showed up on their doorstep in a February snowstorm, shaking and out of my wits.  But, I get ahead of myself, first, the part about what brought me back to the motherland. It’s a shorta’ long story, but what else have I got to do but tell it? I’m unemployed and living in a place where coon hunting is the best nightlife the town has to offer. May as well make good use of the freedom and isolation.
Nineteen days ago I was plucked like a perky daisy in a May field bloom from my newfound life in Uruguay and plopped back down in the den of darkness in which I was raised. Sounds grim, I know. On that Saturday morning I received an email that Dad was not, “fine as frog hair split three ways,” as he usually describes himself. In fact, he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. After pacing through his first 24 hours in ICU 4,300 miles away, I made the decision to pack up the happiest I’ve ever been and board a bus to begin the long journey to my father’s side. As you know, I most often occupy travel time writing the reflections I send to you, but on this trip I sewed patches on my holey jeans and then wrote Dad’s eulogy for the funeral.
Astoundingly, that piece of writing has been filed away for a later date. In Dad’s words, “I guess the Lord just doesn’t want me yet.” In my words, the man is as stubborn as a hot and thirsty mule standing in a creek during dog days. He's determined to not do what he doesn’t want to do, even when it comes to his own dying. I call it aggressive-passive behavior. It’s not that the Lord doesn’t want him. It’s that he’s telling the Lord to talk to the hand until he’s done watching his grandsons grow. (definitely my phrasing there--Pop would deem that image blasphemy.)
As for how I arrived at the Mangus Hollow Rehab, that story dates back to before Pop’s sperm put the move on Mom’s egg. Since I’ve already bought a ticket to Dallas for the day after tomorrow, I'd best not go back that far and just pick up with a week ago Sunday. It's a delicate issue. Let’s introduce it by saying a festering family zit popped and it was messy. Cosmically, I didn’t know what to make of it at the time.  My paradise was lost (I was sooooooooooooo happy in Uruguay) and Dante’s inferno found (did not want to return to my "old" life, especially the one of 40 years ago). I now see it as a necessary blessing, a part of the journey that I've asked for and that will free my soul to soar to new heights.
Family fights are never about what they seem on the surface. In other words, when a wife explodes at a husband for not leaving his muddy shoes on the porch, tracks across a just vacuumed carpet aren't really the issue, they are just the symptom. Such was the case when one of my family members absolutely went ballistic because I relocated his bows and guns without permission so I could have a weapon-free environment to sit and read my book.  I question a bit the ethical issue of hanging his dirty laundry out on the cyberline to flutter dry, but given that he's been loading the cannon with which he blasted me with stuff I've been sharing in these travel logs for the past decade, I’m going to let myself be human and feel no shame in telling the story, authentically, as I experienced it.
In no time a’tall the topic of discussion went from moving his cheese to his accusation that I am a gypsy, pothead, self-centered, family-abandoning, atheist, astray,  lying,  bitch who doesn't give a damn about the worry her traipsing off to foreign countries causes her daddy. Of course, I'm giving you the condensed version. There were many words between each adjective in that string, mostly citing construed evidence to support the insult from something I have written about in the missives.
I could have stomached it a little better, if he had delivered his tirade a bit more eloquently and accurately...something along these lines:
My dear, dear sister, having read your skillfully written and most entertaining travelogues over the past ten years I have come to the conclusion that your manner of living is quite to the contrary of my own, which I find to be rather disturbing, and thus inacceptable. I am of the Christian persuasion and a family man. My close-minded, conservative, religious upbringing mandates that everyone live like me.  Anyone who refuses to follow suite is gravely astray from the fold and thus misguided, unworthy and in danger of eternity in Hell. It's not really of concern to me that the accommodations in Hell be to your disliking. Then again, you live in a tent like some barbaric martyr, so an eternity in the toaster may not serve as a sufficient recompense for the suffering you cause others. As for your drug problem, the fact that I personally have never seen you drunk, much less under the influence of cannabis, does not preclude the likelihood that you partake in illegal substances. It is enough that you shacked up with a bunch of surfers in a hostel in Uruguay. Birds of a feather flock together.
You know dear, sinning sibling, your choices in life are the reason that I am screaming and cursing at you right now. It's your fault that I am so angry about where my choices have landed me that I have lost all control and am raising my fist and threatening to smash your face in. None of this would be happening if you would just conform to suffering and unhappiness like normal people do!! If you would have just done as we were told and not questioned it, I wouldn't have to see the truth of my entrapment in the contrast of your freedom and overpower you with physical violence!!
I didn't stick around for the closing act and that's how I ended up at the rehab, which is what I call my cousins' house down the hill. For thirty some years Mikey and Allan have picked up dumped dogs from alongside the road and nursed them back to health. Anytime their four doggie beds are full, they pay for shots and neutering of the overflow and find them a loving home.  My hab mates at the moment are a standard poodle, Bella, who is taller than I when on two feet and Hank, a short-haired mutt with a split personality. He was severely abused as a pup and at the slightest sound--a crinkling of a plastic bag, the closing of a drawer, an unfamiliar voice--he hightails it into hiding. Sometimes a petrified look comes into his eyes like he is having a flashback without any provocation. After a few days, he finally let me pet him, but Mikey and Allan are the only humans he really trusts, which tells you much about the love they radiate. But, alas, Hank has arrived at canine heaven without having to die. The daily routine: breakfast, petting, treat, short walk, petting, trip to the park for a long walk, treat, afternoon nap, treat, petting, play time, petting, dinner, t.v., treat, bed.  I got just about the same attention except instead of a Milkbone, I got my laundry done. In conclusion, I could have found no better refuge for riding out the familial storm. There you have this edition's example of how unexpected kindness shows up everywhere I go.
As for my making meaning out of the unwanted interruption of the happiest I’ve ever been: I needed for my brother to get so mad that he raised his fist to hit me. I needed to be scared so badly that I shook, cried, talked nonsense, locked myself in the car and had an emotional breakdown. And, as a gift to soften the blow, this all happened in a snowstorm, a sign that I was not alone. As my meltdown unfolded inside the car, out the windshield, I starred into one of Nature’s miracles, the white one, the one that purifies and leaves a healing hush in the forest the next morning so thick and inviting that a frozen soul can find comfort and warmth under a blanket of cold crystal.


I needed it all to happen just as it did to break with the past that’s bound me, to find the place of joy within me from which I want to live the rest of my life. Fear of family disapproval has kept me half-assing any commitment to my calling. I’ve been living with one foot in my dreams and one foot stuck in the quicksand of my raising. They will say I am a coward and abandoning my father. I say I am choosing my well-being over a self-destructive loyalty to people who confuse love with control. The final swipe of the icing knife passed over the cake when Pop said, “It’s just hard for me to understand why a woman of your education and accomplishment is settling for so little…..”  So little, Pop? Can you find a measuring tape big enough to go around the waist of inner peace and happiness?
So, what next? everyone wants to know. Back to Dallas to regroup and then ????????. There’s a hankering to hunker down in silence, read the trunk of diaries I've kept since third grade and write the book I’ve started a gazillion times and never finished. I visualize that happening in an inspiring accommodation in Nature where contact with humans is optional. Ideally that would come about as a house-sitting gig or a work/stay trade. We'll see if that opportunity shows. There is another hankering to get back to the happiness I left in Uruguay. Between now and whatever I do the goal is trust that if I continue on the course of healing with the end in mind of helping others do the same, I will be provided for. Ain’t easy, but it's the choice I'm choosing.
I’m departing VA with Pop saying he's, “fine as frog hair split three ways…and shaved,” --that’s better than I found him. I take with me his final words as I walked out the door, “I love you….to the end.” I leave behind “Me too, Pop,” and all the rest.
Much love,
G

Travelogue 23, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: A Keyless Existence

Hello all. Hope this finds you well. This is going to be an experimental edition of the t-logues. I'm going to attempted the never attempted--write straight through without rereading, editing, obsessing. This is right in line with my new style of living. I haven't bushed my hair in 2 month!!, no lie, and it looks fabulous.  (sorry Elaine!!! no make up either) I get out of the shower, give it a finger rake and toss it to the wind along with what others might think about it. I'll go back to being hip, because I like looking a tad taylored, but for the moment, it's all about letting go of conditioned thought and comma splices (sorry Mrs. Hartenstein-Raker)
Actually, it's pointless to brush one's hair here. It's so damn windy it will take the hide right off your hair, a Pop saying you've heard before. Speaking of Pop, last time I called it went like this:
--Hey Pop. Whatcha' doing?
--Awww, watching a tiger get his nuts cut off.
--What?Watching a tiger get his nuts cut off?
(sounds like Little Lucia doesn't it)
-Yeh, it's one of those t.v. animal programs, they are castrating a tiger.
See how I turned out to be  a  short, white woman version of Richard Prior?
--
Since I last wrote, I continue to sleep in my tent by choice, but have had a major upgrade in facilities and hang-out space. I've gone from this

employee kitchen at previous hostel

to this:

new kitchen/eating area

and this:

bathroom at previous hostel

to this:

new john

shower art

the mirror I would look in if I gave a rat's ass about my hair

This, unexpected hospitality upgrades, continues to happen for at least one reason I am aware of: so I can learn to accept kindness graciously, to not have to feel guilty over it, or question what I've done to deserve it or feel I have to pay it back. Just being grateful is enough.
A furry cat worm (the direct translation) is the cause of my break from the tourism table I set up and mentioned in the pre-travelogue.

this is a cousin, the actual culprit is much uglier

This morning the critter, no call an s.o.b an s.o.b , stung me when I stuck a beach chair it was resting on under my armpit. It provides an opportunity to give you insight in to my life here. I return with the bastard in a plastic cup in case I stop breathing, become unconscious and need an antivenom. The cleaning lady, quite concerned, identifies it by the above name and immediately cuts a tomato in half and tells me to hold it on the area. Slap a slab of 'mater on it and you'll be good as new. She's driven in from the outskirts of town every morning as an aside. Then comes the night watchmen with a bag of ice. Two Advil and three hours later I cannot bare the pain which now originates just to the right of my right breast, curses up through the pit, over the shoulder and right down to the tip of my fuck-off finger. At the phramcay there is a Chilean couple behind me who prescribes pineapple juice (ingested, not as a soak). The phramisits as the woman if she is a dr. She answers no, but a mother of 3 and grandmother of 8, to which i say,her titles far outweigh the authority of a dr. They insist on driving me to the store for the remedy. There I run into a Canadian couple I helped find lodging at the bus stop yesterday. They invite me over for dinner. At the store chec out I tell the owner what the juice is for. He goes to the back, gets cream and lathers up the spot swearing I'll be good as new. On the hike back up to the hostel, one of the other hostel owners sees me and gives me a lift. There is just that kind of kindness running rampant through this little village, if you are open to receiving it
There are the bad guys too, which brings me to the scandal yesterday of which I am the center of attention. The police were called, reports written, restraining orders issued (not to restrain me, but protect me). It seems their is one hostel of hostile young assholes who think I am stealing their business, though if the dumbasses would check my records they would see I have sent them as much, if not more,  business as others. That's coming to a screeching hault. Apparently one of the van drivers has been informing them that I am favoring the hostel where I am staying, which is totally untrue, again check my records. So, here comes one of the misinformed assholes to verbally attack me. It was observed by one of the people with pull in the town and next thing I know the police is there...and the owners of the hostel where I stay. In the end, they are as immature as 8th graders and I'm going to treat them as such...not engage in the conflict. Nonresistance. I'm making twice as much off of helping the cabana owners as the hostels, so I'm going to dedicate myself to that and promoting my language classes. I'll still hand out maps and orient visitors at MY table,

notice the spies in the background

which is the part I so enjoy, but just not recommend any hostels or receive commissions. Most people say I'm letting the assholes win and I should fight it and hold my ground. Gigi is going to follow in Ghandi's footsteps. I don't want to "win" anything. I want to stay, undisturbed, in my place of joy, without it depending on what anyone else does or doesn't do.   See what reading books instead of the newspaper will do for you? Too, the other day I realized I'm living a keyless existance. I don't have a house key, car key, office key.....the freedom that comes with that is what has allowed me to take all these risks. A revelation came to me during the morning meditation on the rocks:  as a human being all I really NEED is food, water, shelter and love. There is no way in hell any of my friends here (or there=you) will let me go without any of those.  I also thought, when you are already on your knees, which is where the last few episodes of depression put me, there's no chance of falling. That sounds like a bookmark poem that may have already been said, but I swear I hadn't heard it, so I'm taking credit for it. See what  living in a tent and out of a backpack can do for you?
Last we left off, if I recall correctly, Little Lucia was still around. She's been long gone, for months, which tells me an update is long overdo. Her mother got in a fight with her boss, who is her half-sister, or something like that, over not keeping the bathrooms stocked, or something like that, and overnight L. Lucia wasn't around to interrogate me. I miss the little bugger. That kind of fighting was indicative of the ambiance of the hostel and as of date, over 1/2 the staff have left--the best people of course. the owner is left with the ones who could give a rat's all about doing a job well. They want a place to shower and park their surf-boards. I tried to warn the owner what was coming and all the staff really wanted was to feel appreciated. We took a job working there for a meal a day, a bed and $200 a month. That's right, do the math, $7 a day. Before I took my financially well-being in my own hands, I was living a totally new experience--balking over a pack of gum at the check-out...did I really need it? what would I have to give up if I bought it? Made me realize how off I (and perhaps you) have been when the words, "I don't have any money" come out of my mouth.
So, before setting up my little tourist info table, I gave it a go with eco-tourism with a bus pick up (I meet the coolest people on the bus), Pablo. I came up with the idea of a "Mate sunrise" hike. Mate is THE mark of Argentina and Uruguay. the beverage itself is much like green tea, but with 10x the caffience. The apparatus through which it is consumed is quite bong like, and it's passed around the circle in joint-hit fashion. These people are as addicted to it as American's are Starbucks. They walk around all the time hugging a thermos to their chest as if it were the first born.

"mate bong"

Plablo 'splainin' mate

taking a hit

Anyway, the hikes with Pablo didn't turn out..one reason being his out of control fear of snakes, which he shares profusely before the group takes one step into nature. It is true that Punta del Diablo hosts one of the most venemous and dangers snakes of South America, la crucera, and I've crossed paths with several, both dead and alive on my long runs. They are like most snakes, though, they just want to be left alone and unless you step on one or mess with it, they high-scale it the other direction. Despite this, Pablo has invented a snake repelling walking stick that absolutely cracks me up. He swears snakes don't like the smell of Crayola magic markers, so he sticks one in the tip of this alumunum telescoping pole he's come up with. He's a trip.
So, I now know I have an editing disorder. I couldn't do it...I corrected, revised.... , but only 10 times instead of 40. That's progress. Revisors's anonymous?
So....what next...it starts getting cold here in May, so I'll head back to the states then, visit family and look for a tour guiding job where ever it's warm. Next winter, I'll be back here, where I'm thinking about starting a little language school...got tons of support for it already. Just a thought.
I'll leave you with a few photos of the Natural beauty I enjoy every single day...morning, evening and night.
Much love to each of you,

Travelogue 21, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: The Holiday Edition

Hello All. Here you have the holiday edition of the latest travelogue, which I have been trying to finish for over two weeks. I just don't get how I can be so busy when I live in a tent in a town about as big as my neighborhood in Dallas.
One of my bus pick-ups and I are launching our eco-tourism project on Tuesday. That's taking up some time.
Some power that be had Pablo choose the bus seat beside me, I struck up a conversation and it turns out he wants to move out of electricity and into ecotourism. What a coincidence that I want to start a career in that area too. He's so disorganized that he is almost ditsy, but he is passionate about medicinal plants, the history of Punta del Diablo and the environment.  For the followers of the travelogues, you'll remember my unpleasant experiences on motorcycles in the Dominican Republic. Well, a motorscooter is how Pablo and I make our rounds through town and I'm still scared to the point of squeezing the wind out of the driver if we go any faster than absolutely necessary to keep us upright. Thank God he is the sensitive type.
So, that's what's to come, backtracking a bit, Christmas for me is like a shot. I squint, look away, and pant "this too shall pass."  I've pealed off the cotton ball and band aid and give thanks that the soreness is gone just in time for New Years. At least this year I didn't have to deal with the commercials, consumerism and present pressure. Ever since Mom died in 2002 I haven't been able to muster up a heartfelt Christmas sentiment. I kind of stopped celebrating it other than out of obligation.  I tried, really, to sort of get into the spirit this year. Look at the lyrics I came up with on the Eve of Christmas Eve, 2011
“Deck my bush with boughs of seaweed, fa-la-la-la-la….la, la, la la”  “Away in her tent, no room for a bed, the little vagabond Gigi lays down her sweet head…” " Now dashing through the dunes, in a 20 horse power 4-wheeler, over the hills we go, screaming all the way."
It turned out to be a "Merry Christmas, I suppose" sort of event.
My dear friends, Yolanda
and Juan, departed for Spain on the 22 and I slipped into the hole they left behind. My dream home cabana was rented, and thus I moved from
     back to

and spent part of the day adjusting my sleep number  mattress with a shovel. Rain was pooling under my bottom and that just wouldn't do. I'm back to sharing a substandard bathroom with 20 other hostel slaves. So, to be honest, my Christmas was not so Ho Ho Hot. Now that I think about it, Christmas Eve last year I was in a similar dim, but alone, save that crazy, barfing cat I was sharing my friend's flat with in Valladolid.  (see Travelogues 1-3 Spain) If you recall, I decided to take hot chocolate that night to the two homeless people I had seen in the park while running and I spent the Eve of the homage to the Christ Child's birth freezing my ass off, literally, on below 32 concrete getting to know Angel and Manoli. On every subsequent return to Valladolid we've continued building the friendship born under an abandoned bar awning. Not far off from the manger scene.
Has it really been a year since I threw myself to the wild abandon of a midlife crisis??? Geezus, where does the time go? My 3 month tourist visa is about to expire here...that's another shocker for me.
The best gift of this Christmas was Little Lucia peeping in the hostel front door on x-mas morn' , "Zche zche!!!" (as she pronounces my name-all the Uruguayans do)  We've a tradition now of running toward each other with our arms spread wide like two lovers in a Viagra commercial in slow motion, subbing lip locks for pecks on the cheek, of course. I swung her up on my hip, grabbed one of her little hands like a tango dancer and busted out in Jose Feliciano's "Feliz Navidad." She giggled until I got to the "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas..." part and then we started a cycle of "eh?" and that incessant question-repeat-answer-repeat holding pattern: (see Travel log 18?)
--Zche, Zche,  What are you doing?
--I'm dancing with you.
-eh?
--I'm dancing with you.
--You are dancing with me?
--Yes, I'm dancing with you.
-Why are you singing funny?
--I'm singing in English.
-eh?
--I'm singing in English.
--You are singing in English?
--Yes, I'm singing in English.
Since it was Christmas I didn't toss her off the deck. Actually the little bugger has grown on me and I look forward to our embraces. A Christmas gift that didn't cost a dime--what if all the world tried it?
It's now New Year's Eve and I'm thinking about spending the evening in my tent reading a book that was gifted me and reflecting on the outgoing and incoming. The hostel comrades and guests are well on the way to snockard, but  I'm not in the mood to join the self-destructive. It's becoming ever so clear to me that the twinge of discontent I feel here has much to do with being on a different path or in a different place in my life.  Well, actually, I am experiencing quite a bit of discontent with working at the hostel.  It's beginning to remind me of a dysfunctional family.  It's the people in town that I'm meeting that makes me love being here. It's all about the people. I'm feeling that life is about the people...not my house, or my job or my living conditions or my personal history. The greatest source of joy I have at the moment are other's lives...from little nose picking Lucia to the Ayurvedic doctor I want to work with to the stoned lost soul at the bus stop who says something I needed to hear.
Well, it's dinner time, 10:48 pm (I've put on so much weight here! It makes no sense to me to eat when you should be in the rinse cycle of R.E.M), so I suppose I will mosey on down to the buffet they are providing for the occasion.
You are reading this because you are one of the significant  people in my life I mentioned before. I wish you the best for the new year. I'll leave you with a few photos of my life here.
Much love and many thanks, Gigi

facing my fear of horses on the horse named "Borracha" (drunk) and she did swerve a lot

Fabian, the guide, one of the coolest people I've met here

Hitchhiking in the back of a truck--please dont' tell Pop!!

Sealion sanctuary-Cabo Polonia

These flowers inspire the daylights out of me--months of no rain, yet they bloom up out of the sand, emerging from the harshest of conditions. And my excuses for not blooming in life.......?

Travelogue 20, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: Hostile at the Hostel

Site seen on a hike to Laguna Negra. Their expressions crack me up.

 

Much love to all,g

Travelogue 19, Uruguay: Happy Thanksgiving From Afar

Dearest Friends and Family,
I again greet you on a Sunday morning from "my office," the partially-private alcove on the second floor of the hostel. This window seat  is  prime real estate and the early bird gets the arm chair.

It's not for the view, however,

but rather the electricity outlet and a temporary reprieve from dance floor foot traffic of the comings and goings of hostel life . We have been near full capacity (54 guests) this week and the introverts like me are exhibiting mouselike behavior. Thank goodness I've got my tent to retreat to, which I have moved to a quieter location since the last travelogue. I’m across the street now, so hidden in a clump of bushes that not even the most observant of passerbys would detect me.
I I feel like a kid in a hideout--fun!
An announcement of my new hood on Facebook brought out the momma hen in my friends--“Are you crazy? Get back across that street! You’ll be robbed, raped, dismembered limb by limb!” they exclaimed.  “I forbid it!” even said one.  I slept with a hatchet by the pillow for the first few nights after these comments were made and then decided the likelihood of any of that happening is about the same as  the Boogieman my brothers swore would get me was.
Just in case, however, I made a little dog house outside the door for the hostel hound, Pelusa (mother of my beloved Buho), for protection. She’s an overly sensitive security system and sets off  the bark alarm at the passing of any dog,  drunkard or lizard.

(I've had prettier neighbors.)

I’ve gotten used to it, though, and go right back to sleep.
Anyway, enough about housing.   Of late, I have been receiving this question, “How are you….REALLY?”  The tag leads me to assume first, that there is doubt that I might be well and second, that, “Fine, thanks, and you?,” will not do as a response. The answer is, more content than I would be, feeling stagnate in the rut my life had become in Dallas. Do I roll out of my tent every morning grinning like a Cheshire cat eager to greet the day? Not yet. That's the goal, be it a tent or a mansion I'm exiting each morning.
I have gotten exactly what I asked for…a change and challenge, but with the uprooting necessary to bring that about has come a resurgence of all my “issues.” It’s been humbling. Some days I feel like a pouty 2 year old, others an indignant teenager, others a cranky old lady.  And then there are the days when I feel I am exactly where I am "supposed" to be, meeting the people who I need to influence and who need to influence me. I see a pair of nesting owls in the dunes or flowers blooming out of nothing but parched sand and remember just how blessed I am to be in new surroundings.
-----
It's now Wednesday, I'm wiped out from working the overnight, so I'm going to tie this up with random writings and photos, so I can get it out in time to wish you Happy Thanksgiving. Of the 365 days we are gifted a year, T-day is my favorite and it's been over 15 years since I've missed the 1'o'clock feast at the homeplace followed by the annual Cowpatty Bowl touch football game played in the pasture. I'm nostalgic, but will try to stay focused on the natural beauty surrounding me and be thankful for what I have where I am and where I'm not.
My job:  For the first three weeks it had my back muscles in knots, my patience in the red and my temper at boiling. A receptionist, I imagined, would answer the phone, receive guests warmly, show them their room, check them in and out and occasionally have to deal with an unsatisfiable asshole who says the towels aren’t soft enough. No, no,no--I spend hours in front of the computer trying to figure out which of the 11 types of rooms we have are available, how many beds are in them, how much they cost during the week, how much they cost on the weekend, how much the price goes up during high season, do they have an ocean view, what % of a deposit the guest has to make, will they be making it on Paypal or wiring it, etc. Then there is keeping track of the money. We work with 5 currencies and when you get some German who has been making a whirwind tour through the south of South America, this is the scenario: we charge everything in US dollars, his bill is $350,  he  wants to put part on his credit card and pay the rest  with some  Brazilian reales,  part with Argentinian pesos  and prefers  his change in euros because he’s returning home.  I have some euros, but the rest must be in Uruguayan pesos.  Put that one on an algebra exam and see how many pass. It's frequent that at the end of my shift the box ends up short or over and it's got nothing to do with my honesty or generosity.
I've started teaching language classes to the staff and guests, and I'm enjoying it. What a difference it makes to teach someone who actually wants to learn! It seems a ridiculous statement to make, but for 11 years I felt like I was force-feeding knowledge. Now, I've nests of open mouths awaiting worms. The other upside to the is fewer hours in reception and only 1 overnight shift per week.
My social life: I don't exactly fit in at the hostel. Here’s an excerpt from a travelogue I started writing to you on October 30:
"Down below in the commons area, the youngsters are assisting one another in the recollection of their most asinine drunken acts of absurdity last night. "Dude, like you were so wasted you threw up all over the girl you were dancing with."   "Man, that's nothing, do you remember taking off your shirt and  pretending you were a black widow screwing a boy spider on the ceiling?" Given there was a Halloween party in the bar, the competition is stiff.  Glory be that I had to work my first graveyard shift and thus didn't have to get mean with my polite decline to attend.  Drunks are insistently obnoxious and I'm obnoxiously insistent in just saying no. As my college mates will tell you, I've never conformed to sloshery under the vice of peer pressure. Not that these are my peers. I could be their momma. As the old hen of this hostel nest, however,  I look at these whippersnappers and feel concern. Some drag in at 6:30 a.m., just in time for a 7 a.m. shift (or don't as in the case of my replacement this morning) hung over as hell dawn after dawn."
Not everyone is like that, but the majority are here to party. I’m finding my friends in the village--a supercool woman from Spain, for example, my same age who owns a set of rental cabanas a ways up the road. Most exciting of all, I met a botonist on the bus who wants to give nature tours in the national park that borders the town. We did a trial run this morning and I am so pumped up to start giving my first eco-tours. I’m doing the marketing, organizing and translating and he’s doing the guiding, teaching and storytelling. The serendipity of him chosing a seat beside me on the bus and me feeling lead to start a conversation with him seems like a Universal conspiracy to me.  We are very much in the planning stages, but even if it doesn’t pan out, just the idea of combining all of my passions--Nature, education, spirituality and Spanish--revs me up.
Weather permitting, I've started the habit of taking coffee and my journal down the water's edge first thing in the morning to greet the day.

The wind will blow the hide right off your hair, as Pop would say, and piles up wads of sea suds.

I'm off to the tent to try to recoop the lost hours of shut eye. I leave you with a sunrise, much love and wishes of a most happy Thanksgiving, G