I had a weird encounter last night. I was waiting at the bus stop (a big empty cavity in a long line of rundown buildings surrounded by strip clubs, casinos and homeless people of various unfortunate dispositions) and this 70-year-old man in a white suit and vest sits next to me and sparks up a conversation. Not much of his hair is left, so he has this comb over that goes from one side of his head to the other and all the way around to the back. It still doesn´t cover up much. The faded white of his eyes and hoarse breathing is more or less a sign that his body is running out on him. I had trouble understanding him because his voice cracked and he spoke very softly, but he happily told me about how he writes books (and pulled some out of his old leather briefcase to show me), how most English speakers are pompous (but how I´m different), and how wonderful it is to live in Coronado. I wasn´t sure if he was about to sell me something or if he just wanted to talk to someone, so I kept up the talk while we waited for the bus. Then he asks me if I have found El Señor, the Lord, and trust Jesus Christ. Of course, I know better from my encounters with random old people in Alabama to say yes to this question, and he just lights up and elbows me saying ¨Que bueno muchacho.¨ As we´re getting on the bus he says something along the lines of ¨You´re going somewhere señor, kindness and goodness will take you there!¨
He sat in the back of the bus and I sat up front. I don´t know if that was rude but I still wasn´t sure if he was going to start asking how much I wanted to buy his book for. 45 minutes later we were in Coronado, and I got off the bus. I had walked about half a block when I had this feeling to turn around and look behind me. The old man, Manuel, was flat on his back in the street. He didn´t budge an inch, even as cars came swooping by his head, sharply veering to the left as they came up on him and noticed him. I ran back up the street and stood over him asking if he was OK. He opened his eyes and looked at me. ¨I fell. I fell. I fell,¨ he kept saying. So I reached my hand out and lifted him to his feet, and asked him again if he was alright. ¨Sí señor, por supuesto!¨ with the smile and tone of a man who did not just fall off a bus and almost get run over. At that moment I knew he was eccentric but completely genuine. After a few other words I told him goodnight and started to walk off, then with what effort he had in his lungs he shouted back at me ¨Just like I told you, young man! Kindness and goodness!¨ Then he walked up the street, turned the corner and was gone.
The end.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
From The Crimson White, 6/21/07
"Learn it while you've got the time"
My last final exam for the spring was May 10, and for me that day was all about what the future would hold. In one day I was going home to Mobile; in two days I was going to board an airplane to Costa Rica.
That night I was rushing to say goodbye to a few friends still in town, clean up my apartment and pack for my trip. In Spanish Fort, I knew that my mom and grandmother, "Grammy," who lived down the street from us my whole life, were expecting my arrival. I was supposed to go down the same day I finished exams, but my errands were too much to accomplish by then.
Some time between doing the dishes and moving boxes I got a call from my sister Rachel. I was sitting down, the lights were dim, and that's all I remember aside from the first words she told me.
"Grammy died," Rachel said, followed by details, followed by questions. But the world was mute all of a sudden, and I looked side to side without a clue of what I was searching for.
My heart sank, and even the voice of my conscience was hoarse. I didn't know what to think, what to do or what to say. So I sat on my living room couch for a long time and didn't say a word to myself.
Had I gone home that night, I would have been with my mom when she discovered my grandmother. She was in her chair, across from the television, as any guest found her when they stopped by, normally just rising from a nap. When you knocked she would turn and throw you a big, giggly smile that would rush the color back into her pale face. She loved people; her heart never failed her in that sense.
But that night she had gone to bed for good, and I was lying on my back, with a million unfinished projects around me, trying to make sense of it all.
I was not the best grandson. I didn't visit Grammy as often as I could have or, more importantly, should have. I don't know what made me do it, because any time I passed up a chance to stop by I knew I was making a mistake. My other grandparents had died a long time ago, and she was the only one I ever knew personally.
And this is what was so profound for me on that Thursday night: I knew the lesson of my grandmother's death before it even came to pass. That all the time I was going to make one day to catch up with her was running out while I watched it pile up.
She used to pick me up from school. She would make egg sandwiches and let me watch cartoons at her house. When I was sick, even on the many days I was faking it, she would visit and make sure I had everything I needed. She loved me and I loved her, so why didn't I ever open up to her about it?
The only thing I know now is it's too late to settle any of that with her. I pushed my flight back one day so I could go to her funeral in Robertsdale that Saturday. My own feelings aside, I knew Ruth (Grammy) Newcomb was one of the fortunate people who got to die peacefully in their favorite chair in their own home, not in a hospital or nursing home where the staff members can be as cold as the tile floor. It was what she wanted, and the peace of having that almost seemed to glow from her body as she lay in her casket.
Without much time to think, I swallowed her passing with a straight face and left for Costa Rica, where I'd have three months to let it sink in, and now two months left until I see her house as an empty one for the first time.
On June 13, I got more bad news from Rachel. My 79-year-old cousin Louise, one of the few lasting gems of Old South society and whose story is worth a series of columns, died from a stroke. If my grandmother's death brought home the point of not putting things off, Louise's death nailed it to the wall just for the sake of cruelty.
Family life is going to be different when I get home. The death of loved ones is always the start of a new era, but that's another point. The important thing is to make the most of your time and that of others, even if you see them every day.
We don't know when "goodbye" will be, where it will happen or who is next. People die, and unfinished business can last forever, so choose your priorities carefully. Put off mowing the lawn and put off getting your hair cut, but when you need to say something to someone you love - for your own sake - say it.
"Learn it while you've got the time"
My last final exam for the spring was May 10, and for me that day was all about what the future would hold. In one day I was going home to Mobile; in two days I was going to board an airplane to Costa Rica.
That night I was rushing to say goodbye to a few friends still in town, clean up my apartment and pack for my trip. In Spanish Fort, I knew that my mom and grandmother, "Grammy," who lived down the street from us my whole life, were expecting my arrival. I was supposed to go down the same day I finished exams, but my errands were too much to accomplish by then.
Some time between doing the dishes and moving boxes I got a call from my sister Rachel. I was sitting down, the lights were dim, and that's all I remember aside from the first words she told me.
"Grammy died," Rachel said, followed by details, followed by questions. But the world was mute all of a sudden, and I looked side to side without a clue of what I was searching for.
My heart sank, and even the voice of my conscience was hoarse. I didn't know what to think, what to do or what to say. So I sat on my living room couch for a long time and didn't say a word to myself.
Had I gone home that night, I would have been with my mom when she discovered my grandmother. She was in her chair, across from the television, as any guest found her when they stopped by, normally just rising from a nap. When you knocked she would turn and throw you a big, giggly smile that would rush the color back into her pale face. She loved people; her heart never failed her in that sense.
But that night she had gone to bed for good, and I was lying on my back, with a million unfinished projects around me, trying to make sense of it all.
I was not the best grandson. I didn't visit Grammy as often as I could have or, more importantly, should have. I don't know what made me do it, because any time I passed up a chance to stop by I knew I was making a mistake. My other grandparents had died a long time ago, and she was the only one I ever knew personally.
And this is what was so profound for me on that Thursday night: I knew the lesson of my grandmother's death before it even came to pass. That all the time I was going to make one day to catch up with her was running out while I watched it pile up.
She used to pick me up from school. She would make egg sandwiches and let me watch cartoons at her house. When I was sick, even on the many days I was faking it, she would visit and make sure I had everything I needed. She loved me and I loved her, so why didn't I ever open up to her about it?
The only thing I know now is it's too late to settle any of that with her. I pushed my flight back one day so I could go to her funeral in Robertsdale that Saturday. My own feelings aside, I knew Ruth (Grammy) Newcomb was one of the fortunate people who got to die peacefully in their favorite chair in their own home, not in a hospital or nursing home where the staff members can be as cold as the tile floor. It was what she wanted, and the peace of having that almost seemed to glow from her body as she lay in her casket.
Without much time to think, I swallowed her passing with a straight face and left for Costa Rica, where I'd have three months to let it sink in, and now two months left until I see her house as an empty one for the first time.
On June 13, I got more bad news from Rachel. My 79-year-old cousin Louise, one of the few lasting gems of Old South society and whose story is worth a series of columns, died from a stroke. If my grandmother's death brought home the point of not putting things off, Louise's death nailed it to the wall just for the sake of cruelty.
Family life is going to be different when I get home. The death of loved ones is always the start of a new era, but that's another point. The important thing is to make the most of your time and that of others, even if you see them every day.
We don't know when "goodbye" will be, where it will happen or who is next. People die, and unfinished business can last forever, so choose your priorities carefully. Put off mowing the lawn and put off getting your hair cut, but when you need to say something to someone you love - for your own sake - say it.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Hey, that´s The Tico Times!
Moving on...
Is it true that I ate lunch in a brothel yesterday?
True.
I had heard that this place (which I will not name to protect, whoever) catered to prostitution, but I was asked to at least take a look at it for my story on popular American hangouts for the July 4 supplement I've been working tirelessly on.
(This commentary flips from past to present tense a lot, but I`m afraid you`ll have to bear with me)
The front of the restaurant/hotel looks like one of those mansions in well, you know, those kinds of movies. The security guard out front meets me with a wide grin and a handshake. This is not how I have ever been greeted at a sportsbar. The big, polished wood doors open, and there´s two young ladies in short skirts, hair done up and breasts popping out of their shirts, just standing in the hallway. I try to move past them ¨Con permiso...disculpame...¨ and they just stand there and smile at me, slowly moving to the side to let me through, and even as I´m passing, through the corner of my eye I see them sizing me up.
There is a big, bright main living area with a fountain, and down several smaller hallways are all these rooms with the same polished doors, each with a gold plate on it saying ¨PRESIDENTIAL SUITE¨ or ¨AMBASSADOR SUITE¨, the exact kind of name you´d give a room for a businessman with that kind of ego complex.
Past the big resting area (ooo, and whats that in the corner? Free internet! Thank God! The old man using it is getting to shop for...lingerie?) is the bar, which looks exactly like any dive bar in your crummy old hometown, with hats from all these football teams and universities on the wall (I did not see a UA cap; did see 2 Florida Gators caps), and it´s just a strange, dark add-on to the otherwise grandiose and bright hotel. There are maybe 6 men in the bar area. They are all old. They are all white. They all have briefcases, and are wearing a Hawaiian shirt or T-shirt with fish on it. Each one of them (and they know no Spanish at all) is flanked by a Costa Rican girl more or less just like the two I saw at the entrance. And they were melting on these guys for just...anything that would make them feel like some brilliant stallion from their good old days. And of course, ANYTHING works. One giggly, tubby fellow I took a distinct disliking to kept repeating little Spanish words as they came up. One girl was laughing and rubbing his arm while he said something like ¨See I´s learnin baby¨ oh eat it you bastard... Sorry. Anyway
The untaken girls sat at one end of the bar in a line, like the taxis in Parque Central waiting to pick someone up, talking in Spanish about their DAUGHTERS and then turning occassionally to smile and wink at one of the old men playing pool behind them. I sat at the opposite end of the bar eating my meal, already positive that I was not including this place in my story, and had to keep looking down because there wasn´t one second when those girls weren´t looking at me either, with this look like ¨Is that guy here for the chicken or...¨ and they brushed my shoulder when they walked past me and waved...and I ate my chicken like a good sonny boy.
I paid my bill, stood up as the change was coming and glanced over at the line one more time. They were frowning at me. Of course, I was frowning from the moment I arrived. Then I caught a cab offered by the restaurant to the main courthouse, which is near my office. The best thing about a place like that is no questions (though I struck up a funny conversation with the cabby about older gringos), so no one had to know why a gringo was leaving lunch to go to the court, and thus not know that I may or may not have been writing about them for a newspaper. Fortunately, I am only writing about them for you people.
Friday, June 8, 2007
My host family owns a lot of dogs. This is one of their dobermans. The telling look of confusion in his eyes, the fury in his stance, and the overall image of unbridled retardation in this ridiculous animal is not just something you made up in your head when you saw him. They have two of them, and they bark. When I´m sleeping, they´re barking. If I´m coming home, they´re barking. If I try to cross the backyard, they´re nipping my heels.
In order to cure at least some of these problems, I bought a huge bag of doggy treats at the Mas x Menos grocery store across the street. Every time I come home, or step into the backyard, and they´re barking at me, I throw them one. I´ve been doing it for the last few weeks. Now when they hear me open the fence, they´re barking like mad, but when they recognize me, they sit down and whimper. I would consider us friends if it weren´t for the fact that they still bark at everything else that passes through the yard, especially at 3 a.m.
In other news, I wrote an emergency column for The CW in less than an hour Wednesday afternoon while I was at work, because I loooooooooove the CW thaaaaaat much. You can read it here
http://media.www.cw.ua.edu/media/storage/paper959/news/2007/06/07/Opinion/Go.Start.Your.Own.Adventure-2912884.shtml
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Have you read ¨On Writing¨ by Stephen King? I am, right now, and I feel so vindicated.
I held off on updating this because I thought I was going to have photos to post, but I´ve continued to put that off too. I expect to have them put on a CD by the end of the week.
I´ve done a lot of things, so I´ll try to report on them as briefly as possible, except a few. First I´d like to share a story from two weekends ago. I went to a house party Saturday that one of my co-workers was at in Heredia, north of San José, with 16,000 colones ($32) in my pocket and by the time the taxi dropped me off I had 4,000 ($8). Thanks to bad advice from locals who will go unnamed, I grossly underestimated how much it would cost to get out there and get back. So before I got there, I knew I wouldn´t be going home that night. But the people were nice and interesting, a good mix of gringos and ticos, and I knew one of my friend´s friends would let me crash at his place.
(Insert all the good times here)
We got to the guy´s apartment at 3 or 4 a.m., and I had 1,000 colones ($2). The only major problem I was posed with by this unfolding scenario was that the next morning I had to be in Escazú, east of San José, by 2:30 pm, with stops in several other cities on the way. Around 10 am I was dreaming that someone was knocking on my door, only to realize that someone was knocking on my door, and I got up. Had a cup of coffee and watched Josh, the guy, slowly eat toast with strawberry jam. We were outside of Heredia, in an even more obscure area without a name. Josh called a cab, and they refused to pick us up. So we walked a few kilometers, past a coffee farm, forgotten public parks and locked up sodas. By 11 we were close enough to town to catch a bus, and by 11:15 we were in Heredia, walking smelly and unshowered through a festival with a full orchestra in the town square, and got onto a new bus to San José.
We parted ways, and at 11:45 I was running through downtown San José to the Coronado bus stop, not sure if I had enough money for a taxi and bus fare. I got to the bus (at what hour, I don´t know) and took a nap in the back. At 12:30, I was back home, and by 12:50 I was out the door again, now clean and on the bus back to San José. I found an ATM once I was in town, and by 2 pm I was in a taxi to Escazú. I arrived to my assignment, ¨The Night of the Iguana¨ being put on by the Little Theatre Group, and my empty stomach took advantage of the potluck provided by the Women´s Club. I awkwardly stood around smiling at all the old, pleasant British women for a few minutes and then went into the show.
And that, my friends and colleagues, is how you make it to your assignment on time.
Thursday night I was reminded just how fervently interested Latin Americans are in U.S. politics. I went to a watering hole in Zapoté with some of my co-workers (keeping with Thursday night tradition) and met a cop named Billy and his friend Rodrigo. Billy said he was a Democrat, Rodrigo (an aspiring young politician with slick hair and big ears, with a wide, ambitious smile like that of a rosy-cheeked and bushy-tailed SGA senator) the Republican. I said, ¨But you´re Ticos!¨ And instead of explaining, they just laughed. The next day my new friend Pedro, at this great Argentinian restaurant down the street from the Tico Times, sparked a conversation with me about the 2008 elections while my empanadas were cooking. Pedro wants Hillary Clinton to win, rather than Barak Obama, because ¨he is too young to run the nation.¨ He told me that it matters to him because anything the United States does can easily affect Central America. That´s what I assumed, but at least I finally got an answer from someone.
This past weekend I went to La Fortuna, a little town a few kilometers away from one of the 10 most active volcanos in the world, the Arenal Volcano. I stayed at Gringo Pete´s, run by Pete, a raspy-voiced, round-bellied, pirate captain of a man from Washington State. Very helpful and fun to talk to, but apparently not that fond of Alabama after a summer he spent there in military camp. He said, ¨You know the toothbrush was invented in Alabama. Of course, if they had invented it anywhere else they´d have called it the teethbrush.¨ I responded, in the presence of several non-Southerners who laughed heartily at Pete´s joke, ¨Yeah, we invented peanut butter too, you know. Good thing, I guess, because if they had invented it anywhere else they´d have called it fuckyouredneckbutter.¨
No hard feelings. I made a lot of friends at that hostel, some of whom took me to a local swimming hole with a waterfall, where we jumped off small cliffs in to clear, cold water with that near-equatorial sun beating down on us. One of us had to hang out on the cliff at all times to guard our stuff, because locals are known to run out of the bushes and take it. The best part was my hike through the jungle on Saturday, where white faced monkeys broke limbs and threw them down at us; where howler monkeys, well, howled; the wild boar ran in packs; and woodpeckers looked (and pecked) just like the ones back home. Clouds hung low over Arenal so we took an early trip to the Volcanic hot springs (the volcano heats the river, it´s amazing) and around 9 we returned to the volcano. Not only were the clouds gone but the full moon was up, and the smoke stack was illuminated as it grew out of Arenal´s cylindrical cap and we could see the magma boulders flash and spark as they rolled down the side of the volcano. Lava flows diferently here than in Hawaii, where you have thick, flowing lava. Arenal hurls steaming boulders at you, one, two or 20 at a time. You could watch some roll all the way down to the line where the ash ended at the jungle was starting, but we were well far off to avoid running into them ourselves.
Being in the presence of an active volcano is like watching the earth´s heart beat in front of your eyes. It is creation; it is truth; and it is impermanence. We all came from something as powerful as the center of the earth. How we got here, well, doesn´t seem to matter when you see a volcano work. The volcano doesn´t care, and it´s actually holding some of the cards. It covers the land with one of the most destructive forces ever known, and it will do that until it´s done. The earth will stop rumbling but the world will keep turning, and something else will start just as something ended.
The weekend ended. I´m back to my clock-in/clock-out schedule in San José, but, finally, it feels like wheels are turning.
I held off on updating this because I thought I was going to have photos to post, but I´ve continued to put that off too. I expect to have them put on a CD by the end of the week.
I´ve done a lot of things, so I´ll try to report on them as briefly as possible, except a few. First I´d like to share a story from two weekends ago. I went to a house party Saturday that one of my co-workers was at in Heredia, north of San José, with 16,000 colones ($32) in my pocket and by the time the taxi dropped me off I had 4,000 ($8). Thanks to bad advice from locals who will go unnamed, I grossly underestimated how much it would cost to get out there and get back. So before I got there, I knew I wouldn´t be going home that night. But the people were nice and interesting, a good mix of gringos and ticos, and I knew one of my friend´s friends would let me crash at his place.
(Insert all the good times here)
We got to the guy´s apartment at 3 or 4 a.m., and I had 1,000 colones ($2). The only major problem I was posed with by this unfolding scenario was that the next morning I had to be in Escazú, east of San José, by 2:30 pm, with stops in several other cities on the way. Around 10 am I was dreaming that someone was knocking on my door, only to realize that someone was knocking on my door, and I got up. Had a cup of coffee and watched Josh, the guy, slowly eat toast with strawberry jam. We were outside of Heredia, in an even more obscure area without a name. Josh called a cab, and they refused to pick us up. So we walked a few kilometers, past a coffee farm, forgotten public parks and locked up sodas. By 11 we were close enough to town to catch a bus, and by 11:15 we were in Heredia, walking smelly and unshowered through a festival with a full orchestra in the town square, and got onto a new bus to San José.
We parted ways, and at 11:45 I was running through downtown San José to the Coronado bus stop, not sure if I had enough money for a taxi and bus fare. I got to the bus (at what hour, I don´t know) and took a nap in the back. At 12:30, I was back home, and by 12:50 I was out the door again, now clean and on the bus back to San José. I found an ATM once I was in town, and by 2 pm I was in a taxi to Escazú. I arrived to my assignment, ¨The Night of the Iguana¨ being put on by the Little Theatre Group, and my empty stomach took advantage of the potluck provided by the Women´s Club. I awkwardly stood around smiling at all the old, pleasant British women for a few minutes and then went into the show.
And that, my friends and colleagues, is how you make it to your assignment on time.
Thursday night I was reminded just how fervently interested Latin Americans are in U.S. politics. I went to a watering hole in Zapoté with some of my co-workers (keeping with Thursday night tradition) and met a cop named Billy and his friend Rodrigo. Billy said he was a Democrat, Rodrigo (an aspiring young politician with slick hair and big ears, with a wide, ambitious smile like that of a rosy-cheeked and bushy-tailed SGA senator) the Republican. I said, ¨But you´re Ticos!¨ And instead of explaining, they just laughed. The next day my new friend Pedro, at this great Argentinian restaurant down the street from the Tico Times, sparked a conversation with me about the 2008 elections while my empanadas were cooking. Pedro wants Hillary Clinton to win, rather than Barak Obama, because ¨he is too young to run the nation.¨ He told me that it matters to him because anything the United States does can easily affect Central America. That´s what I assumed, but at least I finally got an answer from someone.
This past weekend I went to La Fortuna, a little town a few kilometers away from one of the 10 most active volcanos in the world, the Arenal Volcano. I stayed at Gringo Pete´s, run by Pete, a raspy-voiced, round-bellied, pirate captain of a man from Washington State. Very helpful and fun to talk to, but apparently not that fond of Alabama after a summer he spent there in military camp. He said, ¨You know the toothbrush was invented in Alabama. Of course, if they had invented it anywhere else they´d have called it the teethbrush.¨ I responded, in the presence of several non-Southerners who laughed heartily at Pete´s joke, ¨Yeah, we invented peanut butter too, you know. Good thing, I guess, because if they had invented it anywhere else they´d have called it fuckyouredneckbutter.¨
No hard feelings. I made a lot of friends at that hostel, some of whom took me to a local swimming hole with a waterfall, where we jumped off small cliffs in to clear, cold water with that near-equatorial sun beating down on us. One of us had to hang out on the cliff at all times to guard our stuff, because locals are known to run out of the bushes and take it. The best part was my hike through the jungle on Saturday, where white faced monkeys broke limbs and threw them down at us; where howler monkeys, well, howled; the wild boar ran in packs; and woodpeckers looked (and pecked) just like the ones back home. Clouds hung low over Arenal so we took an early trip to the Volcanic hot springs (the volcano heats the river, it´s amazing) and around 9 we returned to the volcano. Not only were the clouds gone but the full moon was up, and the smoke stack was illuminated as it grew out of Arenal´s cylindrical cap and we could see the magma boulders flash and spark as they rolled down the side of the volcano. Lava flows diferently here than in Hawaii, where you have thick, flowing lava. Arenal hurls steaming boulders at you, one, two or 20 at a time. You could watch some roll all the way down to the line where the ash ended at the jungle was starting, but we were well far off to avoid running into them ourselves.
Being in the presence of an active volcano is like watching the earth´s heart beat in front of your eyes. It is creation; it is truth; and it is impermanence. We all came from something as powerful as the center of the earth. How we got here, well, doesn´t seem to matter when you see a volcano work. The volcano doesn´t care, and it´s actually holding some of the cards. It covers the land with one of the most destructive forces ever known, and it will do that until it´s done. The earth will stop rumbling but the world will keep turning, and something else will start just as something ended.
The weekend ended. I´m back to my clock-in/clock-out schedule in San José, but, finally, it feels like wheels are turning.
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