One day baby we'll be old and think about the stories that we could have told...

Like a mantra, it fell down from the radio into Miguel's car (my Spanish friend, who gives me a ride to Munich airport so I can catch the flight to Delhi); the song says the same over and over again: One day baby we'll be old and think about the stories that we could have told...

That passion for collecting stories. For collecting memories, since from memories is what life is made of: memories. We naively think that life is made out of present, when as a matter of fact it's made out of past. The present is so fast... The present is like a spring of water, that we try to catch, but only a few drops of what it was remain on our hand and that's it. What we did this morning is a memory. The first paragraph of this story is just a memory. The sentence I just wrote is just a memory. The last word, “memory”, is just a memory. Everything is a memory. A memory, a story to tell, and that story is our life.

My first day in Delhi I listened to that song over and over again, meanwhile I was in the middle of my first panic attack in my life, in a shitty room of a shitty hostel in the Main Bazaar, an open hole towards hell on this earth, with the infernal heat of a hot and moonzonic July in the capital of India: One day baby we'll be old, oh baby, we'll be old and think about the stories that we could have told..

Himalayas. Second highest road in the world, 17582 ft above sea level.

One day I will be old and think about all the stories that I could have told, but I didn't want to write. My story about India. My book about India. Did I really want, by any chance, that this would be my story about how I remained only 48 hours in Asia and I went back home, scared to death of being alone literally at the other side of the world? (If I start moving towards east, I will start going back: Costa Rica is geographically at the other side of the planet). Did I want to jump from the Main Bazaar to the airport, with borrowed money, to go back to the comfort zone of my home? Or did I truly want to dig deeper into that open hole towards hell in the Main Bazaar in Delhi, go through that fire in the center of Earth which is India, and go out by the opposite side to go back home? Well, yes. Which kind of main character would I be then if I go back home now? And just like that, thinking about the old Andrea, who would have to tell the absurd story about how she spent only two days in India because she was scared to death, I decided to give her something better to write about and, at the end, I stayed for four months. Four of the most difficult and challenging months of my life.

As I write these lines, in a hidden corner of Kerala, in the south of India, in an almost desert beach, which is like a forgotten edge of the page where no one else comes to write stories (just a guy half German half Indian, who opened a hostel six weeks ago that seems sentenced to failure), I have only four days left before leaving India.

Four months ago, in Delhi, port of arrival and departure for countless backpackers, I used to see those who leave with an unavoidable look of envy. Or not, even better: a lot of envy. Envy, because they already had survived to tell the story and they were going back to their Western houses, where the overpopulation doesn't make you struggle every single day for your spot in the world. They could grow old in peace without thinking about all the stories that they could have told. Or not, even better: I didn't feel for them a lot of envy, but a lot of admiration. Admiration. And I used to think: “I will never be like them. The 46 countries that I have been to so far are useless. My backpack is my school bag. I can't say I have traveled until I came to India”. And now here I am, finding new travelers who just arrived to India and to whom I can tell a small backpacker lesson about how to deal with this chaotic subcontinent.

I don't like to brag about what I can do. Or at least, I try not to. But four days before finishing my stay here, I feel very proud of myself. Super proud of myself, prouder of myself than I have never felt before. Every person who comes to India deserves respect. And, especially, every woman who comes to India by herself deserves admiration. Because fucking country, it's not easy.

In Jodhpur, the blue city.

India is like the ugly bug you find in the kitchen. Your first impulse is to kill it with the broom. It scares you. Or even better: it terrifies you. But then, with time, you realize that if you know how to treat it, it doesn't bite you and, as matter of fact, it can be even harmless. Then, you either love it or you hate it. I don't love it or hate it. Because India, as a country of extremes, where you can find the third part of the poorest population on the planet and the most growing number of millionaires in dollars in the world, push you to the extreme. Never, in any other country, your senses will be proved as they will be here: there will never be for me another country with so much noise as in a street in Delhi and never so much silence as in the desert in Rajasthan. I will never be so high as I was in Taglangla Pass, 17582 feet above the sea level in the Himalayas, and never so low as I jumped into the Arabic sea. There will never be so much party as in a fancy club in Goa and there will never be so much peace as in a buddhist monastery in Dharamsala, in the middle of the Himalayas. There will be never such a hot weather as I visited Humayun's Tomb and there will be never such a cold wind as I camped in the middle of the mountains in Kashmir. There will be never such a hideous scene as the one with the beggars on the main stairs of the Jama Masjid in Delhi, and there will be never such a beautiful scene as the moon landscape in the highway between Manali and Leh. I will never feel as bad as that day in that shitty room in Delhi and I will never feel as happy as I felt on the backside of a motorbike with that Israeli guy, cruising around the seaside of Goa at sunset. India, bipolar and extreme country, just like me. Maybe that's why is so hard for us to get along. We are way too alike.

I don't recognize myself on that Andrea hidden in a McDonald's in Delhi, eating french fries with a napkin, scared to death of the Indian germs, when I took guts out of no where and words and facts and stories and I went out to walk the streets of India by myself. That girl, who naively ask for a supermarket in the Main Bazaar. That one, who didn't dare to take a rickshaw by herself. That one, who didn't know how to bargain in a market. That one, who didn't know how to book a train ticket between the railway veins through which millions of Indians travel every day in this country, whose heart no one knows where is it, since it has many. That girl, who used to think she would never cry again when she'd say good bye and who died slowly as she said good bye to her Israeli hero at a bus stop, trying to get rid of him as a shot of tequila, which it ended to be like drinking the whole bottle, in a very slow and painful way. That girl, who didn't carry in her backpack all the stories that I carry now.

The Cow and me. Jaisalmer desert.

And that's what it makes a good story: that the character evolves. That she becomes someone else, more than she ever dreamed she could be. There are many who come here to find themselves. I didn't need to come here to find myself, but maybe I needed to come here to feel again, that is perhaps what I fear the most. Fear to feel fear, love, despair, peace, loneliness. To feel again how it is to face myself, with all I have inside me. And let it go, smoke it with a pipe full of hash or breath it with the warm air of the Arabic sea, at the shores of Kerala. And become someone stronger than I used to think I was.

And besides that, carry the stories in my backpack, with a new flag to sew on it. The story about how I learned to ride a camel. The story about how I ended up in front of the Dalai Lama. The story about how I ended up in an Indian hospital (twice). The story about how I hold myself together to not cry in front of the Taj Mahal. The story about how a dead cow was floating next to me during a boat ride through the Ganges. The story about how on a rooftop, under the stars, as the mosques were waking up to pray at sunrise in Jaisalmer, I realized I was between some arms I didn't want to leave, even if that meant to lose the bus, the train and the plane. The story about how I cried as they cremated an old hindu man I never met. The story about how I shook hands with Manu Chao and how I ended up next to Mick Jagger in a music festival in the fort of the blue city of Jodhpur, in the night with the fullest and brightest moon of the year. The story about how I got lost trying to find Tagore's house in Calcutta. The story about how I wandered around on a bike trying to find temples in the lost city of Hampi. The story about how the fireworks never ended during a night next to the Arabic sea in Mumbai. The story about how much you can sweat dancing in a silent disco in Palolem. The story about how you defeat your fears not only of the unknown, but of yourself. The stories, my stories, the ones I can tell without thinking that I could have told.

One day baby we'll be old, oh baby, we'll be old and think about the stories that we could have told. I know many people who had come to India. I know many women who had come to India by themselves. And I know that, probably, they have better stories to tell than me. But in my life, in my personal novel, there is just one person who did it: me. And I will never think about the stories that I could have told, I will be able to write them, until the very last letter, that remains on the memory as the last ray of sunlight in a lonely beach in Kerala, that becomes a memory as well, slowly, as every single story, that always comes to an end...

Pain and Gain

2:37 am. Sitting by mi side, Alma, a dog from a very distinguished Germanic social class, sleeps under the covers. Once in a while, she rises and looks at me superiorly; I think she might have been an old lady of pride linage in a different life. Now, in this canine reincarnation, she continues to believe it, since her relation with the other dogs in the hotel is terrible. Not to add that right now she is looking at me from a very superior 90 degrees angle.

I sense she knows I am a 21st century proletarian who sells her work at bargain price: a translation from English to Spanish of a 90 thousand-word book for a ridiculous, absurd and humiliating amount of 125 bucks.

Yeah, $125. No, I'm not forgetting a final zero. There's just no zero. There aren't usually many zeros to the right for translators-style-proofreaders-dog-care-takers in the 21st century. It's as if there had never been minimum wage struggles and as if we had gone back to the beginning of the 21st century. I imagine in those days Alma must have been more or less wearing a white linen dress, winding herself with a fan and observing, from her terrace, a bunch of black people collecting cotton in Alabama. The lack of regulation and the many providers in freelancers’ webs make you end up giving your work away for ridiculously low prices.  I've seen people who are willing to work on articles of 500 words for 0,45 dollars. Since anyone can type on a laptop, copy, paste and hit enter on Google translator, I consider an era has begun. I would call it the final hecatomb of writers and professional translators. My university Literature Theory Professor was right. He, as a sort of apocalyptic prophet, predicted we should have looked for a job of a different kind. We writers are doomed to disappear. Just as lute players; as smiths; as typewriters, ironically. In a few years we'll be a museum curiosity; an old fact to be checked on Wikipedia; a crossword curiosity.

I'm delighting myself with the sweet smell of capitalism over the Internet. Pain and Gain is the name of the book I've been translating for the last five days. Since I don't believe in coincidences, the truth is I'm not surprised. Between taking care of the dogs and translating I've been working between 13 and 17 hours a day. No self-pity hyperboles. This is like a labor suicide. I eat and work. I smoke and work. I go to the bathroom and work.  I would also say I shower and work, but the truth is I've stopped showering because I think it's a waste of time.

Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain, the kilogram of literature I carry around, talks about time perception. How do we perceive time?  You can't see time; you can't smell it; you can't touch it; you can't hear it; you can't even taste it. However, in this moment, at 2:43 a.m., I can perceive it with all my senses. Time seems blurry; it has a metallic taste, it smells like shit. And it hurts. It hurts as I feel numbness in my hands and my fingers start to ache, especially my middle finger, which I should have stuck out to this translation in first place. Pain and Gain. I'm not only translating it. I'm living it.

(Pain and Gain. Dolor y Dinero, its Spanish version. I translated the book on which the movie is based for $125... :(  ).

Interlude: the shitty hole.
It's not a metaphoric title. I truly was in a shitty hole that I myself dug; just as I dug my own grave with this damn translation.

Ilona asks me to dig a hole in the garden to dispose all the dogs' shit. This is a common practice in the hotel. Now, I think you can imagine how much dog shit the intestines of 15 dogs produce a day.

It's raining and it's cold. Something I had always imagined about Germans, which I have confirmed, is the fact that these people NEVER stop. This is the only possible explanation for the fact that after WWII they have been able to dominate Europe in such a short period of time. 

That has always been very inspirational for me. Many years ago, when I came to Berlin for the first time, I bought many postcards with pictures of how the city looked after the war and how it looks now. I find them very inspiring. That is how defeated I felt that day, but I knew, someday, I was going to be able to restore myself.

At the hotel there's still a kind of weitergehen policy. You work no matter what. It doesn't matter it's raining. You just put on a rain coat and life goes on. Time resists any weather condition and so do you. Now, you know what they say, when in Rome, do as Romans do. Since I truly believe in that, I can't say no. Without complaining I put on my raincoat, too. I take my shovel and very determined I start digging a latrine for dogs. I'm willing to do that and much more in exchange for a room in the attic, with a bathroom and a bathtub, and a meal. What happens (I didn’t realize about this until after digging for a while, not very happily) is that the place I chose has already been used as a latrine before. No wonder why right on that square meter the grass grows so densely. This is how, after a few minutes, I realize I am not shoveling dirt out of the hole, but dog shit, 2009 dog shit. Dear readers, I would like to be able to describe with words the odor but I just can´t find them. I don’t even think they exist. A writer has her limits, especially in cases of extreme odors.

Well, what the heck, I am just going to keep on digging. I have been digging for a while already and I am not going to start digging a new hole all over again. That would hurt me more than it hurts the ground. So I go on. Rain comes along. It gets very cold, too. I think it´s probably around 13 degrees. The summer didn’t stop by and it forgot to leave a little basket with sunrays at the door. 

 And while digging, I can´t stop thinking about something a guy once told me. In that moment I didn’t think it was that bad, but time has made me realize how much that hurt. I mean, scatologically speaking: what he told me started like a hole and ended up as crap.

He (who will know for sure I am talking about him as soon as he reads this) had just turned me down in one of the worst ways a man has ever done that in the entire history. However, he and I as well wanted to be on good terms. So in a good try to stay as friends we went for dinner. While having Persian food for dinner, (including, what I remember up until now, the best rice I have ever tried in my life) he talked about his ex-girlfriend, a woman who hurt him deeply. I could definitely identify with that kind of pain, reason why I made a huge effort not to judge him. I talk about a huge effort because besides the rice we ordered we were also having meat. Therefore there was a knife pretty handy. I have conveniently decided not to include here the original description of what I would have liked to do with that knife against him because it was certainly not appropriate for a lady. I invite you, dear readers, to be as psychotically creative as you want.

Anyway, this guy took his ex girlfriend on an all-expenses-paid trip to Thailand. If she had wanted to, he would have taken her around the world for half a year. If she had wanted to, he would have even taken care of her forever and she could have spent the rest of her life without a job. Yes, he would have done that in a very traditional chauvinistic way. Here, dear feminists of the world, you would have to excuse me. Just go ahead and dig a hole of dog shit and tell me, wouldn´t you prefer spending the rest of your lives in a 1950´s old style kitchen?

While I was chewing and digesting the rice, I was also digesting the idea of how unfair life is. No man would do that for me. I even feel guilty when a man gives me a ride home. I started getting used to men treating me to something just a couple of years ago. I have never expected anything from anyone, even less if it is something that big. Truly, I didn’t even expect that from him. I was expecting the simplest thing in the world from him. I just wanted him to hold my hand to sleep. I didn’t want anything else. Nothing. I didn´t want neither money nor love (well, maybe a little). I didn´t even want more time; I didn´t want more of that time that you can´t perceive with your senses. Now, it looks like according to him, I was not good enough as to at least deserve that. Oh, but of course her exgirlfriend, who hurt him despicably, did.

And while digging this shitty hole, I can`t stop asking myself what the heck I am doing wrong in life. Why do other women do get those things and I don`t? Am I not good enough? Does the message I send by any chance say I am too strong and I don`t need anything from anyone? Is that why I always end up inside a hole all covered in dog shit, sleepless because of a translation I am working on for the ridiculous amount of $125? More than being all covered in dog shit, I am covered in self-pity and rage.

To make things worse, Astrid, a woman who works by the hour at the hotel, comes and tells me to stop digging the hole because it is raining too much. She does not speak anything but German and I speak very little German so in the middle of this linguistic hole I just continue digging. I am just not able to translate “Stop” from German to Spanish. As Astrid sees I am not stopping, she decides to at least help me out digging. This is how we both ended up all covered in moist dog shit, under the rain only thanks to such a scatological and idiomatic barrier. Memorable.

End of the interlude

It`s Saturday night and I`m taking care of a dozen of dogs. Nothing very glamorous at all. Ilona and Linda went out so all it is left for me is to translate and translate. I have to deliver this stuff on Monday. Luckily, I have done 130 pages out of 195 so I can almost see the end of this. I don’t know if it is the light at the end of the so called tunnel or if at this point I am blinded by the brightness of the computer and surrounded by an immense whiteness, as an essay on one`s mind clarity.

As if it were some kind of curse, the more I translate the more pages are left. I started with 185 pages and now there are 10 more. I thought it was because Spanish needs more words than English. So I thought while I moved forward the pages in some kind of trick moved along, taking me away from the peace that the blank page produces on me, but I was wrong. It`s a curse.

Anyway, I am running out of battery. There is no human engine able to keep up with my mad work pace. My computer is going off all of a sudden. Under such unpredictable circumstances I start saving the file every two minutes. Around 8 pm it goes off one more time. I, not surprised, just turn it on again. I open the file and Uh-oh! My precious translation document is ruined and now, instead of beautiful words, all I see is a bunch of codes on the screen, a language that for sure no one on this planet can speak.

Dogs wagging their tales around my death body. This is what I imagine Linda and Ilona will find when they come back because I am about to collapse. MAN, THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING! But it is. In the world of Andrea Aguilar-Calderón the laws belong to Murphy and I start to seriously consider registering them under my name. Or maybe I got the bad luck from the guy who wrote this. It probably came like a virus through the e-mail. The truth is, yes, I lost the document. Not all of it, though. Happily I am able to recover up to page 43. About the other 90, I have to start all over again, on a Saturday night. I get some help from the only friend I could count on. He helps me with 20 pages. I was able to finish after asking for time to deliver it until Thursday.

That Thursday I considered impossible I was going to be able to go to sleep at 11 pm so I stayed tossing and turning until 2 am.

There are three lessons I can learn from all this:

1. If I don’t respect my work, no one is going to do it. Therefore, I can`t go on giving my work away for cents. At the end I ended up working for less than 50 cents the hour.

2. There`s no longer a "good Andre". There are experiences that make you stronger, but definitely not a better person. I don’t think the new version of me will be better than the old one. Unfortunately there seem to be people who have their mirror neurons damaged, so one needs to be an ass to be treated appropriately.

3. “Hör auf!” means “Stop!” in German. Whenever someone tells you that, please stop.

Do you like the way I write? Do you think that being a writer is a respected profession, just like dogsitting or any other? So please, please share this text in your social networks or, if you feel like doing positive karma points today, click on the buttons on the right side and subscribe yourself, or give me whatever you think is fair for my work. Just imagine that you invited me a coffee.Thank you for reading! :)

Riding on the bamboo (rocking) horse

Dear readers:
The truth is I am totally terrified. I think people believe I am strong, but actually I am much weaker than it seems. Don´t expect this to be my best blog entry. I really need to experience some catharsis.
I got to New Delhi yesterday. I came out here out of an impulse, honestly, with very little money. I couldn´t stand staying in Europe, unemployed, in the middle of the crisis. I decided to come here because it´s cheaper, while I wait for a miracle and find a job as a translator, writer or a street cleaner. (Or well, I can also wait for many of you to subscribe, I only have 4 subscribers. This was the advertising spot of the day).
Anyway, I arrived in New Delhi at 3 a.m. after a twelve-hour trip, all the way from Munich to Moscow. I had to run in the Moscow airport. I missed the bunch of people from my flight who were also connecting to another flight because I really needed to go to the bathroom. In other words, I was going to shit on my pants and it took so long to land in Moscow that I couldn´t release the security seat belt. It was probably the longest landing in history. When I went back, I assume I went the wrong way, because I had to wait in line with a whole bunch of Vietnamese and go through security again. I almost missed the flight, but oh well, I made it.
When I arrived in New Delhi I had no other choice but just lying down on the floor to sleep in the airport. New Delhi is well known for its rape rate so it is not advisable for a woman to wonder around by herself at night. Therefore, just like that, I had to wait for the sun to appear to protect me and I fell half asleep, hugging my backpack, just in case. I was suddenly awaken by a guy who ran over me with a little cart. He came in a flight from I don’t know where; the sign he was holding had the name of a city I had never heard of before.
By the time I got out of the airport it was already 6:30 a.m. and it was brutally hot. A temperature push that tried to take me back inside.
I had the hostel address, but nothing else. I kind of had an idea how to get there, but that didn’t work. Addresses here really don’t mean anything for a foreigner. This is karmic revenge for living in Costa Rica, where the streets have no name.
I felt brave enough to take a taxi. There was a police taxi stand outside and that made me feel comfortable.
Everything you`ve heard about traffic in India is true, or ten times worse. The guy was literally about to kill himself. They don’t stop honking their horns. It is sort of a sonic driving, more than visual, because I think they don’t even know where they are going. It reminded me of the first scene of India in “Eat.Pray.Love”, when the protagonist arrives. However, I have to say comparisons are odious and I hate that movie. I barely eat; I don´t see myself praying that much (although I should) and I don’t think I`ll find love around here.
When I finally arrived to the hostel, it turned out to be inside a market. I asked for directions and it was a dark narrow alley, where barely one person can walk at the time (later I discovered a cow would fit as well). I almost felt my pants getting wet: I was scared to death. There was a crowd around me in the middle of a Thursday morning. Motorcycles, moto-taxis,
bicycles, rickshaws (or however you write it). Its chaotic. Imagine Mercado Borbón, only ten times worse. There was shit every two meters in the alley, I still don´t know if it was either human or animal. It could have been mine as well. I was really scared. If it didn’t happen on the plane to Moscow, this could have been a good moment. To make things worse, I got my period on the exact day I was coming to India. Great!
I arrived at the hostel, which ended up being a pigsty managed by smileless men. I was told check in wasn´t until noon, but that I could rest in a room. They probably saw my horror face. The room was spartan, to call it somehow. A fan on the roof, a bathroom across the hall, where shit was coming out of every angle of the toilet, and yet I was so exhausted I lay down and fell asleep.
At noon they assigned me a "better" room. Curtains cover the trashy view between which there is the T.V and the window (yes, there`s TV, but I have no idea whether it works). To make things worse, the window is broken and people peak through it once in a while, so I try to stay away from it.
I tried to sleep, but I couldn´t. I had a nervous breakdown . A real nervous breakdown. I felt I wasn’t strong enough to do this. I`ve lived in Mozambique for six months and I ´ve traveled around Africa, even by myself. This, however, surpasses me. Especially when I realize there is a 12 hour time difference between home in Costa Rica and New Delhi. I am completely alone on the other side of the world. This is really the other side of the world. Literally.
What intimidates me the most is the huge amount of men on the streets. It´s as if there were almost no women and it scares me not knowing how to act. For example, I didn´t know it´s not well seen to see a woman smoking. In fact, up to this moment, I haven’t seen anyone smoking.
I guess here there are too many possibilities to die that you don´t want to add cancer to your list. And there I was, smoking around the market, or the bazaar, or whatever they call it. Me and my brilliant ideas.
I tried to calm down and started reading about India, to inform myself. Yeah, I stupidly didn’t take the time to read something before. The more I read, the more scared I got. This place is like a different planet. And I am clueless. I have no idea how you reserve trains, or buses, or anything. Everything is so complicated. I feel I can´t trust anyone, because hostels try to get your money for everything. In fact, when I read some comments on the web, to me it feels like they are somehow altered. At least my hostel isn’t AT ALL like any of the things I read on the Internet. From the description to the comments the hypothetical customers made, everything is a lie. I mean, I feel like I can´t even trust what people around me tell me, which makes me feel scarily alone.
By the time it was 7 pm, I was already looking for flights to go back to Costa Rica and trying to borrow money. I was hysterical. Truly hysterical. I felt like I truly couldn´t keep on going, like I couldn’t keep on going alone, not any more. I’ve gone through many things alone. I have never felt so much the need of having someone, specially a man, next to me. I was, in that moment, the living image of loneliness, here in this shitty bunkhouse, on the other side of the world, hysterical.
I started talking to every single person I ran into on Facebook and Skype. My brother, my mother, my aunt, my ex coworkers, my friend Johannes in Austria, my friend Sandra in Spain, Priyanka, an Indian friend I met in Berlin…at the end I threw a tantrum in 3 different continents.
Up to last night, I was convinced I was going back to Costa Rica. I was also convinced I was NEVER EVER in my life going to travel by myself again. I was going to stay there again, kneeling upon the truth, upon my destiny for being a woman: no matter how liberal you are, being a girl does not allow you to make all your dreams come true. Being a man is a lot easier, and I don’t only say this because of the fact they can always open all the relish jars they want. You can´t make all your dreams come true, even less when you write. I looked back into my past and came to a conclusion: it was all my terrible fourth grade math teacher`s fault. Since then I`ve hated numbers, which closed any possibility to go into a more lucrative profession and left me with a bunch of useless letters that do not make any good to anyone.
This morning I woke up and swore I wasn´t going out until I could get my ticket to go back home. But I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten much the day before, only a few cookies, and I can´t go out at night. Besides, I didn’t trust unpackaged food at all and the menu here in the market is not really varied.
So I had to go out either I wanted or not. I got ready, making an effort on looking as decent as I could. I took all my valuables with me and left with a lock on my small backpack, asphyxiating, because I tied the straps very tightly. I made my way through a hall (this bazaar is like a maze) and guess what? I ran into a cow lying down in the middle of the way. The truth is it made me laugh, because it was just there, relaxed, enlighten by a sun ray. I have never in my life wanted so much to be a cow.
I turned around, because here the cow has priority, and ventured through a different hall until I got to a pretty decent restaurant where I sat down to have some coffee. I tried to eat a sandwich but I didn’t feel like eating. And suddenly, I realized there were three other foreign women sitting by themselves in the restaurant. They were just there, reading calmly.
So I slapped myself: no. I am not going back. I am not a coward. I might not be strong enough, but I have to give it a try. I`ve dreamed with coming to India all my life. If I go back to Costa Rica now, chances are that I will never be able to come around here again. Besides that, I spent days in Berlin waiting for my visa to India, without leaving the hostel, eating only sandwiches to spend as little money as possible. I already bought the ticket, so I have to finish what I started. I have to admit that every time I see a couple traveling together I feel like crying because I feel so lonely and because I envy that girl so much for having someone that takes care of her and travels with her around the world. Oh well, that`s the way it is. This is my set of cards, and after all, I am very lucky.
So here I am. I am scared, very scared. I think I have never been so scared in my whole life.
But I swallow it with my cup of coffee and today I will go out to the street, I will take the metro wagon for women (one of the very few advantages that you can enjoy here, taking into account how CROWDED the wagons for men can get) and I will go see the red fort and the largest mosque in India. If this were easy, India would be full of women like me, traveling,
and the wagons for women would be the ones completely full. No, it`s not easy. But I am not the first one, nor the last woman that comes to India all by herself.
I don´t know if I am going to be able to write every week as I had thought. On the way I have to plan the trip, look for hostels, trains, planes and learn, over all, how to live in this culture. Besides, I have to keep on looking for a job. I get a couple of articles once in a while, but I make very little from those. However, hunger never saw bad bread.
This is the worst entry, estethically speaking. It has common places everywhere, repetitions, no analogies…I usually write like this first and then I fix things here and there, but oh well, think of this as a verbal diarrhea, catharsis or whichever better word you guys can call it.
So people, for now, the protagonist of the book is still in the novel.
The bamboo horse has started rocking.

P.D: while I was finishing writing this, I realized there was a mouse running on my bed :p

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Dog-logic

(Seven reasons to move with dog's hordes in the middle of no where in the German country side).

1. Arbeit! Job!

Something that many people don't seem to understand is that, when I am traveling, I am not on holidays or doing tourist stuff all the time. I don't get why they think it's like that, in such an enthusiastic, positive and naive way: as a curious fact, in 11 years of working, I have NEVER earned the minimum salary according to the law. Besides, when you are an illegal immigrant, many times you have to be thankful for a shitty salary, that can be less than $10 per day (yes, it happened to me, I have been exploited). That's why not everybody lives the way I do. You must do some sacrifices in order to reach the supreme goal: to get to know the world when you still have youth and health to fill your backpack with, since there are no guarantees that even tomorrow is going to be like that. As I said previously, the time of the others is not my time. This is a nomad lifestyle and many, many hours of it I devote myself to work, even just in exchange of bed and food. 

For whoever might choose to live that far from his or her comfort zone, there are three websites that can be of tremendous help : HelpX, Workaway and WWOOF. There, the unemployed and starved backpacker can find dozens of jobs in hostels, farms, babysitting or, as in my case so far: in two hostels, in a construction, in a nudist camp and now, in a hotel for dogs.

First reason then to move with hordes of dogs, even in the middle of nowhere.

2. The more I get to know the people, the more I love my dog.

Anyone who knows me is aware that I have a huge passion for animals, and with dogs I usually have an excellent relationship, which allows me to have a conversation with them and ask them about their plans to conquer the Western world. At this point, and since my experience working in a backpackers hostel in Portugal turns out to be a major disappointment, I rather to deal with costumers on four legs and not with the annoying ones only on two. Therefore, I have no doubts about packing my things and make my way to Germany, looking to take care of German dogs and not of their annoying masters, who already pissed me off enough by ringing the bell at 2:00 a.m. in order to begin their Portuguese holidays in the Algarve region.

My lovely and German attic.

3. A room with TV and a bathroom with bathtub!

I am an extremely territorial character. Really, 100%. I usually need my own space, and I would pee around it if that would be allowed by the social human standards. After weeks of sharing a room, the chance of having some square meters of sovereignty, even in a land far away from German civilization, turns out to be a major pro. The dog's hotel not only offers the chance to be in a 24/7 dog's company, but also the opportunity of having my own room and my own bathroom (both of them luxuries that you HARDLY EVER find on the way). 

When I arrive, after wandering around Hann and Düsseldorf, it turns out to be even better than I expected. The bathroom (and this is almost a miracle) has a bathtub. My fascination for bathtubs dates back to ancient times, when I sadly realized I was way too big for my baby bathtub and I had to content myself with the shower for the next 30 years. Therefore, every single night, as a ritual, I leave the dogs watching some TV, enjoying a documentary about dinosaurs or Hitler's childhood, and I devote myself to be under water for at least 30 minutes, with the orgasmic knowledge of the pleasures that are finite. The room, on the other hand, is perched in a garret (I love garrets and since Little Women was the first book I read in my life, ever since I have the idea that a writer must write in an attic). By the way, my room comes with the extra bonus of a TV mounted in the closet. I'm not a big fan of the TV and when I'm traveling I spend months without placing my eyes on a screen, but for hearing some German and learning to discern its guttural sounds comes perfect. It's not like I am going to learn too much German with the dogs, which subsequently turn out to be fairly bilingual and answer me without any language problem when I speak to them in Spanish. Which brings us to the next point:

4. Deutsch natürlich!

Did you believe that having been heart broken by a pair of German-speaking male characters would discourage me to learn the complicated (and for many dreadful) language of Thomas Mann? Fehler! Not surprisingly I am carrying a literary kilogram with The Magic Mountain, even when it is not a backpacker item.

Since I am dealing with bilingual dogs, to be sure about meine Aussprache improvements, I can always count on the language support of Ilona and Linda, the owners of the hotel, a lesbian couple. While it is true that writing and an insane translation, a traumatic experience that will be narrated in a separate chapter (believe me, it deserves it), don't allow me to spend with them the amount of time that you might actually expect, at least during dinner I have the opportunity to build some German sentences, even taking the risk of a brain hemorrhage in the attempt to say: “Pass me the bread, bitte”. By the way: I do not get along with German bread. Which brings me to my next point:

5. Real food!

True: I've starved in my life because I wanted to. It's really immoral to say that I have gone under starvation as it happens to millions of people around the world, in one of these global catastrophes, which become so ordinary, that lose the tragic role that they really deserve.

But, in my own level, the truth is when I travel, one way o another, I eat very poorly. And I can say with certainty that even if it's by choice, I have starved indeed and suffered of chronic hunger. It is not uncommon for me to return to Costa Rica with my pants almost around my knees, as it is starting to happen now, when I'm seriously considering buying a belt. Not every hostel has a kitchen and at least in Europe, eating in restaurants is expensive, hence my healthy nutrition whose happy pillar is the Happy Meal from McDonald's.

Since my very first day at the dog's hotel, I set my limits with Ilona and Linda: I'll be willing to do whatever it takes, from collecting dog poop, cover the holes the dogs make in the garden, take them for a walk, feed them, weeding (try to do it with a small pair of scissors and a mattock on both sides of a fence about two hundred meters length and you will see what I mean), and even the butcher task of cutting by hand 60 kilos of raw cow's stomach, but not cooking. I do not want to punish anyone with that, and certainly not two people who give me a room in an attic and a bathroom with a tub.

Luckily for me, Linda and Ilona's cooking turns out to be like the one of a five star hotel category for demanding-pain-in-the-ass humans, and I spend my month of canine imprisonment feeding me with real food. Both of them, as many Germans, love bio products, so three times per day I have the sensation of chewing and savoring something as abstract as health. Not to mention Ilona's potato salad: the best I've ever had, something to stand out in a land where the yellow color of the flag should represent the legendary Kartoffelsalat. On top of this, the coffee machine, an expensive one, but capable of crushing grains to distill a drink worthy of the gods, becomes, for me, the household object of worship in the house.

Special mention deserve the bread and the legendary Apfelschorle, an apple's drink which I guess you have to be German and a little bit blond in order for its chemistry to work out and then, perhaps, find its taste. As for the bread, I assume that Germans, always so pragmatic, are ready to bake it in a way that also serve as bricks to prevent flooding and other avalanches, which they seriously suffer this summer that I arrive in their Aryan country, it's usual for me to be chased by a cloud. Such a hard bread! The simple fact of getting a slice requires, at least, of a Hanzo katana. My first attempts to cut a slice only lead to Ilona's question, about if that baking mutilation was made by Zitalla, the Canadian wolf that lives in the house and often chews wood. Which brings me to my next point:

Zitalla and Ruby.

6. Dogs!

Since I have memory, it never seemed to me that I have enough dogs and my philanthropic dream is to have my own shelter someday, where any dog that has suffered a miserable life can finally find the peace that all living beings deserve, whether they are walking on two or four legs. I love dogs and this is where this point splits into dozens of reasons as well as clients, guests or residents this hotel have: Sam, the Golden Retriever, that drools constantly; Oli, the small white mat that follows me everywhere; Paula and Ledchen, a pair of labrador sisters; Syd, the white shepherd with potential vision problems; Anton, a distinguished dog with one blue eye and one brown eye, with a bulky fur, which seems like he is wearing his own coat all the time; and I could go on and on because, during my stay, the stays of countless dogs run parallel. To all these, guests, you can add the ones that go only to nursery and the protagonist ones who live in the hotel: Ruby, a miniature that barks in a very high pitched way; Matilda, another tiny dog full of energy; Kami, an equine class dog, giant and with little brain, but a huge soul which fills the rest of her size; Rosella, an elderly Greek enjoying the leisurely life of the elderly, and the shy Zitalla, a Canadian wolf would devour everything in her path (including the bread).

It strikes me that many of the concurrent dogs have an international passport. There is a considerable amount of Greeks, some Spanish and some Balkan. It seems that in Germany there is a shortage of dogs, which they fulfill with outsiders dogs that migrate from shelters in their respective nations, in search of a better life; not in vain they say Germany is the land of opportunity amid the Eurozone crisis. I can easily imagine some of the nearly one million of dogs that roam the streets of Costa Rica boarding a ship, as the immigrants in the 19th century did, heading to Germany willing to find someone who loves them enough to buy them a thalamus, canned food and pay 15 euros per day so they can attend kindergarten and get some education.

However, according to the statistics, it seems that any dog wishing to immigrate must take notice that the Germans seem to like big dogs. Minimum size labrador, glorious size a Great Dane. It must be because they are very tall and maybe too lazy to head down for a simple eye contact, and therefore they look for a dog that can see them straight in the eyes when he puts his legs on their shoulders.

I must admit that this large size preference complicates my life a little bit. Normally if my Beba Lu, my brainless french poodle, refuses to move, I just can carry her. If it's not by the good way, then it will be the hard way. But it's impossible for me, for example, to carry Benet, a Great Dane whose head alone could be a full french poodle. Then it would bad for me, very, very bad. I am pretty sure that many of these dogs weigh more than me. Now, imagine how hard it can be to feed ten of them at the same time, separate them when they have a fight or bring them together while they are playing in a huge garden (so huge that it even has a pond) to go to bed together. It's not exactly easy being the head of the pack.

Kami and Matilda... yes,find the other dog in the picture!

7. Learning to be alone

The hotel, Hundelogik, something like “Dog-logic”, is located near the city of Bielefeld, which according to a German urban legend, is a city that doesn't exist. As I said “close”. For further references, it's rather “close” to a town called Halle (there are two Halle in Germany, this one, where I ended up, is Halle Westphalia). “Close”. Which really means that the hotel is literally in the middle of nowhere, in the naked German countryside, and if you even want to buy cigarettes you must take the bus. Every night, when I look out the attic's window, I don't see a single light as far as my night blindness allows me.

In almost a month I only leave the hotel twice: one to buy a new battery for my laptop (item not found, which is not surprising considering the size of Halle) and another one to accompany Ilona to bring some building materials to remodel her office. Altogether, you could say that in a month I step outside the hotel just for three hours. It is indeed a canine and monastic retreat, where days pass by working in the garden and with the dogs for five hours, and then working alone in my room, writing or translating.

Now that I look back, I realize how much I've changed. I got so used to be alone, that I don't even notice that I never go out. I think this journey is ruining my ability to socialize and, on the contrary, it seems to be a lesson about not expecting anything from anyone, not relying on anyone and not trusting anyone. The only thing that appeals me is being with dogs and sleep with three or four in my room every night, with at least one of them in my bed, under the covers. A guy? No, thanks, if he wants, he can sleep on the carpet.

That's why I consider it almost like a monastery period. Monastery in the sense of achieving even some wisdom. In fact, dogs are very wise, but we, humans, just praise them from time to time, but we don't learn anything of what they preach behind their barking. I am not going to talk about their loyalty or about how they content themselves with just a little bit of love. Asking the same to a person seems illogical to me. Imagine how bizarre it would be if, for example, I jump on you and fill you with drooling kisses every time you walk through the door, in ecstasy, even when we've seen each other just two hours ago, and I content myself with just some petting in return. I mean, no way.

Rather, I focus on the sincerity of the dog. It's easy with dogs: if a dog likes you, everything cool, and if he doesn't, he will show it to you. There is no hypocrisy in a dog and, above all, no qualms in showing that he really needs you or dislikes you. He doesn't care: what he feels, he expresses without any fear of rejection and so, if you really manage to get along with him, his love will never end. This has to be the most beautiful, the most sublime and the most pure of all freedoms. The freedom to give what it comes from the bottom of your heart and show it from the tip of the nose they use in order to smell you, to the tip of the tail they happily wag.

That's the dog-logic that everyone should learn from, starting with me.

Do you like the way I write? Do you think that being a writer is a respected profession, just like dogsitting or any other? So please, please share this text in your social networks or, if you feel like doing positive karma points today, click on the buttons on the right side and subscribe yourself, or give me whatever you think is fair for my work. Just imagine that you invited me a coffee.Thank you for reading! :)

Imagine Belfast...

Belfast is a very peculiar city, for not saying bizarre. One I will never forget. Not because it is considered the Titanic's uterus, a ship which was born dead in a very premature way in the frozen waters of the Atlantic a century ago, as we all know. Not for its beutiful architecture, which is wasted in banks and minimarkets in a very European way. Not even for the good memories I may keep from an abandoned sofa in a parking lot, when the cold weather didn't matter. For all that I have pictures and I can close my eyes if I need to.

The reason which I think I will never forget Belfast is its atmosphere. One that doesn't seem to fit well to anyone and that makes the city practically dead with every sunset. A very heavy air, not friendly at all, and which makes me turn my head over my shoulder constantly when I walk down the street. A feeling that I keep crossing invisible lines between I can get stuck. A heavy, stressful air. A vibe hard to deal with, beyond its melancholic sunset rain. A gray and green-like-moss air, as I imagined previously (I don't know why, but I've always pictured Belfast in that abstract color sketch). Belfast is gray and green-like-moss. Moss. A moss that get stuck in your lungs. Maybe it is because of that, that Belfast doesn't breath well. And it's impossible that it does, when it has a wall in the middle.

Belfast Wall.

The wall (which I still don't get why I never heard about it before, until I cross paths with), has the cynical name of Peace Line. It divides the catholic or republican neighborhoods from the protestants or loyal to the crown ones (you can choose which one of those names you find politically correct; for me all of them are absurd). It has been there for years, along some intermittent kilometers, in a very concrete and tangible way, beyond the ideas, which are always so abstract. In case someone would like to fraternize it has some gates, sometimes watched by the police, which they close in a religious way at 5 p.m., in order to avoid catholics and protestants to go into a fist fight, for not so Vatican issues.

It is, practically, a Berlin wall, something that I used to think got lost already in the last century, with all the non sense which the XX century got high with. Its function is the same: a wall between streets with houses and people who look all the same to the naked eye, in order to make them different in the bad way. A wall painted with political murals: on the protestant side with British flags; on the catholic one with murals from the martyrs who died during hunger strikes for the independence of Northern Ireland, Sinn Fein heroes, and some solidarity murals with other countries which they consider to share a manifest and similar destiny, like Palestine, Cuba and I don't know who else. A group of bricks which doesn't seem to bother anyone, even when it is in the middle of the way.

British side.

Republican side.

By the little bit I knew about Northern Ireland, I had some idea that this place was not the one John Lennon imagined. The bombs placed by the IRA, the riots during 30 years known as The Troubles (such a creative name they chosed for a politic issue), some literature about the Sinn Fein and the movie In the name of the father, made me imagine Belfast as one of those chaotic and political problematic places which call my attention so much. Better reason then to go there.

For whoever may be reading this blog and doesn't have too much of an idea about the whole situation, the thing is very simple: Ireland got its independence in 1919, but Northern Ireland is still part of the UK. Some people find it really cool, others not that much. And ever since they hit each other in order to solve the problem, with some bombs every now and then when things get heavy. End of the history.

Or well, not such an end. Naively, I thought all of this was part of a very sad and famous past, already outdated, as the Berlin wall is outdated too and that makes impossible to think about a communist Germany, something so absurd as to imagine half Japan populated by black people. Therefore, I was expecting to find some leftovers of history to learn from. But no: what I found was a present that still exists. In Belfast there is a wall still and the strangest part is that no one seems to care about, as it had grown there in a natural way, as a tree, by spontaneous generation. Or at least that seems to me, since meanwhile I was there I didn't see anyone trying to bring it down with a hammer. But the wall goes beyond that. And that is what give me the feeling that I am walking between invisible lines that I am not sure if I should cross.

To start with, during the evening Belfast gave me the impression to be a ghost town. The Royal Avenue, a crowded street during day time (with a bunch of people who I can not distinguish if they are catholics or protestants), at 8 p.m. is dead. Meanwhile I wander around with him, who had such a pretty name, and the Uruguayan girl (characters that you may remember from the last chapter He, who had such a pretty name) I can not avoid the feeling that the zombie apocalypse already happened, and we are a group of three survivors, who in a moment will have to deal with Rick and his gang in an Irish version of The Walking Dead. Man, there is no one here. Absolutely no one. No noise, no music, no cars, not even an atheist and apolitical dog wandering around.

We need to walk more, a lot more to find an open bar this Monday night. A place which seems like a hotel's lobby, but where the beer tastes the same as anywhere else.

We sat down in the terrace to smoke and a few minutes later, a couple of Irish guys from a table near to ours began to talk to us. One of them speaks Spanish with an accent from Madrid, since he used to work in Spain, when this country was able to feed immigrants. It's a very peculiar situation, since I am in the middle of a Spanish speaker Irish and him, who had such a pretty name, who may be Slovakian, but speaks Spanish with all those c and z I don't even pronounce.

However, the situation is about to become even more peculiar, despite of the fact that they are talking about something as common as soccer, according to the canons which good part of the masculine population uses to socialize worldwide. I don't know when, since I don't have my catholic detector on, but the Irish who speaks Spanish cross himself. I don't know if he expects that one day the Atlético of Madrid wins and asks God's help for those tiny favors. I have always believed God must be a very busy guy and I don't want to bother him with those whims , but some people like to abuse of his omnipresence; that's a personal choice. In any case, I don't even notice it, since they are talking about a soccer ball and anyone who knows me is aware that I don't give a shit about it.

But there is a guy near us who really cares: a big, tall, bold guy, someone like the prototype of the bad boy from a fifth class action movie. He noticed, indeed, that the Irish guy who speaks Spanish had crossed himself. And man, he really doesn't like it. In fact, he starts to argue with us and say that he is a fucking catholic who likes to talk to bloody foreigners. Later that night, I will find out that this bar was one of protestants, who don't seem to like foreigners too much, so it was not the best idea to go there and have a beer, even when beer is a drink which brings nations together.

A little bit scared, the two Irish, the Uruguayan, the handsome Slovakian who had such a pretty name and me decided to go inside to drink our beer in peace, away from this bold guy, who seems so friendly and tolerant. Then, my legendary curiosity takes control of the situation and I began to ask. It wasn't supposed to be all this problem between catholics and protestants an issue from the last century? Didn't they find a way to understand each other in a more diplomatic way? It wasn't all this problem already on a negotiation table, not over, but at least without blood that spoils the surface where they were drinking a cup of tea?

“Sure, in front of the cameras”, says the Irish who speaks Spanish.“But here everything is the same. We are still fighting”.

And to prove it, the other Irish, the one who doesn't speak Spanish, began to show us some scars from the 27 times he got stabbed so far. Some of them are from fights against protestants, others because he devoted himself to steal cars for a while (yes, the people with I sit down for a beer, on a Monday night in a city that I don't know...). I guess none of these guys go to church very often. In fact, the one who speaks Spanish declares himself as an atheist. But in front of the protestant's eyes, he is in a category close to a cardinal.

The bold guy now is just at the table across ours and keeps going with his bullshit. In the few days I have spent in Ireland I realized that I am having a hard time understanding their Irish-pirate-like accent so I don't get a lot of what he is saying, but after a while the Irish who doesn't speak Spanish stands up and began to play along. I see a fight coming just in front of me.

“Don't worry”, says the Irish who speaks Spanish. “He won't hit you. You are a girl. Besides, we are three guys”. He assumes that he will count with the help of the cute Slovakian, but he just shrugs and says to me not so loud: “You know, I don't feel like running today...”.

The Uruguayan girl finally does something useful besides being in the middle of the Slovakian and me and calls a waitress in order to kick the bold guy out of the bar. A blond skinny girl won't help that much if the blood ruins the carpet already, but since we are in an early verbal stage of the fight at least she manages to put everybody back to their own places.

I got paralyzed, but at the same time insanely fascinated: that this kind of things are still going on in such an intense way until the day I am writing this seems shocking to me.

British side.

Republican side.

The next day I decided to walk around in a protestant neighborhood, in a catholic one and cross a Peace Line, to see by myself if, indeed, there are such big differences. The Irish guys offer us a personal tour, but after saying a very enthusiastic yes, I think it twice and I decide to go alone. I don't trust a guy who got stabbed 27 times that much. Besides, I am a girl anyway. I feel safer if I am by my own at this point.

Tourist guides don't recommend walking around this area after 7 p.m. and a guy from the hostel tells me that it is not a good idea to walk around Shankill, one of the most British neighborhoods, since I am a foreigner. But come on: even when I share the political view that you should behave like the others do when you are abroad, no one is going to tell me where I can walk around or not. It's a sunny morning and it's not like I am going to argue about Margaret Tatcher with anyone I might cross paths with.

As I suspected, nothing happens. Shankill (the protestant one) and Falls Road (the catholic one) are normal neighborhoods, with brick houses, gardens and regular people wandering around. The only difference is all this political paraphernalia that decorates them: some light poles have British flags, some Irish flags. Some graffitis are about British pride, others about Irish pride. The catholic neighborhood seems the most compromised with the matter, maybe because they are less, and has more murals and a small remembrance garden, to honor those who lost their lives trying to erase an invisible line.

When I cross the Peace Line through one of the gates I am all by myself. There is just me and a huge mural on the peace wall, which settles the brief neutral territory, as short as the time it takes to cross a gate. Imagine, says ironically, written with big letters that don't seem to motivate anyone to read them.

Peace Line.

I sit down in front of the mural and I can not stop thinking about how contradictory people can be. If I have to make my choice between all those absurd labels for two neighborhoods that look exactly the same, I stick with republican and loyal. Religion is out of question here, Jesus, who is so poorly marketed, has nothing to do with all this issue. It reminds me The Gospel according to Jesus Christ by Saramago, one of my favorites books. In one of the most brilliants chapters in Literature's history, the devil tries to make Jesus fall in temptation, as they are in the mount of olives. Even when nobody knows about what they talked meanwhile they were drinking tea during those lovely hours, rumor has that everything was around Maria Magdalena and sex. A very cliche theory, that tries to seem avant-garde . But in The Gospel according Jesus Christ they talk about a temptation that seems more appealing to me: the devil tells Jesus about how all his friends will die as so many other people, just in his name, and he asks him if that really worth it. If all this blood in his name is something even moral. I wonder if Jesus would agree if he comes here to see the wall.

But even if we leave religion aside and we focus on politics, this is no sense. The Irish flag, the one that proudly waves in the republican neighborhoods, is one that I really like, but its meaning is lost too: the green represents the catholics, the orange the protestants and the white the peace that should bring them together in the middle. But no one seems to care. And then people ask me why I insist in not having a flag.

I write this chapter in Berlin, meanwhile I wait for a visa to India in one of these games of invisible lines that people like so much to play. Another city that used to have a wall too. Walls, visas, borders... These are difficult times for travelers. And even more difficult for those who just want to imagine a world without so much shit in the middle, despite of what John Lennon said once: Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do...

Do you like the way I write? Do you think that being a writer is a respected profession, just like any other? So please, please share this text in your social networks or, if you feel like doing positive karma points today, click on the buttons on the right side and subscribe yourself, or give me whatever you think is fair for my work. Just imagine that you invited me a coffee.Thank you for reading! :)

He, who had such a pretty name

“I`m going to write about you”, I tell him, while my left cheek lays on his knee and he plays with my hair. “OK”, I hear his voice. “But don´t write my name. I don`t want to be a small character in a big novel”

Such a shame, because he has a really, really pretty name…But he knew it and so did I: in the long run, we were both going to become a secondary character in each other`s life. After that, just a reference character, and then, an even nameless one. That´s the way life goes, even when you don`t want it to be that way: you can´t keep all the characters you want, no matter how much you like them.

All I have left is thinking that for these three days he is my protagonist in this little story.  

A crappy hostel, if you may call it that way, lighted by 75-watt lights at most. Six British pounds a bed. A room with two dozens of bunk beds, from which I get number 13 (13, always 13…), Belfast, North Ireland. I got here just a few hours ago from Dublin, since I have to quarterly flee the Schengen States, whose borders expulse me every once in a while, tired of my alien presence.

Unable to sleep on the train, I lay down for a while to take my nap, with which I usually begin my stay in a city. Me being a traveling addict does not mean I can keep up with the Lonely Planet.

 Belfast: the stage of this story.

I get up and go towards the kitchen, holding my laptop, after having withdrawn it from reception. This hostel`s low cost restrains its ability to have lockers to save your valuables. Reason why I had to leave my computer in the front desk, tagged with my name, my room number and my bunk bed number: 13, always 13.

I haven’t felt too social for a long time. I have barely talked to people since I got to Ireland. That matches my more and more usual hermit-like condition. I must get used to be alone; I shall not depend on anyone; I shall not trust anyone…Alone, always alone.

Still, when I see him, the wall I have built around me in the past weeks suddenly explodes.

A dark hair guy, with Converse and big hands, probably the biggest I have ever seen in my life, is writing on a notebook, sitting on one of the kitchen tables. “Well, hello!”, I think to myself, while holding my laptop, I stand staring at his tilted head, trying to decipher the color of his eyes, sunk on the paper.

But nothing happens. He continues looking at his notebook, without looking at me. The usual: a handsome guy whom I will own only with my sight. What an eternal punishment must be going blind, for your sight can own anything and everything. Anyway, that´s it, there is nothing new under the sun. I walk like a diva to sit two tables away from his. Alone, always alone. I don’t need this extremely handsome guy to pay attention to me. No fucking way! No fucking way! (literally). I am self-sufficient and independent. I don’t need a man never again in my life. I can do it alone. I am strong. I`m not going to try any more. It`s a waste of time. Fucking useless testosterone only appears to disturb the harmonious peace I am just reaching. No way! I am just going to sit here with my laptop and then I will go around the city by myself. I know very well how to go across the street without clinging from someone`s hand…

The truth is that by the time you finish reading this, I have turned around and gone back to his table, and now I am sitting right in front of him, on a very uncomfortable chair, half sunk, but against all odds, in front of him. He continues to write. Such a weakness for men with dark hair, who wear Converse and have big hands. Such a weakness for men who handwrite on a notebook…I hate myself a little bit. But you know what? I am going to stay here sitting in front of him and won`t move until he talks to me.

He is totally engaged in what he`s doing and I am apparently absorbed in my laptop as well. Once in a while I take a glance at him and try to keep my mouth from watering too much. Still, fortunately, the miracle of he talking to me doesn`t take too long to occur. I no longer remember what he told me, because I was more surprised about how nice, outgoing and smiley he suddenly seemed after looking so serious. The dialogue blended with the pale kitchen walls forever.

Spanish, I bet he`s Spanish, I had been telling myself that just a few minutes before because of his dark hair, his tanned skin, his Mediterranean looks… Oh, yeah! I was right. As soon as I tell him I`m from Costa Rica, he starts speaking Spanish with a Madrileño accent. “¿De San José eres? (Are you from San José?), he asks. Score! Almost no one around here knows where Costa Rica is, and when they think they do, they confuse it with Puerto Rico and tell me that they like Ricky Martin. Now, the fact that he knows the name of the capital… Or maybe I just like his bright brown eyes so much that I`m letting him score as much as possible. “Yes”, I answer. “And you? From Madrid?”. “No, from Slovakia”. Well yeah, from Slovakia. An Erasmus year is enough for Europeans to learn languages as if they had always known them. Anyway, he prefers to go on in English after impressing me with his bilingualism (later I will learn that besides Spanish, English and Slovakian, he of course speaks Czech and Polish). “What is your name?”, I ask a little later. I need to name him so he stops being the handsome-with big hands-handwriting on a notebook-sitting at a Belfast hostel kitchen table stranger, name that, I bet we all agree, is too long to use.

“My name is…” he says. Oh my God! What a beautiful name! I had never heard it before. I repeat it, tasting it, feeling its richness in my mouth while I say it. “Nice to meet you”, I answer. No doubt, of course, so, so nice to meet you… “Nice to meet you too, Andrea”, he answers. And I was like, “Oh man, how does he know my name if I haven’t said it? One of my fears is that someday I will run into a person who`s able to read my mind. You never know! The fact that one doesn’t have telepathic powers doesn’t mean other more fortunate don’t have them. How embarrassing! If I have finally run into someone who`s able to read my mind, he already knows I have even imagined what color boxer he`s wearing… “How do you know my name?”, I ask, stupidly surprised. So he points at my laptop case, which has my name on it, my room number and my bunk bed number, 13, always 13. Thank goodness!

So it´s him and me. He, the guy with a pretty name, and me, Andrea, for the next three days.

That night we go out with a girl from Uruguay who was staying at the hostel. She ended up with us by accident, you know two`s a company, three is a crowd. As soon as she heard us speaking Spanish, she joined us for some Monday beers in Belfast.

On our way back to the hostel, after an incident that I`ll describe in more detail in our next chapter, we (he and I) had a cigarette outside, in the smoking area, a garage inhabited by a dove who shits on all who blows smoke on its beak.

A mural, an awful mural that I could have drawn, acts as the only decoration on the wall: a guy holding the Titanic on his thumb.

Culture note of the day: Belfast was the city where they built the Titanic, nautical achievement of which people from Belfast seem to be really proud a century later, even prouder than of all the other hundreds of boats that they built and never sunk.

Yes: that's the way Belfast defines itself.

We take our time to smoke. No rush. Especially me, because even though we have spent a good while together, I still don’t know if he likes me. “If he`s going to kiss me, this is the time”, I think, while we go on talking about more things I don’t remember. He´s so handsome that all the dialogues get lost in his eyes, I have already told you. And I, for a change, as it usually happens in these moments, can`t stop talking. I talk, and talk, and talk, and talk, and talk as if I preferred having my mouth busy with any other thing but his lips.

It`s late. He has to work tomorrow. He got to Belfast just a week ago to work at a call center where they were looking for someone who spoke Slovakian. Midnight has long ago gotten lost in these North Irish streets. What a shame! Oh well, go ahead, just go to sleep. He tries to make me feel better and asks me to get together tomorrow afternoon to hang out. All right, I settle for that consolation prize for now. There`s nothing else I can do. It was foolish of me to speak so much, as much that I think I sank the moment with a huge Titanic full of useless words.

“OK”, I think, pretty much giving up. And while I am pointing at the front desk door with my right arm, I go on: “I sleep in the room in front of the reception, I think I might be there tomorrow or maybe in the kitchen, you know, internet here is bad and there it`s easier to…”

And suddenly, it occurs. While I am still pointing with my right arm, he gives me a kiss, a short, quick, and impulsive kiss that takes away all the phrases.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist”, he whispers. No. Don’t say you`re sorry. Don’t resist it, just hug me, kiss me like there´s no tomorrow, kiss me against the wall, tangle your hands with my hair, carry me on your hips and take me to that sofa over there, abandoned in the middle of the hostel parking lot, no matter if it`s cold, late or if tomorrow you have to go to work, no matter if you don’t get to be the protagonist of this novel and even if I lose one of my Converse in the garage, as the only trace of you kissing me here once.

We feel the evening falling over, as we lay down on the grass, in a little park in front of Saint Ann Cathedral. We smoke and drink beer, slowly, with our legs tangled, nothing matters. We know nothing lasts forever and that it doesn’t make any sense to save face only to become a memory in the mind of others, that in the long run will also be only memories in the mind of others that won`t get to meet us. Who cares, then, that my hair and his sweater get dry grass all over. The only face that seems to matter is that we both look as if we were a couple that had known each other all our lives.

St. Ann's Cathedral. No, sorry: no pictures from this guy available. You have to picture him yourself.

Just a little while ago I was chatting with you. Lately, it seems you decide to appear when I`m waiting for another guy in a hostel lobby to go enjoy the last sun rays of a day that is about to end and will never come back. You seem further and further: Since a few weeks ago, I took you out of that spot surrounded by walls that you never wanted anyway. I got tired. I got tired of seeing how other men were always crashing against that wall, that wall that was there only to protect your endless absence. So, this evening I said good bye in a rush, closed my laptop and went with him to lay on the grass. You only fit in my laptop, which can be easily closed and left at the front desk, tagged with a number 13. That is your place. He, on the other hand, is different. He is here playing with my hair, the same hair you don’t like.

When it starts getting cold and darker, and there is not much sun left to brighten the scene, we decide to go to the university area for some beers. Today I have walked like crazy; I had a glorious moment when, after having walked for around 45 minutes until finding the murals of one of the Peace Lines in Belfast, I realized I had left my camera memory card in the laptop, far away in the hostel front desk (yes, that place, your place) so I had to go back, and come back right away. To make it worse, I had the great idea of wearing my Converse, taking advantage of the fact that I have both of them back. Unfortunately after a while walking on them it feels like walking barefoot. The university area is far away, and honestly I felt tired to walk there, but when he stands up and reaches out his arm, I can´t say no. I can´t say no, even though it`s difficult to keep up with him (me and my weakness for tall men, who usually stride along), I can´t say no even though my feet hurt; I can´t say no even though I am several blocks away from the next beer because I feel so well walking along holding his arm… I have come to the conclusion that happiness is stupid. No wonder why they say that laughter abounds in the mouth of fools. Such simple and stupid thing makes me happy: walking around Belfast holding his arm and going across the street; who would have thought that just yesterday I was saying I didn’t need anyone`s hand to go across a stupid street.

The bar (very Irish if you look at the front, even though British might disagree) has an alley in the back that pretty much works as a terrace. Since I come from a extremely rainy country, where the sun goes down at 6 pm all fucking year long, I prefer sitting outside, where the sun is still shining, even though it is already 10 p.m.

As some very loud music is on, we talk. Well, actually, I put him through the usual questioning that all men I go out with go through. I`m not going to reveal the questions just in case any of the readers of this blog has to go through it someday, you never know. What I can tell you is that part of this famous questionnaire includes finding out whether the questioned subject has been in love. I don’t want any more stones on the road.

I have the feeling that this guy, with such a pretty and Slovakian name, has never been in love and that his life has been actually full of secondary characters. I was not completely wrong: despite of the fact that he has been in love sometime, he doesn’t want to fall in love again. He doesn’t want to have that feeling of “almost dying for that person if necessary”, as he himself defines it. “I have built a wall”, he finishes, while he takes another sip at his beer. I had figured this guy had a wall too, like mine, like yours, like the one everybody I have met on the way has. Walls. Walls, like the ones in the Peace Line of Belfast: walls that divide catholic and protestant neighborhoods, and which gates close at 5 p.m. so they don’t get into a fight. Yes, as stupid and sarcastic as it sounds, with that dumb and disgraceful little name of Peace Line, well into the XXI century. As stupid and sarcastic as his walls, and mine, and yours and everybody else`s. Walls that are built to protect ourselves from other people´s love and to stay in peace, but in the end, all we keep is fear.

“But when we walked on the street holding each other´s arms I was happy”, he tells me.

Well, not bad, at least for a while, we were both happy.

Me, at a Peace Line in Belfast. Another wall...

Then, we went to the hostel and at night we stayed talking about random stuff basically. I say a random phrase like “this is a shitty hostel” or “the house is falling apart” so he translates them to Slovakian as we sit down on the top bed smoking and letting the smoke vanish rapidly through the window, like this moment that is also vanishing through the curtains.

Then is when I realize, between phrase and phrase, that further than acquiring some basic Slovakian knowledge that I will never use , I haven’t asked him his last name. “…”, he answers. For me it`s a difficult last name, even though he assures it is fairly common in Slovakia. I will probably forget it. I will probably forget it, as well as I will forget his voice, his smell, his looks, his hands, him, until it becomes nothing more than a memory of a memory.

That night I fell asleep in his arms, saying his name.

The sun rises. His cellphone alarm goes off. I open my eyes. “Did you sleep well?”, asks a kind graffiti on the top bunk bed board. Fucking cheap hostel. The bunk beds are so old and run down that the graffiti on them is as old as the one they found in Pompeii, about which I wrote a paper on their translation as an assignment for the university, long time ago, for my Latin class.

He gets up and takes a shower. I turn around and keep on sleeping, taking a last glance at his Converse that await to take him away from me. Well, actually, mine are taking me away from him: this evening I return to Dublin.

I am falling asleep. It`s not time to wake up early to go to work yet. I still have a week before going to Germany, where I will work in a dogs ‘hotel for a month, in a little town in the northwest, near that city that doesn’t exist, where once you learned how to speak German.

I doze off. I close my eyes again and suddenly I am dreaming. I´m dreaming with other things that have nothing to do with him, that have nothing to do with you. Alone, always alone. I don’t need anyone. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t believe in anyone. The wall. Always the wall.

After a while, he wakes me up to say good bye. He hugs me good bye. He asks for my e-mail and wishes me well in Germany. He says it`s been a pleasure to meet me. He goes on with all those phrases that I do remember, not because he said them, but because I have hear them before and I will probably hear them again, from many others. Second characters. Protagonists? No. I barely pay attention to him, I am too sleepy and I just want to go back to sleep, I love to sleep, even though the sun is trying to peak through the badly arranged curtains.

And just like that, with my eyes half open, half asleep, I barely see him going out the room door. First his back, then his Converse, and then nothing, just the door. He walks away. He stops being a protagonist and a secondary character to become a memory. He vanishes, with every steps he takes, with every stair he goes down, with every street of Belfast he crosses, until he becomes a blurry memory, like a sort of memory after a dream, when you wake up in the morning. A simple dream, confusing and pale, that was never intended to become true and simply vanishes.